If I Was Your Girl(14)

“Can I get you a beer?”

“I already—” I began, but he said, “I’ll go get you one” abruptly and disappeared into the crowd. I let out a long sigh as I watched him go.

Only seconds had passed when Grant appeared in front of me. He wore a heather-gray T-shirt and well-worn jeans, looking completely at ease, his jet-black hair tousled like he’d stuck his head out a car window on the freeway.

“So, hey,” he said, giving me a mischievous smile. “I might be confused, but the idea of a party, generally, is to have fun.”

“I’m having fun,” I said, taking another sip of beer.

I had rehearsed this encounter all afternoon as I got ready. In the shower, I pretended I barely knew he existed, looking cool and aloof. As I blew out my hair, I threw caution to the wind and flirted mercilessly with him. While I got dressed, I gave innocent and na?ve a shot. No more plans came to me when I got around to putting on makeup, and now that he was actually in front of me, I realized I didn’t even have to try.

“You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the last ten minutes.”

“Well, then you’ve clearly been staring at me.”

“Can you blame me?” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “I just really wanna make sure you have a good time.”

“I’m having a good time, I promise.” I was starting to feel a little dizzy and realized the beer was finally having an effect. “I like this song a lot! It’s, um, my favorite.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt anything by Kesha is your favorite.”

“It could be!” He stared me down, plastering a maddeningly neutral look on his features. I broke in seconds. “Okay, fine. I only really listen to techno.”

“Come with me then,” he said, gesturing as he headed across the room. My head was buzzing pleasantly as I hopped down and followed him.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Parker emerging from the kitchen, a red cup in each hand, craning his neck to look for me. The crowd parted at the other end of the room to reveal Grant swiping through the iPhone, his eyes intent on the screen. I tried to peek over his shoulder but he tapped the screen one last time, turned, and smiled at me triumphantly. The familiar, tinny beat of Daft Punk hit my ears, barely audible at first but quickly building. Grant bit his lip and bobbed his head in time with the music. I finished my drink, set the cup on the table, and joined him.

The vocals kicked in, a digitized voice commanding me to work harder, become better, faster, and stronger, reminding me my work was never over, and I felt so good, all of my fear gone somewhere else for the night. Grant took my hands, and I didn’t shrink from his touch. Our fingers were the same length, I noticed, but his were much wider and stronger. He led me into the crowd, and when we took steps our feet moved in time with the beat, my hips following suit. Bodies pressed and swirled around me, but I didn’t mind. I always avoided crowds instinctively, but tonight the crush of bodies actually felt comforting. Dancing with a boy for the first time in my entire life, I felt like a part of the people around me, like another cell in a healthy body instead of a hidden disease.

The song ended abruptly and I realized I was dizzy and a little nauseated. I squeezed Grant’s arm, smiled, and jerked my head toward the corner, trying to indicate that I needed a moment to breathe. He nodded, ran his strong fingers through his wild hair, and grinned.

Crushed by the crowd, I navigated to a back wall, leaning against it. As I took long, even breaths, trying to slow my racing heart, my eyes were drawn to a photo on the mantel, of a dozen young boys roughhousing on a log. One of them must have been our host, but the one on the far right was clearly Grant, and his arms were wrapped around a smaller, light-haired boy I found myself staring at. They both had sunburned cheeks and dripping-wet hair, their faces wide with huge, earnest smiles. I wondered who the other boy was. Did Grant have a brother I didn’t know about yet?

“Here she is!” Layla cried as she appeared before me, whirling through the crowd with ease. Chloe followed, hands in pockets and elbows out, the crowd parting for her.

“Thought we’d lost you,” Anna said, her hair messy from being jostled.

“I figured one of her admirers whisked her away,” Layla replied, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

I noticed Parker and Grant across the room, deep in conversation, and wondered what they were talking about. I realized I didn’t want to think about it, so I held up the photo instead. “Who is this?”

“Some kid Grant knew back in the day,” Layla replied. “They were pretty inseparable, I remember.”

“I recognize him—they went to my church,” Anna said. Her eyes looked pained. “Him and his dad came every Sunday. The mom stayed home. He always seemed really sad, but my parents wouldn’t let me talk to him. Bad influence.”

Layla lowered her voice. “I heard the kid was really sick. Like, terminal. That’s why they moved away.”

Parker broke in, grabbing the photo from my hand. “You talking about Tommy? Grant’s little gay boyfriend?” Two of his enormous buddies appeared behind him. Suddenly the space felt stifling. “I heard his mom went full psycho, killed the dad and little Tom-Tom with a shotgun, then turned it on herself, and their heads were so messed up the coroner had to use their teeth to identify ’em.”