So, Harley knows I was lying when I told him I didn’t remember what happened last night? So what. I’m sure he can understand my need to avoid any further awkwardness. But from the look in his eye when I ditched him to play pool, I know for a fact he wants to talk about it. And if I think I’m going to get through the rest of this night avoiding him, then I’m just as stupid as I often think I might be. We’re staying in the same room, for Christ’s sake. I force myself out of the shower, doing what I can with my face and hair, opting for minimal makeup and a messy bun before coming out to the bedroom. I release a breath of relief to find the room empty, and I hurry to find my clothes for tonight.

I’m dressed and ready to go in just a few minutes, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door, my own eyes full of judgment as they rake over me from head to toe. Wearing a pair of sensible espadrille sandals I know I won’t fall over in, I’ve paired them with a tight black tube skirt I’d never normally wear, pulling at the slinky material as it clings to my hips and thighs. Teamed with a blue jean shirt tied at the waist and a pair of clear-rimmed glasses, I begin zeroing in on every single part of my body I hate. With my hands on my hips, my fingers tapping in time to an imaginary beat, I sigh in defeat because I know it’s not going to get any better.

Like most women, I wish I was a little taller, maybe thinner around the bottom half, and I’d love for my B cup to miraculously turn into a C overnight. I can’t help but think if maybe I was all those things, maybe Harley wouldn’t have turned me down last night. Maybe he wouldn’t have run out on me as if his life depended on it. But, I know I am the way I am, and things aren’t going to get any better, so I resolve to accept myself with a final shrug of resignation. Thankfully I’m saved from my own scrutiny by the sound of my name being called from downstairs, and I quickly touch up my red lipstick before hurrying out.

Downstairs, the guys are gathered by the front door, all drunk, all rowdy, and all completely oblivious to my arrival. All except one. I do everything I can to avoid his gaze from across the group, but it’s no use, and I can feel him approach even as I stare down at the floor.

“You look good,” Nash says, his voice oddly quiet as he lingers close by.

Biting hard on the inside of my cheek in an attempt at stifling the shudder threatening my composure, I force a tight smile onto my lips as I glance up at him, pushing my glasses up my nose. He’s dressed in a slightly wrinkled button-down and a black neck tie loosely tied into a sorry excuse for an Oxford knot, his hair disheveled, complementing his untucked shirt and rolled-up sleeves, and I must say, the old me would’ve almost gone weak at the knees at the sheer sight of him. But now, he’s far too close for my liking. I can smell the liquor on his breath, and the way his left eyelid droops. Yes, he’s drunk. Of course he is. It’s his bachelor party. But he’s also nothing like my best friend of fifteen years. This Nash, the same one who had his hand resting inappropriately close to my butt is different. I’m not sure I like him so much.