Page 70 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
Three
“ZACH, TELL ME again how you weaseled an invitation to this party?” Corrie asks, as she; her twin sister, Haley; and Zach and I make our way to the address Zach indicated the following Friday.
“I didn’t weasel,” he says, exasperated. “Some guy in my econ glass invited me and told me to bring some hot girls.”
I can’t hide the quick grin at being described as hot. It’s probably old hat for Corrie and Haley, who are the epitome of hot girls, especially in their tight dresses and high heels. But for me, it’s a nice break from adorable.
I’d resisted Corrie’s insistence to borrow one of her shrink-wrap dresses and instead stuck with something that felt more me, not to mention more practical for the twentysomething degree weather: jeans, a sweater, and boots. But the jeans and sweater are tight, and the boots have a bit of a heel, so maybe I do look hot. Sort of.
I glance at my phone, checking to see if I have a message from Garrett. I feel a little bad telling him last minute that I can’t make it to his party, but he’ll understand. Especially if I can go into work on Tuesday with a boyfriend on my résumé.
I feel something brush against my hand, and realize that it’s Zach’s hand. He’s not looking at me, and is still talking to Haley, so it must have been an accident.
He looks at me, then looks away just as quickly.
Hmm. Maybe not an accident.
I grin and put my phone away. Garrett hasn’t bothered responding which means he’s likely already drunk, probably on the hunt for a rebound from high school girl. That, or he’s forgotten all about his invitation anyway, and doesn’t care.
I follow the group up the stairs toward the loud music, feeling a little bit like an impostor. I’m so not a party girl, and I’m positive it’s written all over my not-low-cut sweater. But the house is packed with scantily dressed girls barely standing upright, and I realize nobody’s likely to notice me, much less judge me. I relax a little.
“Remember,” Corrie shouts in my ear, before Haley drags her away. “Don’t drink anything you don’t actually see poured from the keg.”
“Thanks, Mom!” I call as she disappears into the mess of people. I feel a hand on my lower back. Zach. “She’s right, you know,” he says, his lips against my ear. “Careful what you drink. Some people suck.”
He guides me toward the keg and finds us two keg cups, which he fills himself. I take a small sip of the one he hands me. I’m not a big drinker, but I kind of like beer. But I tend to stop at one. Maybe two.
I’m about to ask what people do at a party like this, but then Zach takes my hand and leads me toward the back of the house where it’s quieter. Not quiet. But quiet enough so that we find a somewhat secluded corner of the room. He positions me so I’m out of the way of jostling bodies, and I let him, my shoulder blades against the wall, as I take another sip of beer.
He’s not wearing his glasses tonight, and although I sort of love his glasses, he also looks really good like this, his blue eyes all dark and watching me.
“So, tell me I’m not the only one who noticed that terrible smell in poli sci today,” he says.
I let out a horrified laugh. “What was that?”
“Who do you think it was? Cornrows who eats that birdseed shit all during class, or tall girl in the front row who drinks chocolate milk like it’s going out of style.”
“Definitely Birdseed Guy,” I say. “That stuff can’t be good for the digestive track, right? Not unless you’re part of the aves class?”
Zach lets out a little laugh that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Aves class. God. This is why I like you, Annie.”
I blush a little and take a sip of my beer. It’s warm, but maybe if I drink enough I’ll stop feeling so damn nervous around this guy who seriously seems to like me. And for all the right reasons too.
As though reading my thoughts, his voice goes serious. “I wish I’d met you a year ago.”
“Why, what happened a year ago?” I ask, trying for cheeky, and coming out . . . squeaky.
He looks away for a moment. “Bad relationship. Guess it happens to all of us at some point or another, right?”
Some of us don’t have relationships happen to us at all.
“What happened?” I ask, jumping at the chance to get to know him better, even though I’m not sure I really want to know about his ex.
He glances down at the cup he’s barely touched. “Melissa. And she wasn’t bad news, at first, you know? She was fun . . . a little more wild than me. She made me feel alive and young, and all that crap.”
We are young, I want to interrupt. But I don’t.
“Things slowly got out of hand. It started out as breaking curfew. A lot. My parents were pissed, but I think deep down maybe they figured that was part of having a seventeen-year-old son. And then there was the drinking. I didn’t do much, but she did. A lot. So there was a lot of driving her home, trying to sneak her past her overprotective mother, and hoping she didn’t puke until I could get her into the bathroom.”
