There they are. My ghosts of friendships past. Like I’ve somehow conjured them out of thin air, just by thinking of them.
And God, Alistair looks good. My cheeks flush. How did I never notice that before? His dark curls fall in a messy tangle, just begging to be pushed off his forehead. He’s wearing jeans and the VOTE FOR PEDRO T-shirt I bought him for his birthday last year. I wonder what it means that he’s wearing it tonight—does he still think of me, or has it become just another T-shirt in his closet?
He laughs at something Marisol says and the sound carries over the crowd, piercing right through me.
I miss that laugh.
I miss my friends.
Running into them when I’m with Ben is not ideal—I can’t trust Ben to be the best version of himself, especially when he’s around Drew—so I tug on his hand before he notices Alistair and Marisol.
“I know a shortcut,” I say, praying that they’ll listen to me for once. But it’s too late—I can tell by the way Drew’s back stiffens that he’s already seen Alistair. Sure enough, he looks over his shoulder at Ben and me, an evil smile on his face. “Nerd alert,” he says.
My adrenaline spikes as Drew turns back around. He quickens his step until he’s almost in front of Alistair and Marisol.
Alistair’s eyes meet mine a split second before Drew shoulder-checks him, knocking him off balance and sending him stumbling into Marisol.
“Watch it, dude,” Drew says.
Marisol scowls at him. “You’re the one who pushed him. Why don’t you watch it,” she says. I can feel Olivia silently judging her off-brand jean overalls and scuffed Doc Marten boots with the neon laces, her wild curls pulled back with a dollar-store headband.
“You always let your girlfriend fight your battles for you?” Drew asks.
Alistair sighs. “The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club.”
Drew blinks. He reaches out and pokes Alistair hard in the chest. “You asking for a fight, son?”
Alistair holds up his hands. “I’m definitely not looking for a fight. It was just a joke. Dad.”
“You think you’re funny?” Drew takes another step toward him until they’re almost touching. Alistair is taller, but Drew is stockier, a wall of muscle—and used to fighting.
Alistair smirks. “Sometimes,” he replies as Marisol tugs on his arm, trying to draw him away.
My eyes widen. What is he doing? Is he trying to antagonize Drew? Not a good idea.
Drew’s upper lip curls and he puffs out his chest. “Well, I don’t think you’re funny. At all.”
“Do something,” I say to Ben.
“What do you want me to do?” he replies.
I glare at him.
Ben rolls his eyes. “Stop worrying. Drew’s just playing with him. He’s not actually going to do anythi—”
Drew pulls his arm back and sucker punches Alistair in the stomach. I watch in horror as Alistair grunts and doubles over, gasping for air. Marisol squeals and rests her hand on his back. Several people walking past glance over at us, but no one stops. Before I can even ask Alistair if he’s okay, Ben drags me into the crowd, after Drew and Olivia.
I’m shaking as he pulls me in the direction of the Scrambler. I can’t believe that just happened. Why did I just stand there? How could I let Drew treat them like that?
Shame burns through me. My throat is thick as we join the line for the ride. Ben, Drew, and Olivia have already moved on from the altercation, like punching someone in the stomach for no reason is acceptable behavior.
I wish I could say I’m surprised, but this is just the latest example of how they’re the worst. It wasn’t too long after Ben and I started dating that I realized he hadn’t really changed, but I still managed to convince myself that the good outweighed the bad.
And I’m not any better than them. If I was, I would have spoken up one of the hundreds of times that I’ve seen them treat people badly.
I should have said something tonight.
Maybe it’s not too late.
I bite my lip. Alistair’s wearing the T-shirt I gave him. He probably wouldn’t still have it, much less wear it, if he hated me. What if there’s still a chance to fix things with him and Marisol? I could tell them that I’m sorry and I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ll tell Alistair that I wish I’d chosen him instead. Maybe he’ll forgive me. Maybe he’ll give me another chance.
My pulse starts to race. Ben is busy talking to Drew and Olivia, so he doesn’t notice when I drop his hand and start to weave my way through the line of people behind us.
“Em, where are you going?” Ben calls after me.
I hurry through the night market. Alistair and Marisol have moved on—they’re no longer where we left them. I’m sweating, hoping that they haven’t gone home, when I see Alistair sitting on top of a picnic table all by himself.
“Are you okay?”
He eyes me warily. “I’ve been better.”
I glance around for Marisol.
“She went to get me a drink,” he says.
I swallow. This is my moment—my chance to apologize and tell him how I really feel. But the words stick in my throat. I don’t even know where to start. And from the way he’s scowling at me, I’m not at all sure that he’s interested in hearing anything I have to say.
And I can’t blame him.
A hand shoots past me, holding a bottle of Gatorade. “They only had the red kind,” Marisol says.
“Thanks.” Alistair twists off the cap and takes a long drink while I gather the nerve to look over at Marisol. I’m surprised to see that she’s not alone—she’s with Jiya Malik.
Marisol’s staring at me, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”
“I … came to see if Alistair was all right.”
She snorts. “All of a sudden you care how he’s doing?”
“Mari,” Alistair says.
Before I can respond and tell her that I never stopped caring, Jiya slides on top of the picnic table beside Alistair. He gives her a small, private smile and reaches for her hand, and that’s when it hits me, full force.
I’ve been replaced.
There’s no going back.
Alistair has moved on.
I blink back the tears that are suddenly stinging my eyes.
“Okay, well,” I say, hoping they can’t hear the tremble in my voice. “Looks like you’re taken care of, so … maybe I’ll see you around.”
Ben’s my ride, but I’m not ready to face him yet, so I wander aimlessly through the night market, feeling miserable. Soon I find myself near the chain-link fence that marks the end of the market. A deep purple tent that I’ve never noticed before is tucked away in the corner. A sign is pinned to the front of the tent: YOUR FATE IS IN YOUR HANDS, written in cursive above a black-and-white illustration of an open hand.
I feel a magnetic pull toward the tent. The curtains are pulled back, revealing a fold-up table laid out with stacks of tarot cards, tall candles with pictures of saints, and a clay bowl filled with a variety of colorful rocks. There’s a diffuser in the corner, and the scent of patchouli cuts through the popcorn-and-fried-food smell of the night market.
The woman working in the booth smiles at me. She looks exactly like the type of strange, witchy person you’d expect to see selling stuff like this: long, wavy white hair, a row of colorful bangles on her arm, a flowy patchwork skirt. An orange butterfly barrette is clipped above her left ear, like it’s making a nest in her hair.