Juniper! Juniper?
(the knocking still . . . )
trying to move, trying for the door— the bottle’s crashing to the carpet (where have my feet gone?)
i’m up i’m grappling for the doorknob in the dark i’m a chaos
i’m
(click there’s the lock) slamming into the floor
did i get my answer?
wake up, juniper—
(somewhere i hear his voice
he’s yelling for me
what a lullaby lull
a
bye
bye
)
BY 11:45, THE HOUSE LIGHTS ARE OFF, SOMEONE HAS rolled the volume up on Juniper’s massive speaker system, and an honest-to-God mosh pit has clustered in the center of the so-called entertainment room, which has hardwood floors so slick, I’ve witnessed five falls in the last ten minutes. The sight makes me think it’s time to call it a night.
Deep in the knot of people, five or six voices yell a protest at once—I make out the words Party foul!—and the tangle unfurls, revealing a massive beer spill glazed and foaming across the floor. Yep, I’m done, I think. But as I turn for the door, my shoulder knocks into Olivia, and my exit strategy vanishes. On impact, a gym bag slips from her shoulder and hits the floor, and a bottle of contact fluid rolls out.
“Shit, my bad,” I say, crouching to grab her stuff, and she grins, saying, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” My cheeks turn hot. I hand her the bag and mumble, “You, um. Uh. You staying the night?” and she says, “Yep. Forgot my stuff, so my sister brought it.” I look around, expecting Kat Scott to spring out of nowhere, but Olivia adds, “She’s not staying. She’s in the bathroom, and then she’s gonna go.” Her eyes fix behind me on the dance floor. “Also, dude, that looks like maybe the worst thing ever,” and I say, “It really, really is.”
She grimaces. “God, I’ve got to find Juniper. Her parents are seeing some show in Kansas City for their anniversary, but they’re supposed to get home at one-ish. I told her she was going to have a nightmare time getting people to leave at midnight.”
“I saw Juniper talking to Valentine Simmons over in the, uh, kitchen area.”
“Ah, yes, the kitchen wing and suite,” Olivia says, sounding relieved. “When’d you see her?” The music pumps louder, and she takes a step toward me, knocking my train of thought off the rails. In the darkness, one side of her face is painted in shadows, the other side lit up by the flashing white-blue of the TV. Her bright eyes mirror the flickering screen.
I force myself not to stare. “Maybe half an hour ago?”
“Shit,” she says. “Okay, well, I should start getting people out.”
Then Dan Silverstein walks through the threshold, red cup in hand, and when he looks over and sees us, a grin props up his round cheeks. My heart sinks as he heads our way, calling over the music, “Matt, you know Olivia?” and I’m like, “Yeah, we, uh, we have a class together.”
Olivia lifts a hand, and Dan says, “You look great tonight,” looking her up and down, and I get this embarrassed, self-conscious feeling like, Why didn’t I tell her she looks great? because she does, wearing a flow-y black tank top and skinny jeans that don’t quite reach down her long legs, and call me old-fashioned, but looking at her bare ankles—that weirdly personal inch of skin—makes heat creep up the back of my neck.
“Thanks,” Olivia says. “Dan, you haven’t seen Juniper, have you?”
“Nah.” He takes a step toward Olivia, and I notice her leaning back an inch. An instinct to punch him in the eye flares up, but I keep myself from reacting. Not my business getting protective.
“You want to go get a drink?” he asks her, closing in toward her ear, and she says, “No, thanks,” and he says, “Why not? Come on, Matt, let’s get the girl a drink,” and she says, “I’m serious. I need to find Juniper and start shutting this thing down. Also, I don’t drink, so there’s that whole thing.”
Dan laughs. “I like that. I like you. You’re not like other girls.”
Olivia raises one eyebrow. “Something wrong with other girls?” she asks. And Dan says, “No, you’re just, you’re funny,” and Olivia says, “You’re in luck. Plenty of girls are funny.”
Dan shoots me an exasperated look and says, “I’m trying to compliment you,” and Olivia says, “I mean, that—” and Dan doesn’t wait for her to finish. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he says. “I thought you might’ve left.”
Dan gives me another look, and this one reads, Be a good wingman and leave, already. But like hell am I leaving, when apparently Dan never learned how to read basic social cues. “Yeah, no,” Olivia says, “I’m cohost, can’t leave,” and he says, “Hey, want to go somewhere quieter to talk?” and she says, “No, I’m—”
“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on her hip, and she takes a full step back, and he’s like, “Don’t be like that.”