“Don’t call me that.”

He winks at me and I shoot him a death glare. Dean is the only person, other than my parents, to call me by my full name—Corabelle. I hate the name. Everyone calls me Cora. Dean knows this, of course, but he’s always found immense joy in tormenting me.

Our banter is interrupted by the birthday girl, who is currently bringing the phrase “white-girl-wasted” to remarkable levels. Mandy wraps her arms around both me and Dean, squeezing the three of us together in an awkward, smooshed hug.

“I looooove you. You’re my bestest friends. I’m marrying my bestest friend,” Mandy slurs, having inhaled at least a dozen Sex on the Beach shots at this point. She turns to me, her head falling against my shoulder. “And you, Cora. You are going to marry your bestest friend really, really soon.”

I push myself free of the embrace. The smell of Mandy’s overpriced perfume and Dean’s whiskey breath is making me want to hurl. “I’m never getting married, Mandy. Divorce just isn’t on my bucket list. Maybe in another life.”

I begin to turn away, but Mandy stops me. She pokes a French-tipped finger in the middle of my chest, and I flinch back, scratching at the tickle she leaves behind. “Marriage is sacred. Dean and I are never getting a divorce.”

Possibly true. Dean seems like the type who would be content staying married, while enjoying his side-chicks along the way. And Mandy is certainly the type to turn a blind eye. “A fairytale. Color me jealous.”

“Can you guys try to get along? Please?” Mandy begs, waving her hands around with an air of theatrics. There is an ounce of sincerity mingling with her intoxication.

I sigh, my eyes darting to Dean. He’s still smirking. I tap my fingers along the side of my glass as I pretend to consider Mandy’s plea. “I mean, I would… maybe, perhaps, but… how am I supposed to get over the ‘spider in the shoe’ incident? How does someone move on from something like that?”

Dean chuckles as he chugs down his beer, clearly amused with his antics. “That was gold. I’ll never apologize for it.”

“See?” I shove my glass at him, jutting out my pinky. “He’s uncooperative. I tried.”

Mandy smacks her fiancé in the chest. “Dean, stop being a dick to my baby sister.”

“What? She can hold her own.”

I glare at him, and our eyes hold for just a beat. “Well, he’s right about something.” Then I storm away, swallowing the last few sips of my crummy cocktail as I approach the bar. I slam the empty glass down and perch myself on a stool, eyeing the bartender. “Another one, please. Make it a double.”

I should have accepted the ride home.

It’s a little after one A.M., and I managed to find the most boring guy in the bar to get trapped in conversation with. My intoxication is dwindling, so now I’m just tired and crabby as my elbow presses against the bar counter with my head in my hand. I’m staring at the idiot to my left as he blathers on about being a lawyer, his cool car, and something about a reality TV show audition. Honestly, he lost me before he even opened his mouth. He smells like my passionfruit sugar scrub, and it’s really unsettling.