"The night is young, girl!" Janine cackles. "Call that boy! Let him know what he's missing!"
"Yeah! Oh.…" I trail off, sadness leaking into my bones. "I don't have his phone number."
"What about his email?" Janine raises a finger. "Guysloveit when you email them after midnight. It's very sexy."
"You're so right, babe." I pull out my phone and type in the passcode. Or, I try to. Did it always have that many numbers? That's dumb. Who would want to get into my phone? After a couple of tries, it finally lets me in. Pulling up my work email, I find our thread and tap on it.
Jackpot.
"Janine, you're never gonna believe this," I announce with a smile. "He's got his personal phone number in hissignature."
"Perfection! Give him a little ol' ring-a-ding-ding, if you know what I mean, toots!" She morphs into an old-timey transatlantic accent and mimes smoking a cigarette.
Phones are great. I just tap on the number in his signature, and it asks me if I want to call him. Why yes, yes I do. As it rings, I tap the speakerphone button, and Janinehuddles in close. Neither of us can contain our giggles. After the third—or maybe fifth?—ring, he finally picks up.
"Dustin Sanders, Atmosphere," he says groggily.
"Ooh, how fancy," Janine gasps.
"Heeeey, Dus-dus. It's me!" I squeal. "Ya know… me?"
"Girl, he can't see you winking. You're on aphone." Janine yanks my phone away from me and scuttles to the other side of her living room. "Dustin, this is Janine—Brooke's very best friend in the whole wild world. I heard you blew her back out. Would you like to do that again?"
I gasp. "No! He's not supposed to! He's just supposed to see medance." I throw my hands in the air because I truly do not care and swivel my hips around.
"Oh, my god." Dustin's voice crackles over the speaker, and I hear something that sounds like rustling. "Are you ladies drunk?"
"Why yes, yes we are!" Janine happily announces. "And Brooke is just thebestdancer. Did you know that?"
"I… did not," he mumbles.
"Come over and see!" My very best friend in the world is the best wingwoman. Ever. I'm getting her a trophy. "I'll text you the address. Toodles!"
"Wait, wha—"
Beep.
"Am I good, or am I good?" Janinetakes a bow.
"Truly the best," I agree. "Now how do we send him the address? Side note: is this still a good idea?"
"Oh, darling dear. This is thebestidea." She nods solemnly. "You can tell because we both agree. Also, I texted him. Yay!"
We jump around and squeal like we're back in college together. And the best song of my youth rings out over her speaker system. We gasp and flail around, trying to imitate Lady Gaga's moves from the music video before falling all over each other. Yep, I'm the very best dancer in the world.
Glancing at the clock, I see that it's just about two in the morning. Janine was right—the nightisyoung. You know, if smaller numbers meant younger nights. Or whatever. Is Dustin really gonna show up here? I don't know where he's staying in the city. But Janine's Manhattan apartment is much more central to pretty much everything, as opposed to my Brooklyn bedroom.
Time escapes us as we dance the night away, paying no mind to anything outside of these four walls. I feel incredible. My life is great. I'm free from my ex-husband, I have a good job, I have thebestfriend in the world. On the planet. Forever and ever, amen. Thoughts of anything else in the world slip away from my mind until the door buzzer goes off again, scaring the hell out of both of us.
"God, that thing is so loud!" I complain and stalk over to the button on the wall. "Hellooo?"
"Brooke? Let me in," a muffled voice sounds out, staticky and hazy.
"Who is this?" I demand. A crackly sigh echoes through the room as Janine turns down her speakers.
"It's Dustin. Can you please open the door."
Dustin? Here? He must have heard the siren call of my amazing dance moves. "Of course!"
