Chapter 18 One Part Rum, Three Parts Regret
One Part Rum,
Three Parts Regret
Come Sunday, my pools are not filled with hot-pink sand. But thanks to Bridget, they do contain six beach balls, three floating solar lights, and enough inflatables to keep my many personalities afloat.
It’s a wonder Penn didn’t pass out after blowing up two pastel unicorns, a rainbow-covered swan, and a giant slice of pepperoni pizza.
Bridget didn’t want to go “overboard,” and yet the contents of at least two Party City locations have taken over the mansion.
Her mom, who threw us spontaneous themed sleepovers several times a year, would be proud.
Pink, orange, and yellow balloons surround the main pool, and colorful streamers zigzag across the backyard.
There are paper-flower garlands. Beaded curtains on every door.
A pink sign that says Party, in case guests need an explicit directive or forget why they’re here.
A table turned tiki bar boasts eight decorative pineapples, two carved-out coconuts full of swirly straws, and four drink dispensers filled with mysterious tropical cocktails that Bridget explains as “one part rum, three parts regret.”
The party’s on.
So is my neon striped bikini and a pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses.
I considered a modest violet one-piece, but looking like a hot pack of Skittles has started to grow on me, and so has everything about this party.
Bridget’s superpower is infectious enthusiasm. And it feels good to give in to it.
While Penn takes charge as the official greeter, Bridget and I stretch out on a pair of lounge chairs.
She’s wearing a yellow one-piece and a wide-brimmed hat, and when she isn’t slurping her cocktail through a curly straw, she’s busy texting Hot Librarian, aka Ethan, who somehow didn’t make today’s extensive guest list. Although Bridget told me she’d invited only “a few friends,” twenty-three people made the cut.
Not Ethan, though. She worried a group hang would be “too much pressure” for their budding relationship, and, in fairness, she might also be worried that her best friend will tell him we’re living inside a game.
When the first guests arrive, Bridget calls out to a brunette I don’t recognize, waving for her to join us. “Lucy! Hi!”
I plaster on a smile as she approaches. Through gritted teeth, I stress-whisper, “What if she asks specific questions and I can’t answer them? Quick: Give me bullet points that cover the last twenty years with these people.”
“Just drink up,” Bridget says. “They’ll assume you’re a forgetful drunk. Problem solved.”
Ever since I landed here, I’ve been careful not to drink too much. But hosting a party for a bunch of strangers I’m supposed to know feels like the right time to welcome a steady buzz.
I take a sip of my “daiquiri”—actual contents unknown—and try to relax.
Turns out, trips to the tiki bar prove to be a great way to avoid small talk.
It’s like my own fun little drinking game.
At the mention of a night I don’t remember, I sip.
An inside joke I don’t grasp? Sip again.
And when one guy hints at a night when, apparently, we got quite intimate, I gulp.
Bridget’s right: A little fun can’t hurt.
And if his forty-seven turns down the magenta waterslide are any indication, Penn’s enjoying himself, too. Even if, at my request, we’re keeping our distance.
I gave him clear guidelines for the day: platonic touches only.
It’s hard enough to wrap my head around us as a concept.
I don’t need other people whispering, too, or straight-up asking whether Penn and I are together—especially before I can figure out when and how to tell my brother.
Or how all of this might affect, you know, my actual life.
When I get stuck talking to an overenthusiastic dental hygienist named Juliet, with whom I apparently play tennis, I politely excuse myself. I look around for Penn and find him standing by the pool, watching a very tipsy game of Marco Polo.
Staying away proves difficult. And I become rather irresponsible.
I join him, inching closer, until we’re only a foot apart. He side-eyes me, brow arched, and it’s maddening, being near a dripping-wet, half-naked Penn, unable to touch him.
“Could I…talk to you?” I ask, staring straight ahead. “Somewhere…else?”
There’s a smirk in his voice. “Sure.”
Although I’ve been afraid of us attracting attention, nobody seems to notice when I lead Penn around the side of the house. As soon as we’re out of view, I back him against the wall, smoothing a hand down his stomach until my fingers reach the waistband of his blue trunks.
“Watch it.” Penn inhales sharply. “Not sure that aligns with your rules.”
“I thought you didn’t like following rules.”
Lips parted, Penn eyes my hip, where a thin string ties my bikini bottoms together. “I don’t,” he says roughly. “Especially not with you. But I’m trying to be good.”
