Cassie follows behind Mina, holding Xavier. “So, Molly made us cookie dough in mason jars,” she says. She opens the fridge to show Mina.
“Oh my God. You made these?”
I smile shyly.
“Aren’t they so cute?” She sets Xav down, holding his hands up while he toddles. “Like, if it was me, I’d have put a big glob of it in a Ziploc bag and been like here you go.”
“It was super easy,” I say.
“This is literally the greatest dessert I have ever seen,” Mina says, looking awed.
We end up carrying all the jars and a bunch of spoons into the living room, and I feel my cheeks go red when I see Grandma. Like, now I’m supposed to eat dessert in front of her. Though there’s a part of me that wants to plant myself beside her and make her watch me do it. Dare her to say something.
But it’s cool to see how excited Mina is about the cookie dough. Sometimes it’s so easy, I almost feel bad. Honestly, the secret to impressing people is this: individual portions, packaged in mason jars. I even remembered to leave room on top for vanilla ice cream.
I squeeze all the way up against the armrest of the couch to make room for Cassie and Mina. Except it ends up being pointless. They kind of perch there for five minutes, until Cassie says she has a book she needs to find for Mina.
Funny how this task seems to require both of them.
Even funnier how they come down half an hour later, with no book.
I’ll be staying in Cassie’s room for a few days until Grandma goes home. We actually used to share this room. Cassie never got rid of her bunk beds, so when we have houseguests, I reclaim my bottom bunk. It’s like stepping back through time.
But, of course I can’t sleep. Again. My mind won’t stop churning. I fluff up my pillow and stare at the underside of Cassie’s bedframe. Which is still lined with glow-in-the-dark animal stickers. And probably decade-old boogers. I wasn’t the classiest child.
I roll over, and the bed creaks, and I hear Cassie sigh.
“Molly, go to sleep.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
For a moment, we’re quiet.
“I know you’re still awake,” she says.
“So are you.”
“But I have an excuse. I’m lovesick.”
I draw up into a sitting position, cross-legged beneath my blanket. “How do you know I’m not lovesick, too?”
“Wait, what?” She swings her torso down over the side of the bed, peering at me, upside down.
“I’m kidding.”
“No you’re not. Oh my God. He texted you, didn’t he?”
“Who are we talking about?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. But my heart starts fluttering wildly.
I don’t know how she knows Reid texted me. Unless she’s actually talking about the mysterious dancing bee ladies.
“So here’s the thing,” she says. It’s dark, but I can see her twist of a smile. She whips her head back up, but moments later, her feet dangle over the side of the top bunk. She pushes off with her arms and lands neatly on the ground in a crouch.
There’s a ladder. She never uses it.
Another fundamental difference between us.
“Mina and I might have given Hipster Will your number.”
“What?”
“Oh man. I really thought he was going to text you.” She sinks onto the end of my bed, tugging her pajama shorts down. “He wimped out, huh? What a dipshit.”
“I don’t . . . understand.”
“Molly, this is part of the mission. The boyfriend thing. I told you. We’re making this happen.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe he didn’t text you.”
I blush. “Um. I think he did.”
“WHAT?”
I push my bangs out of my face. “I don’t know. I got a text from a random number. But I didn’t know who it was.”
“Holy shit. What an idiot. He didn’t tell you it was him?”
I shake my head.
“What did he say?”
“I don’t even know if it was actually him.” I paw around the floor for my phone and tug it out of the charger. “Here.”
I pull up the text and hand her my phone.
She laughs. “Yeah, that’s Will. He sent you the bee ladies?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh my God. I’m dying. I have to tell Mina.” She rubs her cheeks. “That’s so fucking great. You should write him back.”
“And say what?”
“Anything. Seriously, it doesn’t matter. You just have to keep it going. She leans back against my pillow and sighs. “I love this. I’m dating Mina, and now you’re going to date her best friend.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s happening.” I feel warm. I must be utterly, inhumanly red right now.
