million dollars in a floor-length, black halter dress. Her bare shoulders, exposed collarbone, and toned arms all conspired to diminish my brainpower. How could I be expected to keep my wits about me when she was impossibly stunning, radiating poise and elegance no teenager should possess? Instead of declining the champagne, maybe I should have downed it for courage. Preston’s too. Along with the other glasses on the tray.
“Cazz?” Sarah sounded worried.
I stared at her, a thousand thoughts racing through my head like items written out on an imaginary Wheel of Fortune that was spinning and spinning, clicking and clicking, until finally landing on one: escape. I shook my head and quickly walked to the elevator. After pushing the down arrow I waited, trying to mind-control the doors to open. Sarah followed close behind me, and instead of waiting with me, she grabbed my hand and tried to lead me to the stairs.
I shook her off. “I need to get some air,” I said hoarsely. Actually, I needed to find my driver and be taken home. I turned back to the elevator, unable to look at Sarah.
She stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Come with me.” She grabbed my hand again and we headed back to the door to the stairs. She flung it open, walked us down one flight, and opened the door to the 49th floor. It was devoid of activity and she led us to a balcony identical to the one upstairs Preston had steered me toward. We were alone.
“Why am I here?” I said aloud, mostly to myself. Why had Sarah invited me to this event?
Sarah mistook my question as wondering why we were on this floor. “There’s no good place upstairs with any privacy. I’m sorry I didn’t see you before Butterfinger put his paws all over you. As soon as I saw he’d cornered you, I grabbed my dad and got him to run interference so I could get you away from him.”
“Butterfield,” I grumbled.
“Butterfield, Butterfinger.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Jerk. His parents are friends of my dad’s and this is the first—and last—time he was invited. He’s here from New York on business or something. After the shameless way he greeted me, I told Dad not to stray too far from the entrance until you got here.” She sighed. “Most people here are good folks, Cazz. Some can be a little too friendly and a little too forward sometimes, especially after a few drinks, but they usually understand ‘no.’ Very few are downright creepy. I didn’t sign you up for this, and I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” My canned response lacked a sincerity we both could feel. Neither of us spoke for several moments. My jumbled feelings weren’t finding any greater clarity during the silence, though my anger was dissipating. “Thanks for rescuing me.” It seemed the polite thing to add, but even it sounded mechanical, devoid of actual gratitude. Several more moments passed. Until last weekend, our silences were usually comfortable, easy stretches. Not so anymore.
“Are you upset with me?” Sarah finally asked.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Not really? That means you are.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Sarah crossed her arms. “It matters to me.”
“Why do you care?” I sounded like a six-year-old.
Sarah cocked her head to the side and stared at me for several long moments. Then she nearly imperceptibly shook her head and looked out the window.
“You didn’t seem to care earlier this week,” I said, remembering how I couldn’t seem to get even five minutes alone with her.
“Well, don’t stop now. Tell me what that means.”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I couldn’t make sense of anything at that moment. “I can’t…I can’t figure you out, I guess. I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know why I’m here. Why am I here?”
“Why do you think I asked you to come?”
“I asked you first.” Ever the six-year-old.
“Fair enough. I promise to answer your question, but you have to answer mine first. Why do you
“Cazz?” Sarah sounded worried.
I stared at her, a thousand thoughts racing through my head like items written out on an imaginary Wheel of Fortune that was spinning and spinning, clicking and clicking, until finally landing on one: escape. I shook my head and quickly walked to the elevator. After pushing the down arrow I waited, trying to mind-control the doors to open. Sarah followed close behind me, and instead of waiting with me, she grabbed my hand and tried to lead me to the stairs.
I shook her off. “I need to get some air,” I said hoarsely. Actually, I needed to find my driver and be taken home. I turned back to the elevator, unable to look at Sarah.
She stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Come with me.” She grabbed my hand again and we headed back to the door to the stairs. She flung it open, walked us down one flight, and opened the door to the 49th floor. It was devoid of activity and she led us to a balcony identical to the one upstairs Preston had steered me toward. We were alone.
“Why am I here?” I said aloud, mostly to myself. Why had Sarah invited me to this event?
Sarah mistook my question as wondering why we were on this floor. “There’s no good place upstairs with any privacy. I’m sorry I didn’t see you before Butterfinger put his paws all over you. As soon as I saw he’d cornered you, I grabbed my dad and got him to run interference so I could get you away from him.”
“Butterfield,” I grumbled.
“Butterfield, Butterfinger.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Jerk. His parents are friends of my dad’s and this is the first—and last—time he was invited. He’s here from New York on business or something. After the shameless way he greeted me, I told Dad not to stray too far from the entrance until you got here.” She sighed. “Most people here are good folks, Cazz. Some can be a little too friendly and a little too forward sometimes, especially after a few drinks, but they usually understand ‘no.’ Very few are downright creepy. I didn’t sign you up for this, and I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” My canned response lacked a sincerity we both could feel. Neither of us spoke for several moments. My jumbled feelings weren’t finding any greater clarity during the silence, though my anger was dissipating. “Thanks for rescuing me.” It seemed the polite thing to add, but even it sounded mechanical, devoid of actual gratitude. Several more moments passed. Until last weekend, our silences were usually comfortable, easy stretches. Not so anymore.
“Are you upset with me?” Sarah finally asked.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Not really? That means you are.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Sarah crossed her arms. “It matters to me.”
“Why do you care?” I sounded like a six-year-old.
Sarah cocked her head to the side and stared at me for several long moments. Then she nearly imperceptibly shook her head and looked out the window.
“You didn’t seem to care earlier this week,” I said, remembering how I couldn’t seem to get even five minutes alone with her.
“Well, don’t stop now. Tell me what that means.”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I couldn’t make sense of anything at that moment. “I can’t…I can’t figure you out, I guess. I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know why I’m here. Why am I here?”
“Why do you think I asked you to come?”
“I asked you first.” Ever the six-year-old.
“Fair enough. I promise to answer your question, but you have to answer mine first. Why do you
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