Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
THIS SHITTY NOTHING OF A PLACE is fully lit now and the poor bartender is working her ass off so hard she hasn’t even had time to leer at Peter. People are dancing and grinding on each other to these old songs like they’re hardcore bops.
Peter is holding strong at half a warm cider, but I’ve had three beers.
Getting drunk is not a thing I do. But drinking a little?
Getting that warm buzz in the back of your neck that makes you feel kind of cozy and a little like you might not want to die in the next five minutes?
Well, that’s whatever. My face feels slightly numb in the cheeks, and I can’t quite tell if I’m smiling or looking normal but fuck it. I’m kind of having a good time.
In fact, maybe I could stay here all night. Just talking and sitting and doing nothing with Peter besides avoiding the cold, dark world outside of this crappy falling-apart red booth.
A crew member with spiky purple hair makes her way through the undulating mob and locks eyes with me.
What the fuck? She slams both of her hands on the table.
She’s got rings piled on all of her fingers.
That’s so aggro. “All right! That’s it. You two middle schoolers”—she points to Peter and me—“need to surrender this booth. Immediately.”
“Uh,” Peter says, “we’re kind of sitting here.” Nice. Get ’em.
“Uh,” she mocks, “you’re kind of taking up a six-person booth with one and a half asses.” She looks at me. “No offense, sweetie.”
“Wait, I have half an ass?”
“Time to vacate the premises, children.”
“Listen—” Peter starts.
She tilts her purple head. “Want to show me your IDs?”
“You know what?” I say. “I was getting tired of sitting.”
Peter and I both scooch out from the leather booth. “It’s all yours,” Peter says.
The woman nods and in about two seconds what looks like the entire hair and makeup crew descends on the booth, starting up a game of quarters, guzzling shots, and shrieking at each other. Fucking vultures.
Peter and I just kind of stand there for a minute, but then two roadie-looking guys get up from the bar and make their way toward the bathrooms.
“This is our chance!” I say.
Peter nods seriously. We’re on a mission. We try to weave through the disgusting, sweaty film crew, but there’re so many of them and they’re all so … sticky.
A tiny lady in a black tracksuit knocks into me and spills what smells like a vodka cranberry on my Converse. “Sorry!” she yells. She does not look sorry.
Peter bends down to try to wipe off my shoe. “What’re you, Prince Charming?” I laugh.
He looks up at me. “What?” This music is so loud and so fucking old.
“WHAT ARE YOU, PRINCE CHARM—”
The famous guy (who we now know is Filip Street, thank you, IMDb) stumbles over Peter and spills his drink down the back of Peter’s shirt. “Aw, man, what the hell?”
Filip pulls down his sunglasses. “My B, my broseph.”
Peter frowns and the star guy saunters off to dry-hump an extra without looking back.
Peter shakes out his shirt. Now he’s got a brown stain down the back of his white waffle. Like syrup. I start laughing. And then I can’t stop. Oh my god. The little beer bubbles are floating up into my brain and pop-pop-popping.
Peter stands and leans into my ear, the trace of a smile on his face. “Oh, you think that’s funny? This thing cost me thirty dollars.”
I keep laughing and suddenly I realize that my hand is on his chest and I am touching him and I can feel the little square pattern of his waffle shirt in my palm.
Peter looks down at my hand, which is still there, on him, and then he puts his hand over mine and his fingers are warm and strong and then we’re moving and it takes me a second to figure out what’s happening.
We’re dancing. And it’s hot in here and it smells like stale beer and sweat, and people are pushing against us and he’s still just looking at me and god help me I’m looking back at him.
And then he says something but I can’t hear him over the noise so he bends down to me and he says, “I like being here with you.” And my ear is kind of tingling and he’s not moving his head, and he’s right there and so am I.
And our faces are so so close. And I can’t tell if it’s him leaning down or me leaning up but now our faces are even closer and I can feel his heart beating under my hand and—
“I have to pee!”
Peter leans back. “What?”
“I, uh … too many beers. Bathroom!” God I hate myself.
Peter gives me a thumbs-up and I turn and push through the crowd so that I can make it to the bathroom and piss away the awkwardness of the last ten seconds of my life.