“Look. I’m just saying he’s a good target for our boyfriend mission, okay? I really like him for you. He’s sweet, he’s cool, he’s artsy, and he has great taste in music. And he’s cute, right?”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“And he’s Mina’s best friend.”
“I know.”
“We always said we were going to marry best friends,” Cassie says.
“You and Mina are getting married? Wow.”
“Fuck you. You know what I mean.” But she’s blushing. “I’m just saying. He’s Mina’s friend. That’s very convenient for us. And I really think he likes you, Molly.”
I shake my head. “No he doesn’t.”
“Okay, you know what’s fucked up?” She looks me straight in the eye. “That you don’t even seem to think that’s a possibility.”
Well, I don’t.
But I do.
I mean, I honestly don’t know.
AND NOW CASSIE WON’T STOP talking about it. The Will thing. She’s being a little too hardcore. I know for sure she’s consulted with Abby, Olivia, and Mina. It’s really pretty embarrassing. It would be nice if I were the kind of person who didn’t require a battalion of wingwomen to make this happen.
I just feel like I’m a really defective girl in some ways.
So, now I’m wearing this black top I got a couple of weeks ago, with an empire waist and a black lace overlay. I’ve worn it before, though always with a camisole underneath and a cardigan over. Except Cassie has forbidden both the camisole and the cardigan. And she pulled me into the bathroom for smoky eyeshadow, and then Olivia made my hair wavy, and the attention of them dressing me felt strange. But not bad.
“You look so pretty,” Cassie had said. “Doesn’t she look so pretty?”
And Olivia paused for a moment, before agreeing. “Yeah, you really do.”
I felt this warm, happy flutter when she said that. And when I glance at myself in the window of the Metro, I actually think they’re right. I look okay. I look better than okay. I feel strangely brand-new.
We get off at Woodley Park and cross the bridge to Adams Morgan, and Mina and the boys are already waiting for us in front of the bar. Will is holding a man-purse. But he’s more pissed off than I’ve ever seen him. “Okay. This. This is ridiculous.” He runs a hand through his hair and huffs. “Since when is there an age limit for music?”
“It’s a bar,” says Cassie.
“But it’s not about the booze,” says Will. “It’s about the music.”
“Look, I get it.”
“Why doesn’t he get it?” Will stabs a finger in the general direction of the bouncer and, honestly, growls.
“Whatever. Fuck him. You can still kind of hear it out here,” Cassie says.
“Not the same.”
“Here. Drink.” Cassie reaches into her purse and pulls out a thermos, passing it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Lemonade,” she says.
Will sips it and turns to her, grinning.
“With peach schnapps,” she adds.
“I want.” Mina reaches for the thermos. “And I want Jumbo Slice,” she adds, smiling extra contagi
ously.
Twenty minutes later, I’m packed tightly onto a wooden bench with Cassie, Mina, and Olivia, and I’m holding the most epic slice of pizza. And a Coke. And the boys are sort of hovering over us. There’s this couple a few yards away gazing at each other really intensely, and Max is pretending to narrate their thoughts. And Cassie and Mina are trying to seem casual about the fact that they’re holding hands, but their expressions are like sunshine through window shades. I feel happy. And a little lonely. But they’re cute. And it’s nice. I can’t explain it. I guess it’s this feeling of rightness. Like I’m saying the right things, and I’m in the right place. Like I’m the right person.
I wonder if that even makes sense.
I lean over to whisper to Olivia about it, but then there’s a nudge on the toe of my flat.
“Hey,” Will says. “You never wrote back to my text.”
“Oh. I didn’t . . .”
He laughs. “I’m just kidding. It’s fine.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” I say.
Cassie snickers, and I realize she and Mina are both listening.
“Well. Now you know.” His blue eyes meet mine, and I feel myself blush.
I clear my throat. “Is there any more schnapps?”
As it turns out, Will’s man-purse is full of fifty million miniature bottles of booze. No more schnapps, but he dumps an entire tiny bottle of rum into my Coke.
