Page 38 of Play Along With Me
"Fictional bakers never talk about cryptocurrency or ask if I've thought about 'getting into real estate on the side,'" I point out.
"Fair," Leila concedes. "But fictional bakers also don't have cute friends who might be future boyfriend material."
"I'm not looking for boyfriend material," I remind her. "I'm focusing on my writing and career, remember?"
"Sure, sure," she nods, clearly not believing me. "And the fact that Jake Marshall will be there has absolutely nothing to do with the forty minutes you spent choosing a sweater."
"It was thirty-five minutes, max," I correct her. "And I just want to look presentable. For general social reasons. Not for any specific hockey-playing person."
"Of course not," Leila agrees solemnly. "That would be ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as checking your lipstick in the hallway mirror for the third time in two minutes."
I jerk away from the mirror, caught in the act. "I had something on my teeth."
"Mmhmm," Leila hums skeptically. "Ready to go? It's already 8:10, which is the perfect level of fashionably late without being rude."
"As ready as I'll ever be for an evening of sports talk and Collin's special brand of self-importance," I sigh, grabbing my keys.
"That's the spirit," Leila laughs. "And hey, if it's terrible, we escape after one drink and get tacos instead."
"Deal," I agree, locking my door behind us. "Though if Jake's there, you're not allowed to say anything embarrassing about me. That includes but is not limited to: the Daniel sobbing saga, the karaoke incident of 2019, and any reference to my brief but intense Jason Momoa phase."
"You're taking all my good material," Leila complains. "How am I supposed to be a charming wingwoman without embarrassing anecdotes?"
"I manage to socialize without humiliating you," I point out.
"That's because I have no shame," Leila counters. "You, on the other hand, turn into a human tomato at the slightest hint of attention."
She's not wrong. My tendency to blush at inopportune moments has been the bane of my existence since middle school.
"Just promise you'll behave," I plead. "And if I give you the signal, we leave. No questions asked."
"What's the signal again? The ear tug or the hair flip?"
"Ear tug is 'help me escape this conversation.' Hair flip is 'we need to leave immediately because I've embarrassed myself beyond recovery,'" I clarify.
"Got it," Leila nods. "Though knowing you, we'll be out of there within twenty minutes due to excessive hair flipping."
"Your confidence in me is touching."
We pause outside Collin's door, the muffled sounds of music and conversation filtering into the hallway. Leila looks at me expectantly.
"Last chance to bail," I offer. "We could still be eating ice cream in our pajamas within fifteen minutes."
"Tempting," Leila admits. "But we're already here, we look cute, and there might be free alcohol. Plus, I want to see if this Jake is as intriguing as you've reluctantly implied."
"I haven't implied anything," I protest. "I've explicitly stated that he's Collin's friend who witnessed me making a fool of myself, nothing more."
"And yet here we are, all dressed up for a party thrown by a guy you claim to find annoying, where the only person you know is someone you claim to have no interest in."
Put that way, my actions do seem somewhat inconsistent with my stated position. But before I can formulate a defense, Leila knocks on Collin's door, effectively ending the debate.
"Here goes nothing," I mutter as we wait.
The door swings open to reveal Collin, looking exactly as I expected—expensively casual.
"Ladies!" he exclaims, as if our arrival is the highlight of his evening. "Perfect timing! Come in, come in."
We step into the crowded apartment, and I immediately scan the room, trying not to be obvious about looking for one particular person. The space is filled with what appears to be an even mix of sports bros, business types, and women who look like they were hired from a modeling agency. So much for low key.
