“Thank you,” she says, pausing as if there’s more she wants to say.
When she doesn’t continue, I ask her about Archer. I know it’s none of my goddamn business, but I can’t help needing to know if she has a boyfriend or not.
“He’s my best friend.” She laughs, adding, “My very protective best friend who will need some reassurance that you’re not a serial killer before he’s okay with the thought of me leaving here with you.”
As soon as we step back into the club, we’re greeted by my brother. The draft beer in his hand is already half-gone.
“Carina!” he yells over the music, ignoring my very presence next to her. “I bloody love your family!”
Mouthing “I told you” to her, we make our way over to the bar to get drinks of our own.
“I don’t even know what to order,” she says lowly, glancing behind the bar to the giant chalkboard. “The extent of my drinking these days is a glass or two of my nonna’s limoncello on holidays.”
In bright pinks and yellows, the names of custom cocktails are written in big bubble letters. The beer list fills one entire half of the board.
When the bartender asks for our drink order, I take it upon myself to order a lemon drop martini for Carina and a draft beer for myself.
“Not the same as Nonna’s limoncello, but thank you,” she says, after taking the first sip of the cocktail in her hand.
“You keep talking about this limoncello.” I laugh, her approval exciting me more than it should. It’s just a drink. That I didn’t make. “I’m going to have to try some to see for myself.”
“I have some at my house.” Her smile quickly drops when the DJ announces that the doors are about to open. “If you don’t mind hanging out with me for a little longer, I’m pretty sure I have some tiramisu too. We’ll consider it payment for saving my ass tonight.”
I know she’s just trying to be nice.
I know nothing can happen between us.
But I also know that offering to take her home tonight was either the smartest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
“Deal.”
10
Carina
If this was nine years ago, I would be—as Lina says—“living my best life” right now.
But as soon as Olivia began her toast, the knots in my stomach started. A familiar, unpredictable panic crept in as soon as the doors opened. The sudden, rapid onslaught of thousands of people filling the dance floor made it feel smaller and smaller by the second.
I pushed my way through them to the staircase leading to the VIP level on the second floor. It had nothing to do with wanting any of the perks. Instead, it was the only place I thought I would feel safe in. Even up there, away from everyone, the walls were slowly closing in on me.
For some reason, I thought maybe having another drink might help. So, when Valentina suggested shots, I took three. In a row. But instead of it magically giving me the ability to let go of my anxiety like I had hoped, it only made me feel worse.
The thumping bass from down below, the screaming women, and the bright flashing lights have my heart slamming against my chest. You would think I had multiple shots of espresso instead of the cheap, cinnamon whiskey my sister loves so damn much.
I search for somewhere to sit, relief filling me when I find an empty, red velvet couch toward the back of the room. Everyone around me is too busy dancing and horribly rapping along with the Wu-Tang Clan song blasting from the speakers to notice me slinking off on my own.
Fine by me.
Ryan asked for an hour. I only have to make it thirty more minutes. Trying to steady my breathing, I start counting. First in English. Then in Italian. My nonna’s voice fills my head as I try to calm my racing heart.
One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale.
Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. Inspirare. Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. Espirare.
Closing my eyes, I try to put myself somewhere else. Anywhere but here. I picture my house. My empty, quiet house. My bed. My white down comforter. I’m so focused on pulling air into my lungs that I don’t notice Ryan sliding on the couch beside me.
“You all right, love?” he asks, causing me to jump for the second time in less than an hour.
My knee-jerk reaction is to say yes. To lie. Blame the alcohol.
Something tells me he’d see right through the bullshit, though.
So, I shake my head.
“I need to go,” I tell him, the desperation sitting heavy in my chest. “Now.”
He’s probably wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself into by signing me. I’m going to have to reassure him I can do this. I know I can. I just can’t right now.
Right now, I need fresh air. My house. My bed. I need to get the fuck out of this club.
“Give me two minutes. I’m just going to talk to your sister,” he says. There isn’t a single moment of hesitation in his response. Standing up, he brushes the legs of his slacks. “I’ll be right back.”
“Ryan?” I call, causing him to stop and turn around. The thought of him telling my sister I’m leaving sends a wave of guilt over me. This entire night was planned for me. To celebrate me. “What are you going to say?”
“That you’re not feeling well?” he offers. “You don’t drink much, right? Well, I just watched you take quite a few shots in a row.”
“Okay,” I agree reluctantly, though I know my sister isn’t going to let this go. She’s going to come over and try to get me to stay. It’s in her nature to be overdramatic and cause a scene.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan assures me, following my line of sight. My sister and Alfie are standing next to each other at the bar. Ryan’s eyes widen in realization at the sight of them together. “I’ll handle it. I’ve got you.”
As he walks away, the knots in my stomach tighten. Bracing myself for having to deal with my sister, I begin counting again. My mom tells me to have patience with Valentina. There isn’t an anxious bone in her body. She’s fearless, and she doesn’t understand how I can’t be. Which makes moments like these increasingly harder than they already are.
I watch Ryan closely, anticipating the moment Valentina pulls away from the conversation and makes her way toward me. Instead, she glances over at me, her face full of worry rather than the judgment that normally comes from me making an excuse to leave somewhere early.
“All set,” Ryan says, grinning as he approaches the couch. “Ready to go?”
“Just hold on to me,” he says, offering his hand to me. The two of us weave in and out of people, my grip on his hand tight until we’ve made it onto the Boston sidewalk outside.
“You must think I’m a mess,” I say, the need to defend myself growing with my anxiety.
“Not at all,” he says as he pulls out his phone. “I sent for the car service already. It should be here in a few moments. Do you need or want anything before we leave? Water? Food?”
“I’m not some diva, I promise,” I continue, not answering his question. I need him to know that the way I felt in there, the lingering worry, isn’t something I chose. That I won’t be like this while we’re filming. “I’m incredibly thankful for this.”