We slide over and the three of them sit down. James reaches for the pitcher and does a waah waah fake cry of sympathy.

“Fuck you, Brettner.” I finish my beer and hope they’ll introduce themselves. And they do. I don’t want to make it look like I’m with Sara and her friend any more than it does already.

“Blame her for being late,” Reese says, inclining his head toward Kelly. “We got to her place on time.”

Kelly scowls and pushes her red hair behind her shoulder. “What? I can’t help that Dr. Bastion scheduled a test on Monday and all the beginning accounting students are freaking out. I had to stay late at the tutoring center and go over the material with like seven different students. I texted you, Reese. You could’ve come here without me.”

He leans over and nuzzles her neck. “I’m not complaining. I don’t mind waiting for you.”

“Yeah, but I do.” James rests his arms on the vinyl seat back and surveys the crowd.

Kelly gives him the finger and kicks him under the table. Only she misses, and her shoe connects with my shin.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

“There’s a test in Bastion’s class?” Sara’s eyes go wide.

She’s just catching that now? I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I hold up the empty pitcher to get the waitress’s attention again. Juggling an armful of plates on the other side of the busy bar, she nods at me.

“I like these guys,” James says, watching the band. “Who are they?”

“Yeah, I do, too.” I grab the flyer that’s sandwiched between the mustard and ketchup. “They’re called Shoo, Gretchen.”

James laughs. “Great name.”

I make a mental note to approach them after this set. Depending on when they leave town, maybe they’d want to record a live session at the station before they head back. PSU students appreciate indie music that doesn’t fit into a particular mode, so I know they’d love these guys.

Sara cranes her neck to see the stage, then makes a face. “I don’t get it. She’s got ugly shoes.”

Kelly snorts. Reese puts his head into the crook of his elbow. And James has a hungry glint in his eye. I give him an are-you-kidding-me look. He just shrugs and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

The guy’s a total man-whore. He’s already thinking how easy it’s going to be to convince Sara to go home with him. Or if he’s really lucky, just a blow job out in the parking lot. That way, there’s nothing to deal with in the morning.

Which is fine with me. Then she’s out of my hair.

* * *

Ivy


Cassidy grabs my arm. “Oh my God. He’s here.”

He? As in Aaron? My stomach bottoms out and my first reaction is to duck behind her. I’m sure my eyes are freakishly huge right now (like those animal pictures with the Photoshop eyes, which by the way, totally creep me out). I glance around the bar, trying to locate him. I’m pretty sure my voice just croaked out, Who?

“Who do you think, Birthday Girl? Last weekend? The White House? Hot guy? The one from the radio?” I stare at her blankly. She’s talking at me but it’s like the words are stuck in a jar of honey. If I had to take a comprehension test right now based on what she just said, I’d get an F. “Ives, you’re pathetically pathetic.” She points and, like a robot, I look in that direction, afraid of what I might see.

In a booth in the corner, under a light made from a giant rusty sawmill blade, Jon Priestly is sitting with a bunch of other people.

And just like that, I can feel the color returning to my face. My stomach unknots and my jaw unclenches.

It takes precisely three seconds before realization dawns in Cassidy’s eyes. “God, I’m so sorry. You were thinking him him.” She wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. “I can’t believe what a rotten friend I am. I wasn’t thinking.”

I feel bad that my crazy has affected Cassidy. “I forgive you. But yeah, you’re the rottenest.”

Cassidy hasn’t asked any more about Aaron. All she knows is what I told her that night after the party. I think she felt sorry for me with the migraine, so she’s not about to press me again.

The waitress is waiting for my order, but I guess I’m taking too long because one of my friends gets impatient and orders for me. It takes me a minute to realize that I’m staring across the room at Jon. He’s like one of those superconductor magnets and my eyes are made of malleable iron. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and his arms are covered in tats. Well, not entirely, not like a sleeve or anything, but he does have a few. I wonder if there’s a story behind any of them.

Marla turns to see who we’re talking about. “Jon? He and Sara have been all over each other. You should’ve seen them on the dance floor a few minutes ago. It was a Channing-slash-Jenna-slash-Step Up reunion. Seriously.”

Brina knocks her in the arm. “It was not.”

“She was totally grinding on him,” Marla counters. “Here. Check out my pics. I just posted them on Facebook.”

