“Wait,” Anna speaks up, laughing to herself. “You two are together?” she shrieks in absolute joy. I look at her, my smile faltering at her reaction, and it takes all I have not to tell her to shut the hell up as she cuddles up to Nash, clutching a hand to her heaving chest. “That is so adorable!”

My teeth grit together and I try so hard to return her smile, but she really is impossible not to outwardly cringe at.

“So, Wait. I-Is this— is this actually a thing?” Nash asks, looking between Harley and me, his smile a little forced if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

I grasp Harley’s hand so hard, squeezing it a little too tight as if he’s my only lifeline, and I pray he’ll just go along with whatever it is I’m doing. I don’t even know what that is, but I hope like hell he’ll just play along. I look up at him with an imploring gaze full of desperation and he meets my eyes momentarily, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat. “Uh—” A sound similar to that of a strangled laugh comes out of him, and he shakes his head before looking at Nash. “Y-yeah.” He presses his lips together in the semblance of a smile, this time offering me an unexpectedly doting glance so unlike him it almost makes me laugh out loud.

Good job, Harley.

“We’re … t-together,” he says, clearing his throat a little at the end as if his own words leave a bad taste in his mouth. “We’re together,” he says again with a little more conviction.

“So cute.” Anna smiles, flashing me a wink I’m assuming is her way of telling me she thinks she and I are kindred spirits of some sort. We’re not. At all.

“Huh,” Nash muses out loud, looking at the two of us with the hint of a confused smile lingering on his lips, one that reflects the bewilderment in his eyes. He seems to be considering something, studying us, and I try so hard to look happier than I’ve ever been while holding Harley’s arm tight to stop my buckling knees from bringing me crashing to the floor. Thankfully, before any more can be said—before I can think of some other elaborate lie to announce out of the blue—a waiter arrives at our table with a tray of canapés, and everyone finds their designated seats.

As I take my seat beside Harley, I can feel a thousand questions radiating from him as he offers me a sideways glance full of trepidation. And the whole time I can feel Nash’s eyes watching me too, assessing me from across the table. But I ignore them both. Instead, I pretend to be oblivious, busying myself with pouring a glass of wine from the carafe in the middle of the table. I’ve never been more desperate for a drink before in all my life. I need to get drunk. Because at least if I can get drunk enough, I can blame the alcohol for my night of unfathomable decisions.