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“You're my best friend, Peter.”
Even in the near darkness, I saw his eyebrows shoot to his hairline.
“I don't mean in a friendship bracelet, note passing, write love letters in the back of our yearbook kinda way,” I blushed, tugging at my hair. “I guess...what is a best friend anyway? To me it's someone that has your back, who lifts you up, who you can count on when stuff is sunshine and awesome and will binge on pizza and beer with you when things are crappy.” I didn't run away from his gaze this time, because I saw nothing but openness in his eyes. The same kindness that shined like a light at the end of the tunnel when I started at The Dish and I learned that talent meant very little without opportunity. When I was feeling so lonely and unsure of myself that I was wondering if my mother was right about going the safe route, doing something practical instead of chasing my passion.
“You probably don't remember that first staff meeting,” I began, pulling out a seat on the balcony. I only had a few inches to squeeze into it. I managed to slip in the crack and drop onto the seat without embarrassing myself. Watching him squeeze his long, lean frame in a slot that was barely big enough for a small child made me chuckle, and when he fired me a playful glare I just grinned and continued. “I walked in that room with my chest puffed out, naively thinking that every positive comment my English and journalism professors scrawled in the margins of my papers had prepared me for the real world. A world where my boss wouldn't give two shits about my talent. Where my boss wouldn't give two shits about me.”
With anyone else, I wouldn't dare let my bitterness, my vulnerability shine through. I could count my friends in LA on one hand, with a few fingers to spare. When I complained about my disappointments with my job, Lindsay would listen with a look on her face, like I was ungrateful. I had a feeling it was because she, and a whole lot of other people in this town, had to work crap jobs so they could even dare to shoot for their dream job. Peter got it...he wanted to branch away from entertainment news altogether. And D...
My stomach balled into a painful knot. Well, all I knew about D was that he made me feel wild and seen and sexy in a way that was addicting and powerful. Considering we'd only met because of my lie, and we hadn't had a conversation about anything outside of moaning and safewords, I had a feeling that he'd just nod, half listening, but not really getting it. Or worse, he'd offer to wave his magical wand, pull some strings, and give me some elite career on a silver platter.
I peered at Peter, knowing that things would be so much easier if I did have feelings for him, but knowing that's not how things worked. I had a bad habit of letting my heart, and other parts of me, lead me in directions that ended disastrously.
I picked my story back up, pulling us back to the first time we met. “I gave my spiel, my story idea, smiling like I was waiting for applause and what I got was my boss full on laughing at me like I'd just finished my comedy routine.” Anger raged in my chest at the memory and Peter's lips curved in a snarl of his own. I snagged his cup and brought it to my mouth, nearly finishing it off until I realized I didn't need alcohol to get through this. “You were there for me, Peter. There for me when I had no one. And then you helped me at the meeting-”
“Tried to help you,” he corrected, reclaiming his cup with a smirk.
“Yeah, whatever,” I rolled my eyes with faux annoyance. I dropped my hands in my lap, flexing and unflexing my fingers, almost rolling my neck like I was stretching right before I was about to attempt some feat. And now, ladies and gentlemen, Sophia Slade will follow up her praise of her best friend's awesomeness by stomping on his affections!
“When you tried to kiss me the other night, I was flattered-” I scowled at my word usage. I was a writer, I knew better. And he deserved better than some flowery crap engineered to not hurt his feelings, instead of do right by him and myself. “I just don't feel the same. That's why I didn't kiss you back and I've been acting like a weirdo. How do you tell someone that you care about that you care about them, but not like that?”
It was a rhetorical question, so the silence that followed it was expected. His response, however, wasn’t.
“You just did.”
Only three words from him and they packed a punch that went right to my chest. His head was bowed, his own hands visible, and clenched into fists. Maybe my fear and self consciousness made me paranoid, but I couldn't help but worry that he was about to do something crazy. Like jump from the balcony.
