Amy might be trying to murder me. Between the blood draining from my head and the words I’m trying to come up with, my heart can’t keep up. I can feel my pulse in my throat, the tips of my fingers, lower.

“Sit down,” she says.

“I’m underdressed.” I look down at my black T-shirt. The fanciest thing about my outfit is my cuffed jeans. Her eyes do a slow, circuitous route down my body before she meets my gaze again.

“You look good to me.” She has to shout the words over the music and the crowd, but she has a way of saying it like it’s just for me. Like no one else could even hear her.

How am I supposed to pretend to be casual now?

“Sit,” she says again. I do and she hooks her boot around the leg of my chair and pulls it closer to her. I close my eyes for just one deep breath. Get it together, Hollywood.

She throws her arm around me. “Everyone, this is Hollywood.”

“Sophie,” I say. Corrine waves across the table. She’s the only other one not covered in glitter or something bright. Her red lips are the only pop of color on the black silhouette of her outfit. She looks like she came straight from work.

“It’s nice to see you again,” she says.

Wes reaches over the collection of half-full pint glasses to offer his fist for a bump. “Hey, Sophie.”

The others go around introducing themselves. There are so many of them, I know I’ll forget half their names by the end of the night. The other half, I can’t hear over the cacophony in the room. People shout and squeal and sing along to music that I don’t recognize but that sounds cool and hip nonetheless.

“I’m Jeremy.” The tall man who had been waving from his chair reaches across the table to shake my hand. Someone has painted a Pride flag onto his cheek and it crinkles into his deep dimple.

“Jeremy?” The Jeremy she experimented kissing boys with?

He looks between Amy and I. “Has she told you all about me?” He looks exceptionally pleased with himself.

“I might have mentioned you once or twice,” she assures him. They launch into an argument over who is Amy’s best friend, him or Wes—Wes, it’s obviously Wes—but I’m too distracted by Amy’s hand, curling the ends of my hair between her fingers, to pay much attention.

I glance over at her again and again and she responds with a gentle tug at my hair or a squeeze of my shoulder. Eventually, the conversation moves down the table and she turns to me.

“Do you want something to drink?” She leans in closer than necessary, to whisper in my ear. I shudder, closing my eyes. Her voice travels through my body like an electric current. I thought I’d like to have a celebratory glass of champagne tonight, maybe a cocktail, but now I think I need every single one of my wits about me.