Mine Would Be You (7)
I spin around, gracing her with my own smile, a full one for the first time since Tuesday, and she dances with Jenko and I as she holds our signature pre-game cups in her hands, fully decorated in shades of glitter and phrases we used to say all the time.
As we spin around, I take in her outfit. She’s dressed in a black, corset-detailed bodysuit, held up with dainty silver chains, tan joggers, and black sock booties. Her orange-red hair is mussed into the perfect messy ponytail, and a dark smoky eye and lip tie the look together. She pulls away from my hand. Her cheeks are flushed, but her gray eyes twinkle with excitement.
“All right, lay it on me. What are you wearing tonight?”
She crosses her legs as she sits in my vanity chair, taking a sip out of her cup and handing me mine. We got them on our senior year spring break trip to Key West. Best investment we ever made. I grasp the cup with a smile as I take a slow sip, letting the drink enter my bloodstream.
Jenko hops out of my arms and onto my bed, curling himself into the mountain of pillows, and I hold my robe closed as I show her what I have picked out. A black leather skirt with a slit on one side and a black, sheer, long-sleeve bodysuit with detailing that will wrap around my chest, all to be paired with thigh-high black boots.
Simple but effective.
“Fuck yes. You’ll look amazing,” she squeals as she sips again, kicking her legs in excitement as I disappear into the bathroom to get dressed.
I look in the mirror. My brown eyes stare back at me, and for the first time this week, they’re bright and filled with anticipation. No pain, no yearning, nothing but the electric energy running through me. My wavy hair falls in loose curls, framing my face, and the make-up is painted on like my mother taught me. When I was younger, I was obsessed with how she and her best friends would spend hours gossiping and painting on lipstick or the perfect cat eye, listening to Selena and old East Coast rap.
As I take in the sheer bodysuit and the black leather skirt that makes my short legs look miles longer, I feel like myself. Someone who has fun, who goes out with her best friends and isn’t concerned with exes or love or anything but being happy within herself.
I grab my cup and my boots before heading into the kitchen, where the speaker is blasting loud music and where Harper sits. I tip the cup back, enjoying the familiar burn.
Harper’s nails click against her phone until she looks up. “I know I said it already, but you look fantastic. Sloan said she’s getting changed now and will be here in ten.”
Before Sloan gets here, I pour three shots of tequila that we can toss back paired with salt and lime. And in the meantime, I scroll on Instagram and other social medias, pinning new fashion trends to my Pinterest board and adding things to my online shopping cart I most definitely do not need but won’t stop myself from buying if a good sale comes along.
Harper looks up from her phone again, on which I’m willing to bet the Tinder app is pulled up, and looks at me deeply. She takes a sip from her silicone straw before she speaks.
“I think you should download Tinder. It’s time.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Give it up.”
She rolls her eyes as she swipes left again. “For me?”
“No.”
I tap my French tip nails against my cup as I finish the last sips and start to feel the telltale effects of alcohol. My cheeks are hot, and my body warms from the inside. I ignore Harper’s deep sigh as she attempts to guilt me into the app.
I hear Sloan’s signature knock on the door and the sound of her key as she enters.
Her tight curls bounce as she enters the kitchen, dancing on beat to the song playing, and grins as she takes in our outfits. She’s got on her signature nude lipstick, which compliments her dark skin perfectly, and her winged liner is sharp, as usual.
A long sleeve white crop top cuts off perfectly above her midi-length leopard print skirt with a slit up the left leg. She’s got a simple black belt with gold detailing wrapped around the skirt and simple black booties to tie the outfit together. She looks flawless.
“We look hot.” Sloan grins.
Her eyes focus on the shots of tequila, wiggling her eyebrows at us, and we all grip our shot glasses after sprinkling salt on our hands,
“You guys ready?” I say breathlessly with a smile, and my two best friends grin.
We tap our glasses to one another, raise them to the sky, touch the table, and toss the liquid back, relishing the burn.
• • •
Bar Ten is radiating infectious energy.
The entire place is vibrating as the bass of the early 2000’s pop and hip-hop songs blast through the large speakers on both floors.
Downstairs is more conversational. The walls are lined with TVs playing various sports on different screens, there’s a pool table and shuffleboard along with high top seating lining the walls, and then of course the large bar. And the loudest noise you’ll most likely hear is the roar of everyone talking to one another over the music.
Upstairs is the dance floor. Three smaller bars are placed in corners of the room that surrounds the DJ of the night, and the rest is all strobe lights and people grinding on each other. This spot is known for having the best DJs in this part of New York. Luckily, we come here often enough the bouncers usually give us a smile and send us on our way past the line after a quick flash of our IDs.
At this point, I don’t even know how many shots we’ve taken.