Bunches Read Free

and thinking about what they could do if. . . .
Never mind!
    “It’s perfect,” I say, making a
show of picking up the glass and sipping. I tighten my fingers around the cool
glass, reminding myself not to let it slip because of the condensation dripping
down the sides. I take a deep breath. I haven’t had a drink in years. Five
years, to be exact, not since that night. Lizzy doesn’t know that, of course.
I’ve never told anyone. It isn’t something you tell.
    He gives me an amused look. “You
can’t know that until you try it. Some things are better experienced for real.
Like, the drink at the bar . . .”
    Before I can respond he turns on
his heel and moves away. It wouldn’t have mattered. I’m breathless anyway.
    I’m about to say something to
Lizzy when I feel cool liquid trickle down my leg. Lizzy wanted seats at the
end, but they were already taken when we came in, so we’re sitting in the
middle. I would have liked to sit at the end, because I could have curled up in
the corner and pretended I was somewhere else, somewhere quiet and safe.
    I’m wearing black jeans with my
black ballet flats. Lizzy told me I had nice legs and should show them off, but
I didn’t dare to wear a dress. I don’t own any going-out clothes. There’s no
point if I never go anywhere. I hope the outfit I have on tonight has just the
right amount of going out coupled with the I’m-having-a-girls-night-go-away
vibe.
    I stare down at my leg. The girl
next to me, who’s wearing so much makeup I’m surprised she can blink, plus a
tight red top that’s exposing too much cleavage, and sky high heels, has just
spilled her wine on my leg. She’s staring at me with wide eyes.
    “Oh, I’m SO sorry,” she says. She
blinks twice and I watch the thick black mascara move in chunks.
    She doesn’t look very sorry. Her
lips are parted and she looks drunk. She’s exactly the kind of girl I’m
terrified of: the girl who’s so confident in these situations, who’s fine
talking to guys. Everything I’m not.
    “JJ? Can you get us some
napkins?” she calls out to one of the bartenders, waving her free hand in the
process. Her other hand still grips her wine glass. Her nails are a deep
maroon.
    The bartender glances at her and
then away; he seems to know her, and he’s used to her. He finishes making a
drink, comes over, and braces one hand on the bar. His eyes are a clear warm
gray, like the clouds that still cover the sky right after it stops raining.
    He has really dark hair,
close-cropped to his neck. My throat constricts and I feel my hands gripping
each other for dear life. He’s dressed casually in a black hoodie and jeans,
but I get the idea that he’s ridiculously fit. The muscles in his wrist and
lower arm disappear into his broad shoulders.
    The relief I feel at his presence
is overwhelming again, and I’m almost comfortable enough to sit back and not
worry about makeup girl. Almost.
    He glances at me, but I still
have the deer in the headlights look on my face. Usually when I make eye
contact with someone I shrink away, my eyes searching the ground for every
crack and crevice, but this time I meet his eyes, and inside the torrent of my
mind something stills.
    I wonder what he thinks I look
like. Does he see fear? Does he see me at all? Then he raises his eyebrows at
the girl and I realize it’s way too loud for him to try to talk. Or maybe he’s
just the strong silent type.
    He definitely looks fit.
    I blush at the thought.
    “I spilled wine,” the girl slurs,
pointing at me as she says it. The bartender, JJ, looks at me and leans over
the bar. The music is so loud he has to yell to be heard. How did he know some
of her drink spilled one me? My breath hitches, my chest tightens all at once,
and my focus becomes pinpointed on his lips. I lean forward, determined to
catch every word.
    “Mason,” he says, shaking his head.
I see a twinkle in his eyes. She’s obviously a regular and he’s giving her a
hard time. She