Brina looks shocked. “Already? Isn’t she going to be pissed?”

Marla rolls her eyes. “Whatevs. It’s not like I tagged her. Besides, she’s an exhibitionist and loves the attention.”

Cassidy grabs the phone. I don’t want to look, but I do. Jon and Sara are dancing, all right. He’s looking at the band and Sara has her impressive rack pressed to his chest.

This was supposed to be a fun birthday celebration—I’m twenty-one now. Woohoo. Cue the confetti, the unicorns, and the chocolate martinis. But the week has been a total downer.

First of all, Mom called back to tell me that, yes, Aaron Marquette is looking into going to school here to play ball. His dad thinks he’s going to play in the majors one day. Fuck me for choosing a school that made it to the College World Series last year.

A few other schools are courting him, too, so it isn’t a sure thing. Besides, PSU is a big school and it’s possible I might not ever see him, she said. But I know I’ll always be looking over my shoulder. I’ve already started googling other schools that have good graphic design programs.

“If he does decide to go there,” Mom said, “at least he’ll be there on his own. The pack mentality isn’t applicable when there’s only one.”

Easy for her to say.

I hate how she’s always trying to find a silver lining and downplaying any negative. Sometimes bad shit is bad shit. Sprinkling a little sugar on it does not make it edible.

And if that’s not terrible enough, I had car problems and spent all my extra money getting it fixed, so I had to tell Cassidy no on the Sasquatch tickets.

I grab my drink—a Buttery Nipple that the girls ordered me probably because of the name—and down it in one gulp. Yuck! I didn’t know it was butterscotch. Coughing, I grab someone’s water and try to wash away the taste. When that doesn’t work, I suck down Cassidy’s strawberry margarita.

“Hey,” she says. “That’s mine.”

“Ha ha. Too bad. It’s my birthday, bitch, and you know I don’t do butterscotch.”

“I didn’t know that’s what a Buttery Nipple was. I assumed it was figurative. Like Sex on the Beach.”

“Well, it’s not. It’s disgusting.” I spear a strawberry from the bottom of the glass and hold it out for Cassidy as a token offering for draining her drink. She does this porn star thing, licking it off the straw with her tongue, and slurps it down. “That’s sick,” I tell her.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“I’m going to the bathroom.” Without waiting to see if anyone wants to come with me, I set down the empty glass on the stand-up table and head for the neon male and female stick figures at the back of the bar.

On the way, I spy Jon talking to the band. I keep my head down, but can’t help noticing that he’s hugging an older woman who’s wearing a Hardware Store polo shirt.

I’m not really sure why it bothers me so much to see him with Sara. We hardly know each other. And when we met, the circumstances were pretty bizarre. Based on what he knows of me, he probably does think I’m the crazy girl (which, truthfully, I am) and Sara is the normal one. Or maybe he’s just into girls like her. A lot of guys are.

While I’m in the bathroom, I devise a few excuses to leave early. The one about having too much to drink because I’m not used to being able to do it legally is the most plausible.

I’m texting Cassidy as I exit the bathroom and end up stumbling straight into Jon’s arms. The same arms that were recently all over Sara. I’m not sure what it is about alcohol and misplaced jealousy, but there’s definitely a correlation. Even knowing that, though, I’m still kind of pissed.

“Hey, Ivy.”

“Hey yourself.” I don’t mean to sound so surly, it just comes out that way.

“I hear it’s your birthday.” He smiles. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” And because I can’t help it: “Did Sara tell you that while you were dancing?”

The optimist in me thinks he looks hurt. The pessimist in me knows better.

“Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”

Oh really? “So what do I think?” This should be interesting.

He smiles and there’s that one crooked tooth again. It reminds me of my recent revelation that I hate perfect things. In fact, even if you asked me tomorrow when I’m completely sober, I’d still tell you that perfect things make me want to scream.

“Are you…jealous or something?”

I shrug and try to look as if I don’t care. Which I don’t. But I kind of do. Which is stupid, I know. Even in my semi-wasted condition, I can tell you that. “Jealous? Hardly.”

Jon’s expression goes from joking to serious, reminding me of the way he looked when he helped me off the roof. His eyebrows pull together and his eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t blink. He just stares, his gaze moving over my entire face as if he’s committing it to memory.