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Cassie sends her brother a mental message I can't explain. Is ityou should also go for it. Ordon't even think about it.
No.
I don't have time to consider it. Zack starts a game of Never Have I Ever. It's all aimed at taking down the grooms.
Never Have I Ever fallen for a cute Japanese guy.
Never Have I Ever told my parents I met my fiancé at the library when I met him on Tinder.
Never Have I Ever felt the sort of love that inspires people to write sonnets.
He and Laurel are surprisingly romantic about the whole thing.
By the time it's almost my turn, we're at Freemont, and everyone is sipping bad, cheap champagne.
I raise my glass to toast to love, down the terrible sparkling wine in two gulps, and follow the crew out of the limo.
Big parties aren't my scene. Any parties, really. I prefer one-on-one. But there's a certain anonymity to a crowd.
With an instigator like Zack leading the charge, I can easily fade into the background. I can easily check out and think about other things.
Like when I'll be alone with Jackson.
With the sun down, the air is cooler. The vibe downtown is the same, really. There's an old-school grime that feels both authentic and fake.
Here, the tackiness is on purpose. Here, the tacky light shows and big neon signs are symbols of the Las Vegas that once stood for sleaze, not an attempt to look classy.
There's a giant LED dome with a light show set to The Doors. People zip line between souvenir carts. Instead of walking around with plastic Eiffel Towers or Empire State Buildings, they sip their slushees from plain cups.
Yes, everything still smells like smoke and sweat and stale air, but it's honest about it.
Disneyland for people who think dirty martinis are a clever order at the bar. Only cheap.
After half an hour of taking in the atmosphere, we head to a popular club, one in the back of a casino.
Half is inside, half is outside, all of it is rainbow string lights, potted palm trees, cheap liquor, and excess.
No one is here to show off their designer outfits.
Everyone is here to drink and dance the night away. People sip punch and beer from red Solo cups, slam shots at the bar, laugh as they pour cheap sparkling wine into plastic champagne flutes.
We don't go straight to the bar.
Instead, we dance.
Zack does, in fact, dance with Kenji, and Laurel with Nathan, and the rest I don't see. Because Jackson offers his hand, and then I can only see him.
And when he pulls me closer, I can only feel him.
His hard, warm body against mine. The scent of his citrus shampoo.
He holds me there for a moment, then he releases me, and we move toward the dance floor. Not that it's a specific floor. More a section of the concrete outside. And people aren't dancing really. They're throbbing in time with the music, bopping their head, or swaying or grinding.
There's no control or form or grace.
Only the pure sensation of music and movement.
"Do you know how to do anything but waltz?" I whisper-yell in his ear.