“Now you decide to be good,” I grumble.
He pulls me closer. “Let’s be clear, Wynne,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “I’m holding back for you. So the second you don’t want to be so good anymore—when you’re ready to let go of your rules—I am more than happy to obey.”
Heat blazes low in my belly as I shift back and meet his eyes. “Good to know,” I say. “Should the rules change, I’ll have my people get in touch with your people.”
He laughs, but the sound gets swallowed up by a loud, earsplitting scream. Followed by a lot of splashing.
Alarmed, I look overhead, convinced the entire sky might fall—that I’ve angered the MASH gods yet again. And I might be right, because when Penn jogs away, I follow him to the pool, which has just begun to drain. Quickly.
“What’s happening?” It’s Juliet, the dental hygienist.
Guests scramble out of the pool, and I meet Bridget’s wide eyes across the deck. Grimacing, she lifts her drink, like, Well, what are you gonna do?
A great question.
I don’t cry. Or yell. Or bolt to the nearest hose to replace the water, like I did the fish.
Instead, I start laughing. Deliriously.
My cackles only get louder when Mac Davis, The Disco Diner’s greatest benefactor, who’s wearing banana-print swim trunks and who brought a megaphone for unknown reasons, lifts it and shouts, “Pool’s closed! Repeat: Pool out of commission.”
He and Penn wrap the pool’s stepladder with makeshift caution tape in the form of a flamingo-covered garland while I fully spiral.
Nothing is playing out how it should. And so far, nothing in the horrifically bright-colored cocktails has been strong enough to make me forget.
I head back to the bar to fill my cup with more of what might actually be lighter fluid mixed with red no. 5 concentrate. En route, I’m intercepted by Bridget, who swerves us in the opposite direction, to the kitchen. “How about some shots of water, hmm?”
I poke a finger into her cheek. “You. Told me. To drink up.”
“Drink up,” she repeats. “Not drink until you throw up and start reciting e. e. cummings poems to strangers. Let’s make sure that remains a onetime thing.”
I laugh. “When did I do that?”
Bridget gives me a look, one twinged with sadness. I’ve come to recognize it as her Oh, yeah, my best friend isn’t really my best friend face. “Paris,” she explains. “You were carrying a lot of hearts with you that night.”
We pass a dance party and stumble into the kitchen, where all three islands are littered with party wreckage.
Between catering trays from Madre’s and drink tubs full of Capri-Suns lie stacks of abandoned paper plates, half-drunk beer cans, and discarded wrappers from the temporary tattoos Bridget insisted would be a hit. She wasn’t wrong.
“B,” I tell her. “You plan the best parties.”
She passes me a red Solo cup full of water and pats my head. “Next time, I’ll add ‘no megaphones’ to the invitation.”
I sit and sip obediently, but soon Bridget’s pulled back outside by Mac’s boyfriend, who mentions something about a limbo stick. After waving goodbye, I dip a chip in guacamole, then miss my mouth entirely, dropping the scoop down my chest.
That’s how hot, shirtless Penn finds me: alone in the kitchen, looking like I’ve been slimed. Like I’m a failed contestant on a Nickelodeon game show.
He hands me a napkin. “Where’s a scarf-bib when you need one, huh?”
I dab between the triangles of my bikini top. “It’s sneaky guacamole. Too slippery.”
“Better look out for that slippery guac,” he agrees. Then he pops a straw into a Capri-Sun and takes a drink, watching me.
“I love rum,” I respond, thoughtfully tapping a chip into the air. “Someone said rum is in those drinks. Rum is what’s up. Rum and me…” I twist two fingers together. “Like this.”
As if she’s been standing offstage, waiting for me to cause more chaos, Bridget swoops back inside with those teacher instincts, quickly wiping up the mess with her pool towel.
When she’s done, Penn loops an arm over her shoulder, and they stare at me like two concerned parents. The room is not not spinning.
I shrug. “I was overserved.”
Penn nods. “I heard those servers were all about the heavy pours.”
“The heaviest,” I agree. And then: “It was me. I was the server.”
As Bridget snort-laughs, Penn cracks a smile. “Yeah, Wynne. We know.”
I drop my head onto my fist, and it’s as if that small motion sends all the sugar I’ve been drinking straight to my temples. The headache is instant. Queasiness follows suit. “I was trying to have fun,” I mumble. “I was trying to be fun.”
