Snatched

“Kenley! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Bradley says, hugging me. I hug him back— Bradley is nice, but he’s sort of phony in some way I can’t quite put my finger on.

Almost too nice.

I’ve never told Mandy that I find him to be kind of a bore -- he makes my sister happy though, so what do I know? They’ve been unofficially dating for a month now; when Bradley and Mandy stand side by side, they look like an advertisement for the Hamptons or Cape Cod.

“I’ve been trying to convince her to come out to watch you guys,” Mandy says, scolding me a bit.

“I don’t wake up at five o’clock for anyone,” I answer, shaking my head at the both of them.

Looking around the room at the other revelers, I slowly withdraw from their conversation, without them seeming to notice. I can’t help it—I want to see if Finn is here.

It’s become a bit of a nagging obsession now, and I tell myself that this is not a problem. Everything’s still completely under control. I’m not dealing with anything more problematic than a minor case of lust for an objectively hot guy that I just so happen to be tutoring.

Am I still tutoring him, though? It’s hard to tell.

After scouting around a bit, I haven’t yet seen Finn, and decide my chances will be better at the bar, where he’s bound to end up eventually.

I wind up sitting at the bar, making small talk with the bartender while I nurse a cranberry juice and watch as football players and their beautiful guests talk, order drinks, make loud and boisterous toasts.

It’s getting to the point where I’m considering just leaving. Obviously he’s not around and this whole thing was a total waste of time—

And then I see him. Finn is here after all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse and my heart is racing because it’s him, and I feel happy and excited and furious all at once.

I turn and look straight at him now.

He’s not far away, exactly, but there’s no way he’ll see me— he’s in the middle of a dozen beautiful girls. They’re all long legs and highlighted hair and gorgeous contouring highlighter on their already perfect cheekbones.

I look good tonight, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked that good. They’re fawning over him, smiling and laughing, and the glimpses I catch of Finn between their spin-class-toned bodies make it clear that he’s lapping up their affection.

My stomach sinks and I’m surprised at the feeling of rejection that courses through me.

You forgot who you were dealing with, Kenley.

Finn made you feel like you were special, but you weren’t. He was buttering up his dorky tutor, and nothing more. And then, of course, he forgot about you, because look at him!

He’s a golden god and he’s surrounded by women that look like they stepped out of a “Girls of Harton University” calendar.

I know I should leave now, but I can’t quite force myself to do it. Instead, I turn back to the bartender. “Can I have a beer?” I ask, ignoring the surprised look on his face at my sudden demand for alcohol.

“Sure,” he says doubtfully and slides me a beer. I sip at it, pretending to be having fun, as I keep glancing back at Finn over and over again.

The drink is gone before I know it, and I order another one.

The buzz helps a little, and I feel pleasantly numb and a lot less destroyed by watching Finn with his hands all over other girls’ hips, touching their lower backs, whispering in their ears and making them laugh.

Then I order another drink, and feel even better—even more numb—like I’m simply watching an interesting movie now.

Then I get yet another drink, because the last one went so quick.

Which is a really terrible idea, because I’m a lightweight. By the time I realize I’ve overdone it, the liquor has set in big-time.

I somehow end up on the couch, focusing on not looking drunk with every fiber of my being.

Where the hell is Mandy? I remember she told me that she and Bradley might leave, but I have no idea if they actually have. I text her, but there’s no response, and my message was a garbled mess anyway— damn drunk fingers.

There’s a golf player sitting next to me, short and wiry, talking about…something. Something related to golf. Pars? Or clubs? I have no idea.

“Hey, I need to…uh…go to the restroom,” I say, grimacing at how slurred my speech is.

“Ok, I’ll wait here,” the guy says, smiling broadly. “I’ll get you another drink while you’re gone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, shaking my head.

“Hey, it’s early! Just one more— I don’t want to drink alone,” he says, the rises just as I do. I smile weakly, then hobble on shaky feet toward the bathroom.