“Um, okay, that’s . . .”
Cassie leans over to steal a sip. “Wow, that’s strong.”
To be honest, I don’t have much to compare it to—I don’t think I’ve ever had more than a sip of anything. I’m not supposed to, with my pills. But I just need something tonight. I need to not feel like myself for a minute.
I’m wavy hair Molly. Cardigan-less Molly. Rum and Coke Molly.
“I think the street is tilting,” says Cassie. “Do you guys see that?”
“Oh,” Mina says, “you are not sober.”
“Nope.” She nudges her head into the crook of Mina’s shoulder.
My head’s a little fuzzy, and my chest is warm, but it’s a cozy feeling. I like it. And when I look up, I see that Will is watching us and smiling. Oh my God. I could sit for five million hours and analyze the angles of his smile.
“Are all of you drunk?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say. But out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Olivia, who suddenly looks like a kid dragged to a cocktail party. She’s shuffling her feet on the edge of the bench and fidgeting with her napkin.
I turn toward her to say something, but Cassie flings an arm around me. “Drunk Molly. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I like Drunk Molly. She’s cool,” Will says.
“I know, right?” says Mina.
“Need a refill?” Will asks.
And Cassie gives me this look like she wants to mention the Zoloft.
I ignore her.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, and Will tilts his head and smiles down at me. He has a really bright smile. And I kind of like the way he’s looking at me. I can’t believe this messy-haired hipster boy in skinny jeans is looking at me like that. I feel this little surge of adrenaline or attraction or alcohol or something. It makes me nervous.
“Why are you making zombie faces?” he asks.
“What?”
“Just relax!”
“Zombies are relaxed.”
He laughs. “You are so freaking funny.”
I feel like this conversation is spinning too quickly, but maybe that’s a good thing, and when I look up at Will again, his smile is smaller but better. More intimate. And I’m blushing so hard, I think my face is burning off.
So, maybe Cassie was right about the cardigans, and maybe this is how it happens. Maybe this is actually happening. But I don’t see how it could be. Because Will is so cute and so cool, and I’m just me. And I’m way out of my depth. It’s like trying on a dress that doesn’t quite fit.
“I’m telling you. It’s on,” Cassie whispers. Except it’s not really a whisper. Because, oh my God. Drunk Cassie. Is so fucking loud. I’m 100 percent positive Will can hear her, and Max can hear her, and all of 18th Street can hear her and probably people in Antarctica can hear her. If there even are people in Antarctica. Are there people in Antarctica? Maybe a small settlement of explorers. I feel like Reid would know this. I have no idea why I think that. And I don’t know why I’m even thinking about Reid. Especially when I’m sitting in the glow of Will Haley’s tiny sunbeam smile.
“I like him so much,” Cassie adds, not so quietly. “He’s your best crush yet. I approve. Team Will.”
“Cass. Stop.” I cut my eyes toward her. I feel so self-conscious. I feel like I’m naked on a giant circular stage with an audience extending out to infinity in all directions. It’s a little unbearable. More than a little. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go,” I say.
“What? No!” Cassie says. “Don’t leave. I’m not ready.”
“You can stay. It’s fine.”
“And you’re just going to Metro home by yourself?” Cassie asks. “Molly, you’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
She stares me down.
“I’ll go with her,” Olivia says, after a moment.
Cassie narrows her eyes at both of us, but I know she’s not going to argue. She wants to stay too badly. “You better text me when you get home,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“Sure,” I say, trying not to laugh. Because the protective sister thing is cute, but I’m pretty sure Cassie’s not going to be sitting here waiting for my text. It’s probably hard to check your phone when you’re suctioned onto Mina’s face.
“We’ll leave soon, okay?” she says. “I’ll see you at home.”
Another thing I’m not sure I believe.
The farther we walk from Adams Morgan, the more Olivia relaxes. “Sorry. I’m just feeling kind of off tonight,” she says as we approach the bridge. “I think I just need to get home and into pajamas, so I can Netflix and chill with Titania.”