“You are fun,” Bridget assures me.
“No, I’m not,” I whine. “Not really. But that’s who I’m supposed to be here, right?” I sit up and spin sideways, sweeping a hand through the air. “Here, I’m Fun Ruby. Silly Ruby. Bright and Bold and Colorful Ruby.”
“And Rum Ruby?” Penn offers.
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly. But instead, all week, I’ve been Dumb Ruby. Make Baaaad Decisions Ruby.” I point at Penn, my baddest decision of all.
His brow furrows, and Bridget pointedly clears her throat.
“Alright,” she trills, shoving Penn aside. “Yep. Okay, Ruby. Noted.” She refills my water and plants it in front of my face. “H?O is your friend.”
“You’re my friend. In every universe. You’re such a good friend.”
Penn gives me an indecipherable look, but we both startle at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Footsteps rush down the hallway, and we register him at the same time.
“Theo?” Penn says, surprised.
I hurtle myself forward for a hug. “Theoooooo!”
I slam into Theo Ford, pressing my face against his chest. It’s a terrible hug. Quite stiff. I pull back and glance down at his shorts. “Bummer. I hoped to see swim trunks with your face on them.”
I wait for Penn to appreciate my joke, but he isn’t looking at me. He asks Theo, “Is something wrong?”
Theo does look nervous. Or maybe he feels guilty for showing up late after he agreed to play DJ for the day. “Don’t feel bad,” I tell him. “There’s still plenty of party left. And a megaphone!”
He gives me a puzzled look, then turns to Penn. “I stopped by The Double D this morning to grab the protein bars I’d left in the fridge, but it was out.”
“What was out?” Penn asks.
“The electricity.” Theo says. “It was totally dark.”
My face goes numb.
“I tried calling both of you, but you didn’t answer. I checked fuses, called the electric company, and…” He sighs. “We’re the only ones who lost power.”
“No,” I whisper. “Not the rink. No.” My pounding headache returns, worse this time, and despite my tipsy buzz, I’m far too alert. Much too aware of what’s happening.
I drop onto the nearest stool and close my eyes. A hand presses against my back, rubbing it slowly. “It’s okay,” Bridget whispers. “We’ll figure this out.”
No, we won’t. I’m losing power. And control. And hope. And myself.
A little more every day.
Creepy-crawly bugs seem to climb up my throat. It itches. “Our 2000s night,” I choke out, turning to Theo. “That’s in four days.”
“Four days?” Penn huffs. “What? You haven’t even talked to all the vendors yet.”
“I did, actually,” Theo says, and Penn turns, surprised.
Theo and I set everything in motion last night, after the makeshift fish funeral. He isn’t necessarily the brightest, but he is reliable, and he agreed to work late nights all week to help me set everything up.
“I sent the invitation to our email list this morning,” Theo tells Penn. “We’re already getting a great response. It’s going to be packed.”
“It’s going to be dark,” I wail.
“Ooh!” Theo brightens. “It can be a flashlight party. Should we buy staff headlamps?”
I press my fingers to my temples. This cannot be happening.
“Let’s hold off,” Penn says, raising a hand. “On all of it. We’ll talk to the electrician, get the place back in order, and you can let people know we’re delaying the event.”
“No,” I say, almost to myself. And then, louder: “No.”
Penn and Theo face me. Bridget’s at my side, eyes round with concern as I stand, sun-drunk and dizzy, my brain still backflipping through possible solutions to fix the game.
“The party has to happen this week,” I tell them.
“We can’t keep delaying everything.” I look from Bridget to Theo to Penn, whose stony, closed-off expression jabs at my chest, a right hook to the heart.
He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. Like I really am from another universe.
“We need people there…now…” I say weakly. “And I—I need to…”
Bridget reaches for me. “Are you okay?”
I keep looking at Penn. He turns away, his jaw set.
“Yeah. I just—I need a minute.”
Bridget tries to follow me upstairs, but I tell her I’m fine. To go have fun at the party. That I just need to rest.
I don’t even bother to change my clothes. I crawl into bed, listening as the party continues downstairs. Unfamiliar voices blend with familiar laughs. All the sounds are muffled, an entire world away, and tears trail down my temples as I wonder how and when and if I’ll ever get back to mine.
And, even worse: why some not-so-small part of me wants to stay.