My gaze sweeps through the dimly lit bar, trying to find her.
The Howling Monkey is quite big for the standards of this city. There might not be any stage for live music, but it’s been run by the same family for something like twenty years, and that means people who are going to Princeton tend to spend the majority of their weekends out here.
I take a moment to move around the front bar after getting myself a drink. I check over by the pool table. There’s a crowd of drunk college students trying to figure out what to do with the balls, but no Nichole.
I take another sip from my drink and head across the other side of the bar, looking everyone over as I go. It pays off—There she is, over by the jukebox!
“Nichole!” I make my way through the crowded bar. “I was looking for you!”
“Sorry, sorry. My playlist ended. I’m thinking about putting just enough in the machine to last the whole time we’re here. I don’t want to keep coming over here,” says Nichole.
“Please tell me that you’re not going to fill it up with more of those stupid country songs?”
“Okay, first off, it’s my birthday. That means I can put on whatever I want, whether you think it’s stupid or not.” Nichole holds up the card, clutched between two fingers. “Second of all, I like that country shit.”
“You’re not made for Nashville. No one here—” I gesture to the rest of the bar. “Wants to hear that Nashville twang.” I wave around the bar again, trying to get her to pay attention to the people around us.
“I’m sorry, is it your birthday?” Nichole asks, a note of teasing in her words.
“No.” I roll my eyes, exasperated. But come on, are you really going to make that guy—” I point my finger towards the first guy I see. “Listen to Tim McGraw?”
The guy in question looks nothing like a country fan. He’s probably a good fifteen—maybe more—years older than me. His hair is slicked back, and he's wearing a white button down. As he moves, I spot a bright red tie looped around his neck, loosened only by a single tug. There’s a black jacket draped over the chair next to him. He’s handsome and—different, not quite fitting this place.
Nichole’s lower lip pushes out. “Abby, you promised that you weren’t going to complain this time. You did miss the party last year, remember?”
She’s right.
I’ve known Nichole since our first year of high school and even though we don’t have many interests in common, something about our friendship has always been strong as iron. My absence these last four years has not changed that. But I did miss out on a lot.
“Fine,” I tell her, holding up my hands. “Fine, you’re right. Put on whatever you want.”
“Thank you,” says Nichole, chipper. She turns and swipes her card through the machine, punching in another twenty minutes worth of music. “Besides, the whole point of coming back was to move on, right?”
“I’ve moved on,” I answer too fast. My ears already ache from the lousy beat. I lean my back on the wall, exhausted already. She moves to the rhythm, the bright pink, feather boa around her neck, and her long brown hair up in a high ponytail making her look like a wannabe pop star.
“Sitting around your house alone, reading and drinking, is not exactly progress. Enjoy the music. Dance. And look around you, there are plenty— “
“Today is about you.” I don’t want to have that conversation again, not yet. “I promised you a fun night out and that’s what we are going to have, like the old times.”
Nichole looks over my shoulder for a brief moment and then gives me the guiltiest look.
I frown. “What?”
“So, there’s this super cute guy who wants to buy me a drink, and I told him that I would go over and say hi when I was done with the music,” admits Nichole, in a rush. “I just thought that I would give you a heads up.”
My stomach drops. “You’re ditching me?”
“No, no, I’m not ditching you! I’m just going to have a drink.” Nichole grabs my wrist with one hand and uses the other to push my face to the left. “Look. Isn’t he cute?”
Not really. The guy appears to be an upperclassman, he's wearing a varsity jacket, and is built like a quarterback, which is fine. It is! That’s just not the sort of guy that I’ve ever gone for. Granted, my dating pool experience has been incredibly small. It’s got a grand tally of one. So maybe I’ve just got super specific taste.
Either way, I say, “So, you’re ditching me.”
“Only for a little bit. And as I was saying, there are tons of guys here—”
“I’m not looking for someone to hook up with,” I say, cutting her off firmly. “You know that.”
Nichole drops her hand down onto my shoulder. “So don’t hook up. Go have a drink with someone and, I don't know, talk about Europe!”