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When we reach Bruce's, there's a line to get in. It goes quickly as Matt and I rehash all the costumes we've worn over the years. Most of them are lame. Like the time he was an astronaut and I was a basketball player. Kyle keeps his arm wrapped securely around my waist, but I can tell his head is somewhere else. He's staring straight ahead, chewing on his pink, lush lip.
Once we're inside, I ask Kyle if there's something bothering him. But he just shakes his head and tells me he needs a drink. He leaves me with Matt and makes his way over to the drink station.
Bruce's is decked out in strobe lighting and black fabric draped tables and a fog machine cranking out white steam. Music drifts through the space as people in costumes congregate in corners and booths. There's a makeshift dance floor in the middle, the tables cleared out of the way to let people grind and shake and unwind.
Matt and I catch up with a few people from high school before grabbing a corner booth. I search for Kyle, but don't see him anywhere. I don't know where he's wandered off to. And there's this coiled, twisted feeling in my gut, making me nauseous as I twirl my hair with my fingers worriedly.
"What's wrong, Jen?" Matt asks.
I glance over at him, his hazelnut eyes filled with concern. "I think Kyle's mad at me."
He waves a hand through the air. "He's just grumpy. I'm sure he'll be fine once he gets some beer in him."
"Yeah," I shake my head, my throat dry. "I hope so."
Matt takes off his ridiculous black hat and wig. He runs a hand through his mussed tawny hair, a few strands fall across his forehead.
"Quit staring at me, Jen," Matt smirks.
I can't help it. I haven't looked at him—really looked at him—in months. There are permanent dark circles under his brown eyes now and he doesn't smile as easily as he used to. He looks stressed and tired and worn out. He looks exactly how I feel.
"Sorry," I murmur as my eyes drift down to the worn wood table, embarrassed. I hope he doesn't get the wrong idea.
"Do you want to dance?" he asks.
I look over to the crowded dance floor, see the faces of townspeople and tourists and our old classmates enjoying themselves.
"Sure."
We make our way through the throngs of people. Matt's hand finds mine as he twirls me in a circle the moment we step onto the dance floor. I throw my head back and laugh, surprised and relieved to have a few minutes of fun.
God, when was the last time I had fun?
I can't even remember.
I just know it's been a while.
I've been knee deep in schoolwork and working at the coffee shop and cleaning the apartment and spending Saturdays with Diane and trying to keep myself from the black hole of despair that's always threatening to swallow me whole.
I don't have much time for fun anymore.
As I look at my goofy best friend, shaking his hips to Shakira, I remember all the fun we used to have.
So, I let him twirl me in my thigh-length cop dress, my handcuffs slapping his side with each spin. We laugh as he dips me, makes me twirl him and do the Macarena when the song comes on. He does the sprinkler, the lawnmower and fails miserably at the worm while I jump and scream along to the song lyrics and throw my hands in the air.
It feels good to let loose. To enjoy myself. To not think about all the responsibilities I have piling up like dirty laundry.
By the time I'm sweaty and out of breath and my voice is hoarse, a slow song comes on. I make a move to leave the dance floor, but Matt grabs my hand.
"I'll keep my hands in safe zones," he promises.
I hesitate for a moment before I give in to his puppy dog eyes begging me to slow dance with him.
He keeps his hands on my waist as my arms loop loosely around his shoulders. He sways us back and forth, making sure our bodies don't touch in those areas.
When I finally meet his eyes, I see the defeat and sadness and weariness coursing through them.
"How are you holding up?" I ask.
