Funny You Should Ask(61)

I kept a fair distance from them—I still wasn’t sure of the cool way to refuse.

I felt ridiculous and Gabe was being weird. Or maybe that was just me.

He’d gotten me that drink—a pretty hefty pour of whisky into a red cup of Diet Coke. I’d taken one or two sips, been reminded of how I’d felt that morning, and left the cup on a table somewhere.

The minute I’d had that drink in my hand, though, Gabe was gone. He and the puppy disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone by the bar in a house full of people I didn’t know.

It was his party, so I tried not to be too disappointed. He had friends to talk to, people to entertain. I’d probably assumed too much about the invitation—he likely had included everyone he knew in L.A.

I thought about my purse—left in the massive pile of bags and jackets on the bed in the guest room—and the tape recorder stuffed into the bottom of it. Gabe had said to bring it but now I couldn’t tell if that had been a joke. He didn’t seem to want to be interviewed any further—he seemed to be fully avoiding me—and I didn’t really know anyone else here besides Ollie, who was entertaining in the backyard.

I didn’t want to interrupt.

I sat myself on a couch in front of a bowl of jelly beans, trying to ignore the twin feelings of embarrassment and awkwardness. I’d never been good at parties. That was one of the things that Jeremy and I had in common. We were both, for the most part, homebodies. We’d enjoyed nights in, watching movies or just reading on the couch with our feet tangled up together. We’d go to the occasional party—mostly book launches and smaller gatherings at friends’ houses but nothing like this. For a brief, unexpected moment, I missed him.

I watched Gabe from across the room. He seemed completely at ease with all these people around him—with all the chaos and noise.

I felt a bit like a creep, the way my eyes would find him in the crowd, the way I began monitoring where he was and who he was with. I kept shifting my gaze to the door, wondering if Jacinda Lockwood would show up.

I continued eating jelly beans, and I could feel the sugar warring with my exhaustion. I shifted on the couch, and it squeaked loud enough that two people turned to look at me.

“It’s the sofa,” I said, waving a hand at it.

They both just frowned and turned away. It seemed possible that I looked completely insane—sitting by myself, shoving handfuls of candy into my mouth—but I kept telling myself that no one cared. No one noticed me.

The thought was both comforting and depressing.

I told myself I’d leave after I found one more sour-apple jelly bean.

When I did, I pulled myself to my feet, swaying a little as I reached my final altitude. I was buzzing from the sugar but I was still tired. My eyelids fought with gravity.

Gabe stepped to the center of the room.

I sat down again, the rapid movement taking most of the energy out of me.

“Okay,” Gabe said. “It’s time to play.”

My head felt heavy and wobbly but I was determined to keep it upright. Even if I had to rest my hand at the base of my throat, using my palm to stabilize it like my neck was that slippery, unsteady column of birthday cake in Sleeping Beauty.

“How long do these games go for?” I asked the person next to me.

They looked at me with boozy, sleepy eyes and gave me a thumbs-up. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but I returned the gesture anyway.

It was just another reminder of how out of my element I was. This was Gabe’s life—all this endless partying—and two days in I was already exhausted. How could someone maintain this kind of lifestyle?

I looked around and could see that some of the veneer I’d admired when I first arrived—the same kind of polish I’d noticed at last night’s premiere—had begun to rub off.

Tucked in among the younger, more fresh-faced guests were a few that looked like they had been partying since this house was new. There was a worn-out seediness to them, those deep lines around the eyes that said they’d been around this town far too long.

It felt like a warning.

To me. To everyone here.

Jelly beans sloshed around in my stomach, all alone.

“Come on,” Gabe urged his guests, most of whom seemed to have a general idea of what was going on.

Some of the more wizened partygoers made their retreat, taking out packs of cigarettes as they migrated to the backyard. Whatever was about to happen, it was clear that it wasn’t for them.

I had no clue what was going on, but I got back on my feet anyway.

Gabe was walking around the room, pointing at people and saying “one” or “two,” like my PE teacher did in middle school when it was time to play dodgeball.

Gabe reached me—his finger mid-point. I should have been a one.

“Two,” he said instead, and then pointed at himself. “Two.”

He finished going around the room and then he was back in front of me.

“Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “You’re on my team.”

The game was called Running Pyramid. All of us were instructed to write a list of ten things. We were to show them to no one.

“I don’t know what to put on my list,” I said to no one in particular.

“Anything you want, darling,” Ollie said. “But don’t get too complicated.”