He pats his pocket. “Got everything here.”
“What if they find out the IDs are fake?” I worry. “Will we get in trouble? What if I get kicked out of Berkeley?”
“I doubt they’ll be able to tell,” Julius says, the corner of his mouth curving. “Unless, of course, you continue to talk out loud about how fake they are.”
“Right.” I flush. Drop my voice into a whisper. “Sorry. But, like, what if they ask questions? Or what if the accent makes them suspicious? Should I … Should we come up with a backstory? Like, I don’t know, should we have jobs?”
“As a society? That’s always been a topic for contention.”
I elbow him. “You know what I mean.”
“Sadie, you’ll be fine,” he says, amused. He brushes a strand of hair out of my face, where it’s stuck to my lip gloss, and tucks it behind my ear. “Everything will be fine.”
He’s right. The bouncer barely glances at our fake IDs before waving us forward through the doors, and then we’re in.
I realize at once that it hadn’t been crowded outside at all. Not compared to here; the bodies are so tightly packed that if it weren’t for Julius, I probably wouldn’t be able to take more than two steps in before being squeezed back out. There’s some kind of aquatic theme going on here, waves painted over the walls, heavy ropes suspended from the ceiling like anchors, the bartenders dressed as sailors, which seems to be really working on a few girls. Even the cocktails are a vivid ocean blue. The music thuds so loud that I can feel it thrumming through my bones, reverberating in my eardrums. Everyone here’s in love or heartbroken, drunk and attractive, dancing and bumping into one another and trying to find their friends. The opposite of what I trained myself to be most of my life: uninhibited, unrestrained, unapologetic.
“Do you want a drink?” Julius asks me.
“Um, okay. Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t let go of my hand the entire way to the bar counter, where he orders a whiskey for himself, a cocktail for me. He laughs when I accept my drink with both hands, ice clinking against the glass, and take a tentative sip. It tastes like soda, with only the faintest sour edge.
“This actually isn’t bad,” I say in surprise.
“Don’t act like you haven’t had alcohol before,” he says with a knowing look, and the memory stretches between us like an elastic band. The party at my house, playing truth or dare, rambling on and on to him after everyone had left, saying too much, touching his hair, just wanting to touch him and hoping he would let me and hating myself for wanting it so badly.
But I can touch him now, I think with a stupid little thrill, and I do, and he does let me. I move my fingers over his neck and down his chest and he suddenly pulls me in like he’s about to kiss me, his forehead almost bumping against mine, his lashes long and shadowed in the low bar light. I can sense his smile more than see it.
“Have I mentioned that you’re beautiful tonight?” he asks.
I hear my own heart, bursting. “Not directly, no.”
“Sometimes I worry I’d bore you if I told you every single time I found you beautiful,” he says. “But you are. Just so you know.”
“You’re also—” I pause, desperately wanting to return the compliment but unable to find the right word.Beautifulwould sound like I’m parroting him, even though it’s true. He’s so beautiful it’s painful. Outrageous, really.Cuteis too casual, overlaps too much with baby animals and stuffed toys.Handsomehas a formal, archaic ring to it, like something our Airbnb host might say while patting his cheek and offering more cookies.Hotseems tactless, makes it sound like I’m just eager to make out with him, which I kind of am, but still. “You’re incredible,” I say in the end.
“I’m … incredible?” he repeats, brows rising.
“No, like—” I bite my lip, frustrated with myself for not being able to express it properly. “Like,really, really incredible. You’re incredible to me. To be around. As a person. You make me so happy I sometimes wonder how this could even be real life.” I take another sip of my drink to shut myself up. Maybe I should’ve just gone withhot.
But then he holds me, his chin resting on my head, so I can feel it when he draws in a tight breath. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says quietly.
“That can’t be true.”
“It is. For as long as I can remember. And you know how excellent my memory is.”
“I do,” I admit, and he just continues holding me without talking, without needing to, because somehow I can sense everything he’s feeling, and I feel it too.
They manage to survive at the bar for two whole hours while the people around them get progressively drunker and louder and clumsier before Sadie announces, with a note of finality, “This has been a great experience.”
“Very … immersive,” he agrees, trying not to notice the couple aggressively making out within two feet of them. Or they might be engaging in some sort of carnivorous ritual; it’s hard to tell, what with the way they’re biting each other’s lips and arms.
“I’msoglad we did this,” Sadie says, also pointedly not looking at the couple.
“I’m glad too.”
She pauses. “Do you want to leave now?”
