I'm in my best eighties Madonna getup—fishnet wrist warmers, heeled boots, a tight pink dress. It's not exactly 80s, but it's close. "Thanks."
"You want to dance?"
"Sure."
He slides his arms around my waist.
I let him lead. I let my eyelids fall together. I let my thoughts drift around the room. Then out of it. Then all the way over to the Westside, to Walker's apartment, and the way he looked at me like he wasn't sure if he loved me or hated me.
The song shifts to Take My Breath Away.
Eighties guy's hands slide over my hips. He pulls me closer. Like we're high schoolers at a dance.
I try to find the joy in it. He's a good dancer, this is an awesome song, a cute guy wants my body against his.
He's warm and tall and breathing.
A distraction.
Something that will erase Walker from my thoughts for a solid three minutes. Or maybe even ten. I shouldn't underestimate Eighties Guy.
I look up at him. He's plenty cute. And he's decked in that silly outfit. He must be game for anything.
But it wouldn't matter if he was Kit Harrington.
He's not Walker.
So he's not interesting.
I finish the song, excuse myself, dance in the corner by myself. Leighton is somewhere. I think that's her lilac hair. I think she's still with Eighties Guy's friend.
Hazel eyes catch mine. A broad guy looks me up and down. He offers his hand.
I nod. Find the beat of Sweet Dreams as his hands find my hips.
My eyelids flutter together.
I soak in the sad song. It's perfect. Miserable. Like everything in my head.
The guy—I don't know anything about him besides that he's not Walker—pulls me closer.
He leans in to whisper in my ear. "What's your name, baby?"
"It doesn't matter."
He laughs. Moves his hand to my lower back. Just over the top of my
ass.
I close my eyes.
Move my hips in time with the music.
With his.
But he's too close.
His hands are too much. They're going too low.