The Art of Losing(32)
“Stop guessing,” I demanded. “And no. Why the hell would I take you to Colonial Williamsburg? To make candles?”
Cassidy laughed. “Okay, fine. But don’t mock those candles. I made them for my mom that time we went on a field trip, and she said she loved them.”
I gave her a skeptical glance. “She’s your mom. She had to say that.”
Cassidy opened her mouth to retaliate but thought better of it. Because obviously I was right.
Instead, she turned up the radio. With the windows down, we sang along to her favorite band, screaming the words into the wind. And when we pulled up in front of a farm advertising a horse trail, a blueberry patch, and a petting zoo, my best friend grinned.
“We’re going to pet baby animals, ride horses on a trail through the woods, pick blueberries, and then eat blueberry pie and ice cream until we puke purple,” I announced.
She reached across the armrest between us and hugged me. Cassidy had ridden horses until eighth grade when her parents told her they couldn’t afford it anymore and she had to quit. That’s when she took up all the other activities that now filled her days. But I knew she missed it, even if I had never really understood the appeal. But I loved baby animals and blueberry pie. And I loved Cassidy. I reminded myself of that as I hoisted myself up onto the horse I was renting for the morning, and I immediately started sweating.
It was worth it, though—to see the joy on Cassidy’s face when she leaned down to stroke the neck of her horse. I let her lead the way down the trail, through the sun-dappled forest, smiling at her ramrod-straight posture and the gleeful look in her eyes as she glanced back at me.
And I didn’t think about Mike at all.
Chapter Nine
I regretted agreeing to the party before Raf even texted to say he would meet me at his car. Normally, I would have made an excuse to bail, but I couldn’t do that to Raf. It was a big move for him to be going to this party, and I didn’t want him to skip it just because I was presently a social disaster . . . if not a liability.
But when I saw Raf waiting in the driver’s seat like Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles, a movie I had finally watched in Audrey’s hospital room that morning (“Delightfully eighties and perfectly captures first crush angst.”—Audrey’s spot-on review from two years ago), I couldn’t stop myself from climbing into that Jeep. He’d even dressed up a little: he wore a collared shirt over his T-shirt, dark jeans, and a clean pair of sneakers. I appreciated the effort.
The party was at an apartment, Raf explained while we drove, of some older guys. My anxiety level rose. I’d never been to a party at a grown-up’s place before. But I tried to convey enthusiasm as Raf went on.
Dave, Arjun, and Juan were roommates who met in AA and stayed sober together for years. And they hosted parties almost every Saturday, Raf said, but he had only been to one of these once before and didn’t know who to talk to or what to do, so after embarrassing himself at a game of cards, he’d left. He thanked me for coming with him three times before we’d even reached the building.
“I have a confession,” I said as he parked the car, trying my best not to sound too serious but failing.
“What?” he said. He cut the engine and turned to me, his brow furrowed with concern. He leaned closer.
“I’m probably not the best wingwoman,” I admitted. My voice sounded weirdly high-pitched in my ears. “I’m terrible at parties. I spend most of them hiding and reading on my phone or talking to the same person, tailing them from room to room so I don’t have to make small talk with other people. Until very recently, that person was Mike.”
Raf just smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “As long as we have each other to talk to, it won’t be awkward. How about this? I promise not to leave you if you promise not to leave me.”
I nodded. My heart was still racing, but it was best to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want to blurt out what I found myself hoping: that the sentiment didn’t only apply to this party.
The guy who answered the door had several days’ worth of beard growth and a flannel shirt that only made sense when I walked inside and felt how frigid it was. I immediately regretted my choice of a T-shirt and jeans with flip-flops.
“Hey, Raf,” the guy said. He extended a hand to me. “I’m Dave.”
“Harley,” I said, shaking his hand.
As I shook his hand, I half-expected to smell beer on his breath, but his hands were cool and dry, his eyes clear and crinkled at the corners with his friendly smile. I was so conditioned to being greeted at parties with a blast of drunkenness by hosts much younger than this . . . adult. I felt such a wave of relief that my fingers tingled.
“Welcome!” Dave said, stepping aside.
Raf took me on a lap through the apartment, quietly pointing out various people. They all seemed to have nicknames. Like Hippie Jake, the guy who was a walking (well, sitting) stereotype with his Baja hoodie and soul patch, playing guitar in a corner of the living room. Then there was Animal, who had long, stringy hair and was so thin that his tiny T-shirt still billowed around him.
“He’s a meth addict,” Raf whispered when he saw the concern on my face. “He lost most of his teeth, so eating isn’t exactly a favorite activity. He talks about how much he misses chewing sometimes in meetings.”