Chapter Eighty-Three

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The mingled, inharmonious sounds of over-enthusiastic claps, whistles, and general cheers burst throughout the reserved hall, signaling the end of the latest "dance to it" song by the sketchy looking band on stage. I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes for the fifth time since we walked through the doors.

Cheap, festive decor drape the walls and stage, and brown and orange tapestry lace the long table behind me. The floor is covered with a mix of red, orange, and brown leaves, and there are some sort of triangular hay structures—whose purpose completely eludes me—that are randomly set up throughout the area. Carved pumpkins of varying sizes are dispersed all over, some with lit candles inside them, adding a deeper, warmer glow to the sharp indoor lighting. Unfortunately, they do absolutely nothing to help remedy the fact that I'm pretty much freezing my ass off in here. It's less than ten degrees outside and apparently the damn heater is broken.

Just fucking perfect.

Drake and I have only been here twenty minutes and I already want to disappear into thin air. Hell, I want to gouge my rolling eyes out and intentionally destroy my eardrums if it would mean not having to see and hear this painful hot mess called a Thanksgiving dance play out in front of me. That's probably the only thing I'd be thankful for at this point.

So much for this year being 'the best one yet'.

They've even dubbed it "The University's Holiday Formal" this time around to give it more legitimacy.

Yeah, right. More like "Holiday Horror: The Winter Formal where human gratitude comes to die every year".

I stay on the sidelines, my feet firmly planted in a corner as far away from the dancefloor as humanly possible while I continue to look around the large open room. My eyes search for some sort of solace, some saving grace that can justify why I came to this shit fest in the first place. I don't know what it is about these formals. They just never sit well with me. But I agreed to come so I'm just going to have to suck it up and pretend to have a good time for Drake's sake. The last thing I want is to make him feel bad for being thoughtful and bringing me out to have some fun.

Speaking of the devil—er, angel—himself, he walks up to me with two red cups and hands one to me.

"They just ran out of punch so I got us some eggnog," he says.

My expression turns incredulous as I take the plastic cup from him.

"Eggnog? Isn't it a little early for that?"

He shrugs playfully in that laidback, carefree way he always does. "Never hurts to get an early start when alcohol's involved," he jokes.

I just smile and shake my head. "Thank you," I say, holding up my cup to my lips.

"Wait, hold on," he says, putting out his hand in a halting gesture before I can take a sip. "You're not going to drink without 'clinking' first, are you?"

"Drake, these cups are plastic. They don't have the ability to 'clink'," I tease with a playful grin, raising my eyebrow for sarcastic effect.

He cocks his head to the side, as if he's trying to take a better look at me. His smile parts his lips, showing off his great teeth. "Didn't realize you were such a smartass, Roni," he says, his eyes turning slightly mischievous, their whiskey hue glinting in a playful way. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was being flirty. But, thankfully, I do know better.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Didn't realize you were such a potty mouth, Drake," I shoot back playfully. I'm only partially joking, though. Of course, I've heard much worse than "smartass" before. Hell, I've said worse. I don't even consider the word "smartass" to fall under adult language by any means. I don't consider him a saint by any standards. I've heard things and I know his reputation, but in all the time I've known Drake, I've never ever heard him use any words around me that are considered even mildly risque. This is definitely a first.

This time, he's the one shaking his head slowly, as if he wants to give me one hell of a comeback but chooses not to.

Instead, he gently hits his cup against mine before raising it and saying, "To the smartass and the potty mouth having a good night."

I immediately find myself chuckling at his "toast", but it's just as endearing as it is funny. "To the smartass and the potty mouth," I concur with a nod, raising my cup in a show of agreement before taking a large gulp.

Which, I realize too late, is a huge mistake.

"Oh, my God!" I groan, feeling the corrosive burn in my throat as the viscous beverage slides down my insides, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "Drake, this isn't eggnog," I complain, holding up my cup to him incredulously, my face distorting itself in discomfort. "This is Satan's piss!"

I know it's been a while since I've had alcohol and therefore my tolerance for adult beverages is probably shot to hell, but this right here is way too strong. I even end up coughing a few times—okay, more than few times—which only evokes a stream of amused laughs from Drake.

