Chapter 39

39

DES

S teve and George turn up at my apartment at 9 p.m. on a mission to drag me out to The Brass Monkey in the Meatpacking District. George declares loudly that, because it's July, we need to be drinking on a rooftop. If I wasn't so pissed with Alex, I'd be wondering more about their relationship and the pair of them turning up together.

I'm moping, in some weird limbo waiting for Alex to sort it out , whatever that means. After he left last night, I spent most of the night awake running through every little nuance of how he was and what he said, and how he ducked the issue of how this is affecting me. When George called me earlier today, it all came rushing out. And all credit to George and Steve, they have gone into full one-of-the-pack-is-down mode: dressing me up and buying me drinks while I've been a stuck record about how I'm going to be miserable company.

"Here." George thrusts some pink monstrosity in my face. The whole of the top of it is a ball of cotton candy.

I pick up my phone and start scrolling. There's a missed call from Alex, and I hover over the button, but George snatches it out of my hand and wags his finger at me.

"No moping on social media. No calling the boyfriend. We are drowning our sorrows tonight. Everything else can wait until tomorrow." He narrows his eyes.

I stick my tongue out at him and hold out my hand. He hands me back my phone, and I tuck it away in my back pocket. Steve lifts his cocktail and clinks his glass against mine where it's resting on the bar and it slides dangerously across the highly polished wooden surface.

George waves his hand at the pair of us to huddle closer together. "Picture, picture!" he says.

Sugar crystals explode over my tongue as I take a nibble of my candy floss. "Oh! Now that is exceptional," I say.

"Didn't I tell you?" Steve says, grinning at me. And I smile back for the first time tonight as George snaps a shot.

He turns his screen around to show it to me, and we look like a couple of chipmunks. There's glitter on my cheeks.

"For fuck's sake, guys, you glittered me?" I say, snatching the phone and examining my smiling face. Social media can tell a thousand lies. I look drunk and happy.

"We decided you needed a little va-va-voom," Steve says, leaning in to kiss my cheek, and I flap my hand at him as George takes a picture. He is a dangerous man with a camera.

Steve taps George's arm. "Okay, Georgie, who do you fancy tonight?"

"Am I going to have to suffer you picking up guys all night?" I say as someone jostles George, and when I peer over his shoulder, there's a large bodybuilder type standing right behind him.

"Uh oh," Steve says.

George turns, his eyes tracking up and up. "Oh my, you are huge!" he says, reaching out and squeezing an enormous bicep, and the man chuckles. "I can't even get my hand around you."

"That's what they all say." The guy squints and laughs, and George smirks back. His eyes wander lazily over George's tank top and down his body.

"Pete," he says, holding out a hand. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Uh oh," Steve says again, and I snort.

"That's George gone for the night," I mutter.

Sticking his foot out backward, George tries to kick me, failing to make contact as I dodge out of his reach. My gaze wanders over the bar. I don't want to land Steve with my dismal company if George has found his hookup for the night.

"Who do you fancy?" I say.

"You?" he says, grinning. Is he serious?

"There's a couple of cute bartenders," I say, deflecting, as a built server exits from behind the counter, tray held up over his head.

Steve gives me a knowing smirk. "Let's go up top," he says. "It's heaving and hot down here." George and Mr. Bodybuilder decide they're going to accompany us. The guy is already leaning into George, lips against his ear to talk.

"I think George messaged a few people to meet us upstairs."

Oh God . Will I survive a night of partying?

Steve pulls his phone out his pocket and starts looking through his WhatsApp messages. When I peek over his shoulder, he's a member of hundreds of different groups. Jesus Christ. How does he have the time? But regardless, it gives me a chance to look at my own messages and Facebook is top of the list, alive with notifications. Several include the name Alex Sachs, and my heart leaps into my throat. What is he doing tonight?

Alex is tagged in a few pictures with his family at what can only be their house. And I stare with fascination at the people he's talked so much about. I recognize his dad instantly, but the rest must be his mom and all his sisters. And warmth seeps through me as I study them; they all look so like him. They all have the same floppy brown hair, left long and curly and tamed into clips and braids in a way Alex's isn't. As I scroll through my feed he's tagged again, this time with a dark-haired girl he's seated at a table with, and his smile, God. It's the one he gives me when we're sitting with our dinners on our laps. It was posted by Hannah Sachs at 7 p.m. this evening. I sweep to the next photo and Alex's hand is stretched out doing something to her hair. Tucking it behind her ear? The caption reads "My brother's new girlfriend," and my stomach swoops down as I press my hand to my chest.

Oh, Jesus.

Is this one of these women his parents were suggesting to him? Is this what he's up to now? How he's fitting in ? Meeting prospective wedding candidates? The girl is tagged as an Amalia Silverman, and I obsessively follow the tag, scrolling over to her account and finding loads of pictures of a solemn dark-haired girl with what appears to be her family at home, at the synagogue, and with equally earnest-looking friends.

"What are you staring at?" Steve asks.

I go back to the first post of Alex that took me down this rabbit hole and hand him my phone.

He studies the photo, scrolls over and grimaces. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah, exactly," I say.

"What did George say?"

I scowl at him.

"What did I say?" George says, leaning in between us. Steve hands him my phone, and he flicks through the photos.

"Who is this chick?" he says, clicking on Amalia's profile, and it makes me smile as he does the identical search that I did.

He raises his eyebrows. "Wow. She's like eighteen."

"Yeah. And female, obviously," I add.

My whole body descends into a pit of uncertainty. This is no different from the way other boyfriends, including George, standing here right next to me, have treated me. Some accidental picture on Facebook when they're out for the night. Caught kissing. Caught touching someone's hair. I'm an idiot. Why did I think Alex was any different? He told me the first time I met him he was bisexual and this relationship is a copycat reel of what's happened with guys who've said that to me before.

Is it too much to ask to find someone who wants what I do? Something steady. Something permanent. My whole body feels like I'm being boiled in oil.

I was so sure Alex was that guy.