“Is there something going on tonight?” I ask MK as we pile into the booth.
“Tail end of Santa Con,” she says. “It’s this thing where—”
“Oh, I know all about Santa Con,” I interrupt, one palm raised. I remember enough from making the mistake of venturing into downtown Philly during one, and nearly drowning in a sea of overly festive red and white pukers. “I just didn’t realize it had infected this side of the Atlantic too.”
“Everyone here loves a good excuse to get pissed,” Stacey says. “Speaking of, here come two more!” Nick and Patrick join us, Patrick immediately sliding into the booth beside me, one arm draped along the back panel. Stacey wiggles her eyebrows at us both, then disappears to fetch a round of pints.
“So, I hear my favorite American eye candy is single again.” Patrick hip-bumps me, tearing me away from whatever whispered conversation Mary Kate and Nick have started up.
I must make a worse face than he anticipated, because suddenly Patrick’s pulling me into a tight hug. And it feels nice. Not sexual or anything. Just . . . nice. I squeeze back gently, before I draw away.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m just, I’m not ready to—”
“Hey, hey, Harper.” He pats my hand. “I’m not trying to push you or anything. I mean, yes, if you want a rebound, I am 100 percent game, call me anytime.” He winks. “But it’s obvious this wasn’t just some fling, so . . . If you need to talk or anything. Y’know. Call me for that, too.”
Stacey reappears with our beers, and as he passes me my pint, a genuine smile sneaks onto my face for the first time in what feels like forever. “Thanks, Patrick.”
“Like I said, love.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Anytime.” We both take sips of our beverages, but then he breaks off to tug at my arm. “Hey, have you seen the décor up in the front room yet?”
“If that’s a pickup line, it’s the worst one I’ve heard you try yet,” I say.
“No, he’s right, it’s really pretty,” Stacey adds. “Let’s go check it out.”
Confused but obliging, I trail the two of them through the crowded middle room, past the bar just oozing with mistletoe (creative, guys), and into one of the other private rooms. The ones up here are occupied, but none of the mostly halfway-to-Piss-Town occupants seem to mind a couple more people popping in.
As far as I can tell, the decorations look exactly the same up here. I raise an eyebrow. “What gives, guys?”
“Just giving them some space,” Stacey says with a nod toward the back.
I blink a few times, but Patrick doesn’t look surprised either. “What, MK and Nick?” I glance back and forth between my friends, but neither one speaks. “Shit, what’s going on with them? I thought everything was okay.”
“Nooot exactly,” Stacey mumbles under her breath.
As if on cue, we watch Nick storm past the entrance to our side room, a furious scowl on his face. There’s a blast of cold air as he storms out into the night, and then the door slams shut behind him and I’m left gaping at my friends in surprise.
I am such a terrible friend. I’ve spent weeks moaning to MK over dinner every night, wrapping myself in a blanket in her dorm room on Saturday nights to marathon every Disney movie ever made while I sniffled into the world’s largest mountain of tissues.
Mary Kate never said one word about needing support herself. But now that Stacey brings it up, now that I bother to think about it, I remember the slump I’ve seen in MK’s shoulders, the way her head hangs heavy on her neck. “I’ve got to go talk to her,” I say, pushing past Patrick and Stacey without another word.
I fight through a particularly thick crowd of people around the bar, and eventually burst into our back room, only to find it filled with complete strangers this time. Of course, if MK was here on her own, she probably wouldn’t want to stick around the booth just waiting for us.
I think for a moment, then wind my way back through the bar into the cramped bathroom. Sure enough, I spot a familiar pair of high heels under one stall, from which a distinct sniffling sound emits.
“MK?” I knock softly.
There’s a really long sniff, and then the door unlocks and swings inward. She’s fully dressed, perched on the lid of the closed toilet, daubing at her eyes with a wad of toilet paper. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs for no comprehensible reason.
“Hey, hey.” I suck in my stomach far enough that I just manage to squeeze the door shut behind me. Then I cross my arms and lean back against it to study her expression. “What’s going on?”