Another round of music blares throughout the hall as the band starts playing yet another "dance to it" song.

"You not joining in?" he says with a teasing grin, gesturing towards the swarm of moving bodies on the dancefloor with a slight nod of his head.

I arch my brow curiously, sporting a small smile of my own. "Aren't you, Mr. Life of the Party?"

He shrugs playfully. "I would, but I'd probably get indicted for being the most uncoordinated dancer in all of history," he jokes, and I laugh right along with him.

I place my hands on my hips, looking him up and down incredulously. "You're bullshitting me," I say, not believing his funny, self-deprecating words.

"Cross my heart," he says dramatically, bucking his chest and making an invisible 'X' on it with his index finger for emphasis. He moves in closer as the music gets louder and it becomes harder to speak-slash-hear each other over the ruckus. "Look, I know this may be hard for you to believe, you know, seeing that I have the divine body of a ballet dancer and all," he continues, his hands gesturing towards his body in the most hilarious way, "but I swear, I can't dance for shit, Roni. I move like Mick Jagger on my best day. And I don't mean his 'sexy bedroom' moves."

Another burst of laughter erupts from between my lips at that admission, and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth from laughing out loud like a lunatic, even though no one but Drake would hear me over the loud music. I'm not even sure which is more hilarious; the fact that he just admitted he's a terrible dancer, or the fact that he simultaneously referred to himself sexually in the process.

When I'm finally able to speak again without chuckling after every single word, I say, "Am I hearing correctly? Perfectly perfect Mr. Drake Fitzpatrick isn't good at something? That he actually has a shortcoming? Are you saying you're just like the rest of us regular humans, after all?" I end with an exaggerated gasp, feigning surprise and shock, and the playful smile tugging at my lips refuses to go away.

It's kind of strange; being this close to him and seeing this different side of him for the first time. Not as my best friend's brother, or as a pseudo-sibling. Just as a man. A walking, living, breathing man who has faults and fears and dreams just like everyone else. I mean, of course I already knew all that, but only in theory if I'm being honest. Seeing and witnessing it firsthand is an entirely different thing. As close as I am with Trixie, this is probably the first real bonding experience I've had with Drake.

He just smiles as he looks at me for a moment, his whiskey eyes seeming brighter in the indoor lighting, both caring and warm but also...something else. Something edgier.

"I'm not perfect, Roni," he says, his goofy smile fading, his expression sobering. "Far from it."

His words are unexpected, and they kind of catch me off guard. Well, it's not so much the words themselves but also the way he says them; the way his expression and even his voice change. I'm not sure what to make of it.

Just then, a tall, leggy brunette walks up to us - well, more so to Drake, her eyes and attention completely on him.

As soon as she closes in on him—and boy do I mean close in on him—she places a palm on his chest, completely ignoring me. Or maybe she just doesn't notice I'm there. But then that theory goes right out the window when her eyes shoot to mine for just a split second, unspoken venom oozing from their bright green orbs as I feel her size me up.

Sigh.

Not this again.

Her eyes dart back to him as she goes right back to ignoring the hell out of me, pretty much pretending I don't exist.

"Hey, stranger," she coos with a flirty smile, right before she leans in to kiss him on his cheek, letting her lips linger on him. The action is clearly intentional, almost possessive and territorial, and it's beyond obvious that she has some kind of history with him. I'm just not at all interested in sticking around to find out what that is, nor do I want to give her the wrong idea about my relationship with Drake or cause any misunderstandings. I just hate confrontations, especially when they're perfectly avoidable. Plus, the whole situation just feels kind of awkward. Scratch that. It feels really awkward. And I need to excuse myself from said awkward scene pronto.

"I'm gonna go grab some chips and dip," I quickly say to him, gesturing towards the large table in the back. I don't really give him time to respond, my feet hastily moving away from the duo as soon as I get the words out.

Just as I near the table, I spot Bill on the other end of it. His eyes meet mine as soon as I do. I offer a small wave and smile as he makes his way over...right before I see Gina doing the same.

Oh, fuck me.

From frying pan right into the open flame.

So much for escaping one awkward situation.

This is going to be beyond awkward.

***

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