Seriously, what the fuck?

This is turning out to be way worse than I thought. I try to will myself to be invisible while walking down the hallway. It doesn’t work.

Every single goddamn person I pass looks up from their food or away from their conversation to stare at me. I know I’m grimacing. I hope it looks like a smile, but mostly I don’t give a shit.

The party’s now somehow even more crowded. I don’t even hear music, just loud talking and laughter reverberating off every surface and making my stomach churn for some reason.

Who the fuck are all these people?

I don’t see anyone who looks like they could be WineBar’s parents. Everybody is young and fashionable. There are a lot of attractive women here, and now I’m noticing all of them.

Is that Miranda? Or is that her?

I realize I’m just standing in the middle of the room, staring at the wrought-iron doors that lead outside.

I hate this shit.

Is WineBar really that oblivious? He must know how much this sucks for me. Acting like his ex-girlfriend being here is some kind of mistake…it feels almost intentional.

I have a strong urge to turn around and walk out the front door. I take a deep breath. This is confusing, and upsetting, but I know that leaving could cause a lot of problems and regrets.

Also, it looks a lot less crowded outside, and I could sure as hell use a drink.

Nobody looks at me as I walk to the door—maybe the invisibility is working. It’s much nicer outside. There’s a slight breeze; mellow, loungy music is playing quietly, and the atmosphere is more relaxed and open.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a good-sized clump of people gathered around the grill, but I’m more focused on the dozen or so bottles of wine and champagne sitting on a long table close to the door.

I propel myself to the table.

I feel weak and dizzy. What’s that about? I mean, I haven’t even had one drink yet.

I grab the first open bottle I see and a thick plastic cup from the stack next to it. Let’s see, a 2008 Kahlia Dunbar Riesling from Washington State? Sure, why not.

The cup looks like it holds about ten ounces; I decide to fill half of it. Then I get distracted by a wonderful scent wafting over from somewhere—maybe it’s grilled vegetables or something.

Usually, that wouldn’t smell so amazing to me. But whatever, because now, being distracted, I end up pouring Riesling all the way to the brim.

Oh well. I lift the glass in the air to nobody but myself.

Cheers.

I start with a small sip to keep any wine from spilling out…but it’s cold and refreshing, and I’m unexpectedly thirsty. My attempt at a sip turns into me taking down the entire cup in one go.

Huh. Oh well, I don’t feel even a little bit buzzed.

I notice a dark-haired woman around my age sitting on the chair next to mine. She’s watching me with a pleasant, kind expression. She looks so friendly that I’m not even startled, even though I don’t remember seeing her walk over, and she’s not wearing anything fancy, just a mauve blouse and jeans.

“You must be the famous Emily I’ve heard so much about.”

Wait…it can’t be her. I mean, she seems so nice.

“Heard about? Only one person here knows me.”

She smiles sincerely. “Yeah, Kirk. He talks about you. You are Emily, right?”

I have trouble finding the words to respond. I think that wine may be catching up with me. I just nod.

“Hi! I’m so glad to finally meet you! I’m Miranda. I’m friends with Kirk…well, we used to date. You probably know that.”

And…fuck.

It is her. Now I’m thinking it’s a good thing I filled that wine glass all the way.

Miranda’s actually holding out her hand. No joke, this shit is happening. This barbecue defies expectations.

I shake Miranda’s hand and accept that I have no fucking clue what to expect next.

“Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

Miranda’s sweet expression starts to go a little wild.

“Are you ready to do a shot, or what?”

So much for a polite, quiet evening with Kirk’s family. It seems like Miranda is still Kirk’s friend, though, and I’m already at this party, and I don’t want to be rude, so...

“Fuck yeah, Miranda.” Let’s do this.

Miranda’s smiling big now. She’s pretty, but not in any memorable way. I’m positive Kirk’s not attracted to her anymore, which would make it easier for them to be friends.

“Come on, let’s do it up.”

Miranda gets up with a little shimmy and gestures for me to follow her. I stand up with no effort, feeling weightless, kind of floaty. That Riesling is doing its job.

This is good—I think. I’m sort of mingling, and if WineBar’s elusive ass is nowhere to be found, I might as well have some fun.

Walking is suddenly much easier. That dizzy feeling is gone, and I’m just gliding behind Miranda, following her to more drinks.

Wine’s a good start, but it’s time to move on. It’s not like a shot would be my first choice, but Miranda seems to know what she’s doing. And if I’m going to enjoy this barbecue, I want to do it right.

I notice more food smells making their way over from the grill area and more people making their way from inside the townhouse to the great outdoors.

It’s getting crowded, but I don’t mind so much now that I’m not standing out, and I’m no longer worrying about whatever shit’s going on with WineBar and meeting people.

Hanging out with Miranda’s not that bad so far, and she’s his ex-girlfriend. Why would meeting WineBar’s brother, or his dad, be any kind of problem?

Miranda leads me to another long table. This one is set up by the tall fence separating WineBar’s property from his neighbor’s. There are several people congregating around the table already, and I see a few more on their way over.

The table’s covered in bottles of liquor—gin, rum, several brands of vodka, and a cluster of different whiskeys. I don’t see any mixers.

I start to look around to glimpse if other people are doing shots or taking their drinks neat, but Miranda is already pushing a plastic cup into my hand.

“What is this?” There are easily three ounces of amber liquid in the cup. Some shot.

“Craft bourbon. Really good stuff.”

Before I can ask if this is a waste of expensive whiskey, Miranda takes down her own generous shot in a gulp. I throw back my shot; it’s so smooth I barely notice it.

More of the young, fashionable party guests are crowding around the liquor table, and people are still flowing outside from the house. As I watch the growing crowd, Miranda seems to read my mind.

“I know you barely know anyone here. Come on, let me introduce you to some people.”