Page 2 of Hot Girl Summer

“I’ll bring those over,” Luke says, cocking his head towards the tray of drinks.

Anxiety rises in my chest. I learned the hard way never to leave my drink unattended, and the thought of the tray sitting idly on the bar fills me with dread.

“I’m good,” I say, gripping the sides of the circular tray and eyeing the crowd of Luke’s adoring eighteen-year-old fans waiting to be served. “You have customers.”

I wink in jest, and turn on my heel to leave.

With the tray balanced in both hands, I expertly manoeuvre through the dark interior of the large, Edwardian building, past mirrors and bricks and crowds of young professionals and budding entrepreneurs, swerving large, black Chesterfield sofas while huge, modern chandeliers gift me with the little light I need to navigate the ground floor.

Lilura is like stepping into a swanky New York lounge, but its exclusivity means expense that my salary can barely keep up with. I usually manage to attract some nameless guy in a suit who’s more than willing to keep my drink topped up. Nobody likes to be used, but I’m better at it than any man.

After making it back mildly unscathed, with minimal spill, and, most importantly, with my peace of mind intact, I set the tray down on the dark wood table, smooth my tight, black mini-dress and sink into the leather couch beside my roommate, Stefan. His husband, James, is too busy flying aeroplanes to join us, so no doubt he’ll be trying to fix me up with someone tonight in an attempt to distract himself.

“Ooh, it has glitter. Is it vegan?” Stefan asks.

“I have it on good authority that no actual fuckboys have been harmed,” I say, taking a sip and savouring the taste. Luke’s Fuckboy Tears cocktail invention is basically a glorified Porn Star Martini, something much sweeter than how I’ve always imagined real fuckboy tears to taste—bitter, salty, and disappointing.

“Honey, you embrace your hot girl summer.”

“‘Tis the season,” I say, with a wink.

“It’s a full moon. Anything could happen.”

“I thought Scandinavians didn’t believe in astrology?”

“Traditionally, we believe in fate. But I’m not your average Swede.” Stefan takes a shot and winces. “Did I tell you I started reading tarot?”

“Ooh, maybe I should have my cards read,” I say, a sardonic smile playing on my lips.

Most of the time, I feel like a fraud. I’m not the average yogi. For starters, I like to party, and I don’t care much for things I can’t control, like the lunar cycle, tea readings, and tarot. How can someone let a few cards dictate what they do with their lives? I would rather sip cocktails at Ocean Beach Ibiza and rub shoulders with celebrities than go on a yoga retreat, and the thought of foregoing my monthly waxing sessions makes me feel anything but natural.

I don’t see why I should have to fit into a neat little box of stereotypes and limit myself to people’s expectations of me. I’m not flighty, or into all that ‘love and light’ stuff. I don’t have a superiority complex, either, like some yogis do. My body type is all wrong, and I am the most materialistic future yoga teacher to ever exist. But yoga is more to me than an advanced, spiritual version of Simon Says. Yoga saved me when I needed saving, and I owe it to myself to give that salvation back to whoever needs it. But that doesn’t mean that I need to turn to anyone—or anything—other than myself to do so.

“How is Alex, anyway?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.

“I came, I saw, I came again. That’s how the saying goes, right?”

“I don’t know, min älskling. We don’t have that phrase in Sweden.”

His bright blue eyes twinkle with mirth, and we both laugh.

“What are you two giggling about?” April asks, approaching the table. The birthday girl and wing woman extraordinaire takes a seat beside me, but changes her mind instantly. “Never mind. I have something to show you,” she says, waving a hand dismissively.

“If it’s a dick pic, I don’t want to know,” I say. Secretly, I’m intrigued.

“Are you sure? It’s a good one?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“I can vouch for that,” Stefan adds, raising his glass.

“You’ve seen it already? You are such a pervert,” I say, pausing to sip my cocktail. “Speaking of dicks and perverts, has anyone heard from Ryan?”

Stefan retrieves his phone and reads the screen. “They’re on their way.”

“Wait, Chrissy’s coming? I totally forgot to get her a drink. Please don’t make me go back up there,” I say, my eyes on the crowded bar.

April and Stefan shoot each other a pointed look.

“Sure, you ‘forgot’,” Stefan says, making quotation marks with his fingers.

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