Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

“Come get your shot, Bux!”

“No, thanks,” I said—yelled, rather, giving a wave to Campbell from my spot in the corner as the party started getting crowded. “I’m good!”

“You’re not good until we say you’re good!” She picked up the four shot glasses from the kitchen island in front of her, held them over her head, and made her way toward me with my other two roommates following behind her.

It was a tradition, on house-party nights, for the four of us to share a shot together before things got crazy.

My roommates were as follows: Campbell, a sophomore soccer player who was stunningly beautiful and could also drink anyone—man, woman, or frat boy—under the table; Clark, a senior who was as good at rugby as he was at knitting, and Leonardo, a charming Italian biology major whose parents were loaded, hence the luxury right-across-from-campus apartment we were renting from them for next to nothing.

So basically it was me—someone who only socialized when forced—and three engaging humans who lived to entertain. I’d never been into partying—too loud, too crowded, too boozy—but after I told them that, my amazing roommates created a role that managed to turn me into a party fiend.

I was the DJ. At every party we ever had.

Leo built a raised workstation in the corner of the living room, so I could see everything from my platform, but I was out of the way so people didn’t really notice me unless they were trying.

I spent the days before a party curating the perfect party playlist, timing out the songs to match the tone of a party’s chronology: chill music when people were mingling at the beginning, a mix of everything people liked to sing along and dance to when they started getting rowdy, and then I brought out all the bangers (Clark’s word choice, not mine) for when things were roaring.

There was nothing quite like the rush of seeing it work, of seeing everyone shout-singing to my musical selections. I was obsessed with it, obsessed to the point that I’d become quite the little party planner just to witness it all go down, over and over again.

Last year we had one big(ish) party each quarter, all with themes: the Oh, Shit—We’re Back Bash (tonight was version 2.0), the Christmas Slay, the Anti–Valentine’s Day Party, and the School’s Out for the Summer, so Everyone Kiss Extravaganza.

Leo, being Leo, invited all our neighbors (most of whom were grown-ass successful adults) and also gave them his phone number so they could reach him if the party got too loud. I thought he was insane the first time, but they loved him for it and we had trouble-free parties.

Before my made-up role of DJ came to pass, whenever I was forced to go to a party, I’d just stand beside whomever I came with and wait for fun to happen, which, spoiler—it didn’t. As someone not looking for romance, not a big drinker, and not incredibly fond of conversation with strangers, “fun” wasn’t synonymous with a college party for me.

But not anymore. Because now I was able to enjoy my favorite parts without dreading the rest. I got to do the whole cute outfit/good makeup thing, which was the best part of going to a party (that night I’d found the perfect black-and-white dotted dress to go with my red Chucks). I was able to be excited for an event and have fun with my friends, yet I got to watch from afar while being invisible and doing music.

And it helped that my roommates were stingy with their invites. Campbell’s tickets usually went to soccer players and their significant others, Leo mostly invited scientists and a smattering of beautiful girls, Clark’s went to baseball friends and rugby players (who were hard-core but surprisingly sweet), and mine usually went to random athletes (that I knew) who asked me for tickets while I was working.

Bottom line—there weren’t many strangers at our parties, which made them feel safe.

“Here,” Campbell said, handing me a shot of vodka as Clark and Leo grabbed theirs.

“What’s the toast tonight, kiddos?” Clark said, his loud voice hard to hear over the noise as he held up his shot. His hair was in a high ponytail, which looked both ridiculous and amazing on him, somehow.

“Work hard, play hard, stay hard,” Leo said, raising his glass to Clark’s, ruining the obnoxiousness of the toast by giggling his adorable high-pitched laugh.

“To working hard,” Campbell said, rolling her eyes and joining the toast.

“To all the hardness,” I yelled as we clinked and tossed back our shots. I glanced toward the door as it opened and more people came in, then said, “Now leave me alone. DJ Lizzie needs to work.”

Wade Brooks walked in as my roommates dispersed, wearing that stupid fedora that I’d told him no less than ten times made him look like a douche. I’d given him my last few tickets—he and his friends were always fun—and I was glad I did when I saw Mick follow him in. I met them last year, and they loved to party, but the baseball guys never got handsy or turned creepy when drunk, which I very much appreciated.

Bonus points for being better than a large portion of the general male population.

I took a drink of my Captain Morgan and Coke as a couple more guys came in behind them, a short blond and a tall—

Oh my God.

Oh my God!

I gasped, coughing on my drink as my hand clutched my chest. I squinted and stared, unable to believe my eyes as I tried to get a better look. Everything in my body—my breath, my heart, the movement of the blood in my veins—came to a complete and total stop. I was paralyzed, entirely frozen, as I watched him laugh at something the blond guy said.

Dear God, it was Wes.

Wes Bennett was in my apartment.

I was instantly lightheaded as I tried to process his presence, the power of Wes-in-the-flesh overwhelming after two years of watered-down, diluted memories.

I think I’m going to faint.

This was impossible. How was he there? Why was he there? Was he visiting someone?

This can’t be happening. My stomach felt like a huge knot, a huge knot that was surrounded by a plague of wing-flapping moths, as I watched Wes Bennett enter my living room.

Dear God, Wes is in my house.

I took a deep breath and tried my hardest to remain calm, to not feel like I was about to pass out or throw up, but my heart was beating too fast. He was grinning and talking to Wade and the blond—his smile is exactly the same—and I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.

I might be having a heart attack.

I’d forgotten how tall he was—maybe I hadn’t—but he looked even bigger now. His shoulders had expanded and his chest looked wide under his Cubs T-shirt, like he was the professional version of the recreational boy I’d once known.

His face looked harder, like he’d lost all the excess and was whittled down into only sharp angles and dark eyes, and the neck I’d always been distracted by looked somehow more intriguing.

Could a neck be muscular?

God, how is he still so beautiful?

He threw his head back and laughed, and even though I couldn’t hear it over the noise, I knew exactly what it sounded like.

A laugh I’d recognize anywhere.

God, I hated him for looking that good.

He wasn’t allowed to look that good.

They headed toward the kitchen, probably looking for beer, and I tried to take a deep breath and get a grip.

But it was impossible when, unbidden, so freaking unwelcome, the memory of the last time I’d spoken to him came at me.

New Year’s Day, two years ago.

I showed up at his house with questions, positive the rumor couldn’t be true.

And then he’d looked me in the eye and told me that it was.

Why is he here now, after all this time?

Does he even know this is my house?

I lifted my glass and gulped down the last of my drink, very aware of the way my hands were shaking. I wanted to run and hide, yet at the very same time I felt like screaming his name just to see his reaction.

I needed to get a grip.

I needed to calm down.

I needed air.