Z’s my favorite of the guys Charlie partied with. He’s sweet and caring—a total nice boy, totally googly-eyed over me—except that he’s a pothead and basically houses a pharmacy in the apartment he shares with his brother in the East End. Not that that makes him any different from every other guy I know. The different part is sweet and caring. Z, he looked out for Charlie. Anytime something went down with Cash or Spencer, Z had Charlie’s back. That’s why I knew he’d be the first one I’d talk to in London. If someone here knows what Charlie was doing before he went off the grid, it’s Z. And if Z knows, he’ll tell me.
I need to find out what really went down before it chokes me. Like with Aubrey—that’s why I wanted her with me. She knows the most besides me, even if she knows nothing about the day he disappeared. If she and I put our heads together, we’ll figure out what he was up to. I’ve been thinking, if everyone who knew Charlie got together and sewed up our ideas into one big piece of fabric, the fabric would turn into this totally massive, useful quilt with me and Aubrey as the stitches. That’s why we’re here. I pull out a cigarette and take a deep drag, my smoke mingling with everyone else’s in this thick-aired and pulsating room. Figuring out Charlie means living Charlie, inhabiting Charlie, being Charlie.
In method acting, that’s what we did. And that’s what I’m doing now as I shrug off my leather and check it in with the sequined, red-lipped girl. Z grabs my wrist and yanks me in, he’s in a party mood too and I wonder if he’s already moved on to something harder than weed, before I think to look back for Bree. That’s what I’m calling her; I decide it right now. It makes her sound a little less wet noodle, a little more chill.
“Hey, hey.” I skip back to where she’s standing by the coat-check girl. “Let’s do this!” I have to scream over the thrum thrum of the bass. It’s in my blood and up my throat and pouring out my mouth. “Come on.” Through the strobe her eyes are dark, inscrutable. She gets like that, like a switch turns off when she’s not nervous. I’ve known her for two days, and I already know that.
“What are we doing here?” It’s a hiss: whatarewedoinghere. All one word. Hisssss. I’d only be half surprised if her tongue were forked.
“Um, feeling out Z,” I tell her. “May as well start with him.”
“Right,” she says all incredulously. “Just as long as you’re not here to party.”
“Don’t you get it?” I lean forward like I’m gonna tell her some kind of massive secret. I laugh when she cringes but my heart sinks; I can’t lose her. “We’re being Charlie. That’s how we figure it out.”
“Oh, so that’s how we find him.” I know it’s a taunt.
“Right,” I counter. “Unless you have better ideas.” Aubrey presses her lips together in a disapproving little squeeze that I can almost picture on a fifty-year-old version of her, like I know right then what her mom looks like, and I sure as hell don’t want to meet her. Aubrey’s pretty, but man is she tough. Charlie must’ve wanted a challenge.
“You guys coming or what?” Z’s back. I open my mouth but Bree pipes up.
“We’re coming.” She squares her shoulders and walks off toward the dance floor, straight ahead. There’s a bar to our right and a smoking room just behind it, even though everyone’s smoking on the dance floor anyway. I inhale the gray haze deeply as Aubrey coughs and brings a palm to her mouth. I catch the glance of the bartender and we lock eyes. He smiles and gives me a wink—he saw Aubrey’s coughing fit too. The door to the smoking room pushes open, and I make out a couple of blob-shaped heads, their features indiscernible through the haze of thick fog.
Aubrey’s awkward but oddly unselfconscious on the dance floor. It’s all I can do not to laugh outright as she writhes and flails in that gold dress of mine, her short black hair bouncing around her face and neck—her movements are not at all in sync with the music. Everything happens in slow mo: We’re in the middle of the floor and some trance music comes on. People are sweating to my left and right and it’s packed; but still she finds a way to wiggle her hips all over the place and wave her hands over her head. In another setting it might look like a sacrificial tribal dance. She’s in her own trance-world, like all it took was putting one foot on the dance floor to fall all the way down the rabbit hole and into the music. Her misplaced confidence might be endearing if she were anyone else.
We stay like this for a little bit, Bree moving in her world, me just doing my thing while Z moves in my orbit. At one point I notice a guy stumble into Aubrey, crushing her foot. If it were me, I would have shoved him off with a few choice words; but Bree just smiles this sweet little smile and laughs it off, then closes her eyes and lets herself get wrapped back up in the music. I’m not a great dancer, but Bree’s horrific. And yet . . . it almost makes her cute, the way she throws her entire self into it. After I get done being totally shocked, I grab Z and move back toward the bar. Bree’s fine there, having more fun than she wants to admit. I can’t help the fiery feeling moving through me. She acts like such a wide-eyed green thing, but there she is, letting herself forget why we’re here and having a good time. I don’t know why I feel deceived.