Page 9 of Back to You
“Hi,” I say, and reach forward to shake their hands without thinking, like I’m meeting clients for the first time. I realize my mistake too late, but they don’t laugh in my face, just exchange quick amused glances, which makes me want to melt into the ground. Luke doesn’t seem to mind, though.
“Luke says you guys went to high school together,” the leather jacket guy says, taking my hand and giving it a firm shake.
“Yeah, we did,” I say.
“He was like a local celebrity back then, right?” he presses. “The champion jock with the rich dad?”
I have vaguely heard of his dad before—a self-made multimillionaire, something about venture capital and private jets, the kind of success story people were always sharing on LinkedIn.
Luke stiffens beside me, even though his smile doesn’t fall. “Guys, come on,” he protests.
“Hewasa bit of a celebrity,” I say slowly. “But I think people loved him mostly because of his ...”
“His what?” the guy asks.
Luke is watching me too, as if by finishing this sentence, I’ll be answering more than one question.
“His natural charm,” I say. “Just the way he is.”
Luke’s eyes widen in surprise, then soften on me.
But his friend snorts. “Yeah,thatpart, maybe, but are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the six-pack or his trophy cabinet?”
“Itoldyou I don’t have a trophy cabinet,” Luke says, elbowing him.
“I notice you’re not denying the six-pack allegations,” his friend goes on.
“You know what they say,” another guy chimes in. “Luke Blythe ...” He pauses dramatically, and the others join in as if they’ve been rehearsing this:
“Luke Blythe always wins.”
I remember the chant; a few cheerleaders started it in high school, and it quickly caught on. Everyone would stand up and scream it from the bleachers as he flew across the finish line, winning one race after another.
“Stop it, you guys,” Luke says in a friendly manner, yet I notice the tightness in his jaw. “Be polite and introduce yourselves, why don’t you?”
The three guys go around telling me their names; despite my best efforts, I forget them almost instantly, except the last one, Adam, because that’s the name of our CFO. He’s brought his girlfriend, Caroline, who’s tall and tanned and gorgeous in a way I thought was only possible on social media.
“You aresopretty,” she gushes to me, but I can’t tell if she’s saying this as a genuine compliment or the way cashiers automatically say “How’s your day?” to everyone they see.
Before I can think of a good response, we’re ushered inside, and I find myself shuffling up the line with the same kind of confused panic I experience in the security line at airports, trying not to hold people up or drop things from my purse.
Then we’re in, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, except in movies. The music thudding like a second heartbeat, people everywhere, pressed elbow to elbow, bright-colored drinks passed between hands or left half-finished on black tabletops. We pass a guy slumped over on his girlfriend’s shoulder, his eyes half closed, even as his body continues swaying to the beat.
“He’s fucked-up,” someone yells to her, laughing.
“Yeah, I know, he always gets like this after the fifth drink,” she says with an exasperated little shake of her head, but her tone is almost smug. Proof that she has done this countless times with him before, that she knows him better than anyone else. That even if he is a mess right now, he’shermess to deal with. It reminds me of when someone would cry in grade school, and their best friend would step up as a kind of temporary spokesperson while everyone crowded around asking what happened and why they were crying. I wonder what it’s like to be that close to someone, to navigate this kind of setting with so much confidence and ease.
“I’m going to grab us some drinks,” Luke says, and hands me a menu. “What do you usually like?”
I have no idea. I point at the first thing I recognize by name, a Bloody Mary, even though I’ve never tried it before.
Luke’s lips twitch. “You don’t drink much, do you?”
I feel myself going hot. Is it that obvious?
When I made the mistake of confessing to a colleague that I hadn’t dated or partied or even really tasted alcohol in college, she gaped at me.
“Now how the hell did you go through all of college without doing any of that?” she asked in a tone of wonder, as if it were some great feat.