Titania. The dog.
I press a hand to my mouth. “Olivia, you cannot Netflix and chill with Titania. That does not mean what you think it means.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” she says.
“I think you Netflix and chill with Evan,” I say, letting my eyebrows explain the rest.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I just want to watch Netflix.” She looks slightly traumatized.
“I know. Oh God. Me too.”
And it’s true. Even hearing the word Netflix has a way of centering me. Netflix means not having to suck in your stomach or think of anything smart or adorable to say. It means a whole night of not wondering what people think about you. No alcohol, and no flirtation, and no confusion, and every organ calm and settled.
Perfect.
Exactly what I want.
Except there’s this tiny, perverse part of me that wants to run back down 18th Street to hear Will Haley say I’m so freaking funny. Even though that’s the quickest way to unsettle my organs. And it’s the literal opposite of Netflix. But that’s me. I always want opposite things.
“Um, Molly?” says Olivia. “You’re sort of zigzagging.”
“Oh! Oops.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m totally okay.”
“Okay . . .” She bites her lip. “Hey, do you mind if I call Evan really quickly? I want to catch him before he goes to bed.”
Here are the facts about Evan Schulmeister: he falls asleep at ten thirty, with earplugs and a retainer, and wakes up at five to run three miles. Every day.
“Totally, totally fine,” I say. I think I’m saying totally a lot. I’m totally saying totally a lot. This must be a special feature of Drunk Molly. Just like regular Molly, but with 150 percent more totallys.
Olivia pulls out her phone and walks a few steps ahead of me, and I take my phone out, too. My head feels funny: light and spi
nny and wobbly, but my brain still works well enough to text.
Abby what are you doing rightt now? I really really kiss you!!!
Haha miss you not kiss you, I add.
And now I’m walking along the bridge, and Olivia’s still talking to Evan—even though she’s seeing him on Sunday. I mean, she’s literally driving up to Pennsylvania to see him in two days, and she’s still cradling the phone like every second on the line is precious stolen time.
That Evan Schulmeister.
So I just amble along behind her, pulling out my phone every few seconds to see if Abby’s written back. Which she hasn’t. I text her again.
ABBY MY LOVE WHERE ARE YOU?
Then, I almost bump into someone. But I feel my phone buzz, finally. And it’s Abby! Except it’s not actually Abby, because the text says: Hey! Sorry—this is Simon. Abby fell asleep. Want me to wake her up?
Oh, hi Simon!!! That’s okay
This is her cousin Molly btw
I check the spelling a few times. I don’t want to be incoherent, Drunk Molly for my first conversation with Simon. THE Simon. Abby’s new best friend. My replacement. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ha.
Yeah. It’s not funny.
Hi, cousin Molly! Simon writes.
I can’t believe she’s asleep already, I say.
I KNOW! She fell asleep watching Harry Potter. Side-eye emoji.
I write back frantically. WHAT? That is the worst. She is the worst
She’s a squib, he writes. Which makes me smile all the way to Woodley Park.
Olivia doesn’t hang up until we step onto the escalator, and she’s quiet for a few minutes. She’s always like that after talking to Evan. I think it takes her a minute to shift back to the regular world. Probably because he’s such a sex god. REIN IN YOUR HOTNESS, EVAN SCHULMEISTER. For Olivia’s sake. For the world’s sake.
But we get on a train almost right away, and we even get a seat together. It’s a miracle. It’s the neighbor guy from Kimmy Schmidt saying it’s a miracle. It’s that miraculous. Except I think I need to vomit, and that’s probably not allowed. Not on the Metro. Not on Olivia. I breathe in and out until the wave of nausea passes.
Just a few more stops.
I keep replaying the night in my mind, trying to make sense of it, and my hand trails across my breastbone. All that skin. Patty calls it “décolletage.” It’s kind of a sexy thing, even though sexy isn’t a word I usually associate with myself. But I kind of felt like that tonight. I actually think Hipster Will was flirting. With me.