Page 42 of Just the Tipsy
“Who said I was nervous?” I ask, an eyebrow lifting.
Iamactually nervous. He and his friends dominate trivia every week. Y’know who isn’t good at trivia? Me. Unless it happens to be about dumb pop culture stuff or certain kinds of music.
“Your face.” He smiles at me, and I get that stupid rush of warmth through my whole body that I got on our hike.
I bite my lip to hold back a smile. “Yeah, I’m nervous. We’ve already met but that was at a big event. Now I can’t hide.”
“They’re pretty much like they were at the party.” He half-smiles. “Seriously, you don’t need to worry.”
I shift in my seat. I’ve never gotten along with so many people in such a short amount of time before. And I really care about Waylon’s friends liking me for some reason. Even more so than usual. But them liking me doesn’t even matter in the long run. So why do I feel like throwing up a little?
“And I’m nervous I’m going to mess up this whole trivia dominance thing you have going on,” I add.
“It’ll be fine. If anything, we might miss out on a few points.” He backs out of my driveway. “Jada and Jeremiah are cool so they won’t be super upset if we lose. If we lose, then…”
He can’t hide the dread in his eyes at the thought of losing.
“You’ll only be devastated for a week?” I laugh. “Until you win again?”
“Okay, yeah, kind of,” he says with a grin. “But I want you to come and have fun. Think of it as a bucket list thing.”
He’s right. And honestly, what would I have done if I were home alone? Watch TV and snuggle with Sadie? I would have done the exact same thing back in LA, minus the dog. I really do need to start working on my other bucket lists. I should use this time in Jepsen to do something new.
We arrive at the Copper Moon and park in the back. Waylon threads his fingers through mine as we enter the bar, which is busy, but not overly packed. He weaves us through the crowd like he already knows where we’ll be sitting, and I spot Jeremiah. He’s hard to miss — he’s Waylon’s height, and his locs are in a bun on top of his head.
“What’s up?” Jeremiah says, giving Waylon a bro hug. “Good to see you again, Bianca.”
“Likewise.” I’m not sure what to do with my hands, but thankfully Waylon squeezes mine again, more out of reassurance than anything.
“Where’s Jada?” Waylon asks, sitting down. I slide into the seat next to his.
“Getting a pitcher.” Jeremiah leans around, looking toward the bar. “Hopefully not dropping shit everywhere.”
“Excuse you,” Jada says as she approaches with a pitcher. She’s in a violently pink romper, her locs up in two buns. “I’m graceful as fuck.”
“Says the person who tripped and threw a mozzarella stick so far across her kitchen that one ended up under the living room couch for weeks.” Jeremiah shakes his head.
“Eat shit and die, please and thank you!” Jada puts down the pitcher and glasses, a little bit of drink splashing over the edge. She and Jeremiah exchange a look, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as if to saydon’t say a fucking word.“Anyway! Bianca! I’m so happy you could come.”
I nearly blurtreally?Not in a sarcastic way, but in genuine surprise. I’ve never been a person who people are excited to see, and now I have no idea what to say. Maybe she’s just being polite. I just smile, the back of my neck heating up.
Thankfully someone comes by with a big bag of food and puts it in the middle of the table, along with a few plates, so I don’t have to say anything.
“Thank god, I’m so hungry,” Jada says, reaching over the drinks to pull the food out. “And cute nails, by the way.”
“Oh, thank you.” I look down at my nails. When I was modeling, I wasn’t allowed to do anything to my nails in case they had to do them for a shoot. Now that I have the freedom to, I just painted them pink and added a little gem to each one. It’s far from professional, but I’m glad I could do it.
Jeremiah pours us each a drink while Jada sets up the food — two types of wings, mozzarella sticks, and fries. My stomach growls.
“Are you excited to beat everyone tonight, Bianca?” Jeremiah asks, putting a wing on his plate. “Waylon said you know a lot about music that’s come out in the past thirty years, unlike Jada.”
“I know modern stuff!” Jada says, adjusting her vintage-style cat eye glasses. “Just like…the sound of it.”
“Which doesn’t help us whatsoever when we need the titles.” Waylon takes a wing and bites into it. “You singing the song withgibberish lyrics, wildly off key, doesn’t get us any points. Bianca will probably know the titles.”
“Yeah, you’ve drastically oversold my music knowledge,” I say to Waylon, putting my cleaned chicken bone into the second basket. I’ve had more wings here than I have in my entire life and I’m not mad about it.
“The three of us have next to none, so you’re ahead of us,” Waylon says. “I bet you’ll know the answers.”
