The Wangs vs. the World(66)

“You don’t remember anything, do you?”

Andrew shook his head and gave her what he hoped was a charming grin. “I think I’m still wasted.”

She reached over and scrunched her fingers into his hair. “Oh Andrew, what am I going to do with you?” It was coy, flirtatious, softer than she had ever sounded. Ever since last night, at least. They hadn’t kissed yet, he realized. They were in bed together, and they hadn’t even made out yet. His breath didn’t taste too bad. He must not have been passed out long enough to get totally dehydrated. Andrew shifted up and pulled her in.

In a second, she was on top of him, pinning him into the down pillows. Her hair curtained his face and her tongue darted out, tiny, pink, sharp, to lick the tip of his nose. Andrew laughed. She had seemed so mysterious the night before, sophisticated and ungettable, but here she was, a girl like every other girl. How old was she anyway? He would try not to ask. Instead, he rolled over, taking her with him, and pulled her hair away from her face. And then they were kissing, every point on their bodies lined up with one another, hands pressed together, even, which was kind of weird, but Andrew kind of liked it, just like everything else with Dorrie. They broke apart.

“You’re all flushed,” said Andrew. Her face was rosy, and even her chest looked red in the V of her pajama top. Her chest. Feeling brave, he slid a hand up the inside of her shirt, up her warm, bare skin, and found her nipple, hard already. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you remember falling off the stage?” Oh. Now he did remember, almost. Could he have done that? Andrew dropped his hand and leaned back.

“Oh god. Okay. Tell me what happened.”

She smiled. “It was quick. Not painless, but quick. You did about a minute, and then you spread out your arms and said something about being Asian and then you just toppled right off the stage.” She traced a finger down his arm. “You were out. I thought that you were going to end up in the ER.”

Andrew felt around his head. There. There was a tender spot, but the pain still lay somewhere under the haze of the alcohol. The embarrassment, on the other hand, was acutely present.

“I’m so sorry. God. What is wrong with me?” The new stuff. Those were the notes he had on him. Oh god. “So I talked about how awesome I am, and then I ate it onstage? I’m glad I don’t remember. I can pretend it never happened.”

“Oh, it happened.” She grinned. He hadn’t seen her grin like that yet, every little tooth exposed. He grinned back at her. Embarrassed, but happy that something he’d done had made her smile like that even though he’d looked idiotic. They held each other’s gaze and something pinged between them. She saw him. She really did. And then she climbed on top of him again. “It definitely happened.” She leaned down and they kissed and it was like she was everywhere, touching him, kissing him, teasing him. She stopped. “You need another drink. To wash the shame away.”

“What time is it?”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugged. Not really.

She swung off the bed and left the room. Andrew tried again to remember the night before. Had it really been that bad? That was two bombs in a row—what if only his friends thought he was funny? The worry mixed with his brief glow of connection, scrambling it.



A moment later she was back, carrying a Lucite tray balanced with two cut-crystal glasses and a decanter of something brown.

“Was it really terrible?”

She handed him a drink. “Moderately terrible. But you did make everyone laugh. They thought it was part of the act.”

Andrew tossed back the bourbon. “Do southerners really love this, or is it just one of those traditional things that no one really enjoys?”

“When your daddy makes it, you’d better love it.”

He looked at his freshened glass. “Someone made this?”

“Someone makes everything, little rich boy.”

“What? Don’t—no, I know that. I grew up in factories.” Or grew up hearing his dad talk about factories, anyway. Close enough. “Besides, you’re rich, too. Look at this place.”

She slung back a drink. “Used to be. I couldn’t keep it up. Now I have this room, a studio, and a little maid’s kitchen, and half the time the rest of the grand estate is overrun with school groups and tourists. I have to hide out in my own house.”

“Man, that feels like the kind of thing that happens to families in Jane Austen novels,” said Andrew.

“It sort of is. I’ll show you the pamphlet sometime. It’ll make you laugh.” She splashed some more amber liquid into each of their glasses. “But let’s not talk about that. Look what I do have.”

Another grin. She held out a set of handcuffs.

“What?!”

“What’s the point of having a four-poster if you can’t have some fun with it?”

“You do know where the key is for those, right?” asked Andrew.

She nodded and then bent down to kiss him, the bourbon making both of their mouths slick and cool. God, he loved kissing.

“Just a little fun,” she whispered, as she stretched his arms up and locked the handcuffs in place. Andrew pulled, testing them. They must be looped around one of the bedposts.

“You did that pretty expertly.”