He didn't, snapping to his feet, nearly sending the flimsy table airborne. I lurched backward, nearly slamming into the open door. In a blink he was right there, holding the back of my chair so I didn’t fall. The look in his eyes was so empty, so void of anything that looked like Peter that I shivered.
He lifted my chair, the shudder as I sat upright blasting a hole right through me. When he spoke, it was the same tone he used with Perri.
“Check your email. I set up a lunch meeting with the chef dude for tomorrow. Feel free to show up.”
I followed after him, but I couldn’t keep up because he plowed through the living room like he was on the football field - and he could care less who was in between him and victory, or in our case, the exit.
I stood there pathetically, still holding the Dixie cup and the emotions that were taking me over at bay. The music was just loud enough that I couldn't think and the people who surrounded me were doing enough dancing that I danced by default, jostled until I just rocked from side to side. When my shoulder was nudged once, I let it slide, still swaying back and forth with my eyes closed, hoping they'd get the hint and move on to someone else. Clearly, they didn't care that I was currently just trying to be like everyone else, dance and pretend like nothing else mattered but the music that pulsed from the speakers. It drowned out the fear that I’d not only ruined my friendship with Peter, but was well on my way to ruining my career that had barely begun because escape was more important. Falling for some guy who'd only given me a letter to go by and probably would go to great lengths to ruin me when he realized who I was. Just let me dance. Let me go to a place that's far away from all this drama.
The nudge became a pinch and I whirled in the direction of the person who clearly didn't get the message the first time. Lindsay was standing there, shining as brightly as a kaleidoscope with her wild hair tucked beneath a floral scarf and her tiny frame wrapped in a highlighter yellow body con dress with fire engine red stilettos. There was nothing bright and cheery about her expression as she gave me a once over and gripped my hand, pulling me back to the scene of the crime. The music spilled onto the balcony, but her words came through loud and clear.
“You told him.”
I knew she was just trying to be a good friend, but the wound was still raw. Talking about this wouldn't change anything and if I had a choice between recapping the way Peter had changed before my very eyes or dancing until my feet screamed and my memory was dulled by sangria, guess which option I was picking?
“Can we talk about this later?” I pleaded. In fact, I turned back toward the door. “I've got to head to work soon and I think strutting into the club with red eyes and sucking back snot won't be sexy at all.”
Lindsay didn't budge, but her voice stopped me in my tracks. “Nice try, but I'm not going to let you do that. I'm not gonna let you be me.”
That made me angle back to her, my brow scrunched in confusion. “What?” I squinted, searching her face for the glazed look that meant she was buzzing and clearly talking out of her butt. “How much have you had to drink?”
She perched her hands on her hips. “I work in a strip club, Soph. You think I don't know how to hold my liquor?”
Good point. It still didn't explain the 'like me' comment.
She nodded like she'd read my mind. “I guess I should explain, huh?” She gripped the rail and inhaled deep. When she exhaled, she smiled like she could still feel the city in her lungs. I knew that she didn't care that we lived in a shoebox and didn't have a view or any of the things I focused on. To her, she could see the lights in the distance, a future filled with jet setting and couture gowns and stories about the tiny apartment she used to live in and how every rotation on that pole pushed her closer to her big break.
“You know how I feel about life. I live it out loud, with little to no concern about who I piss off and the bridges that I burn because of the choices I make.” She drummed her nails on the railing. “With all these people here, you'd think I had countless friends. 90% of the people in there? I'd be lucky if I could remember their first names. I surround myself with people because it makes me feel less alone. Because when it's quiet and I'm by myself, when the music stops playing and the dancing stops, I have to listen to the voice in my head that's my own worst enemy. And then I start wondering if I made a terrible mistake moving to the city, and what if I just become another actress with a dream that never comes true? So I close my eyes, and I dance so hard that nothing else matters.” She cast her dark eyes at me. “That's not you. Connection matters to you. Peter matters to you-”
“But not in a way that matters to him,” I interrupted. “I was honest with him and I just don't see him that way-”
