You Know Me Well Read Online Free Page B

waiting for this night for months. And then, I just…” I shrug. I feel my eyes well up.
    “Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “Don’t give up. It’s still tonight. Where were you supposed to meet her?”
    “At this party.”
    “Okay, and is it close?”
    “Yeah, just through the park and over a few blocks.”
    “Has anyone tried to get in touch with you?”
    I groan. “I’m afraid to look.”
    “Then hand it over.” He waits. I dig my phone out of my bag and place it, screen down, into the broad palm of his hand.
    “Whoa,” he says, the light of the screen illuminating his face. “Twenty-three texts from Lehna Morgan.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Want me to read them all or just the highlights?”
    “Just the highlights.”
    He scrolls down the list.
    “They’re mostly variations on ‘Where the fuck are you?’ A few ‘Are you okay?’s.’”
    “Keep going.”
    “One says: ‘Violet just got here.’ Is that the girl?”
    I nod.
    “Okay, hold on.… Oh.”
    “What?”
    “She left. About five minutes ago.”
    “Is she coming back?”
    “Lehna doesn’t say.”
    I look into my drink. Mostly empty. Just some remnants of ice cubes.
    “Maybe I should order another one.”
    “ Or we could try to find her.”
    Mark’s face is open, hopeful—a perfect antidote to the despair slowly settling in me. I’m about to ask him how we’d go about finding her, but the music gets softer and a man’s voice booms out that the winner of the midnight underwear dance contest has been determined.
    People cheer and I cheer with them, rooting for my new friend, Mark, who is not looking toward the bartender but is instead scanning the room, the hope on his face now mingling with concern as the bartender says, “Defeating our reigning champ, Patrick, Mark takes the crown tonight. Mark, are you still out there? Get your all-American sexy butt up here to collect your prize.”
    And then the music is loud again and everyone is dancing.
    “Aren’t you gonna go up there?” I ask him. “The prize could be something good. You know, penis-shaped lollipops, rainbow-patterned condoms…”
    But Mark doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t move. So I turn toward where he’s looking and I finally spot Ryan, who is now across the room from us. He’s with a few cute college boys, one with thick black glasses, another in a ski cap, and another who I can only see from the back, tattoos peeking out of his shirtsleeves, one hand holding a glass of beer, the other hand settled in the curve of Ryan’s back. One song fades into the next and Tattoo Boy and his friends are feeling it. He turns, takes a few gulps of beer, sets the glass on a nearby table, and starts moving with the rhythm.
    I’ve probably kept Mark to myself for too long. Here he is, out in the city on the kickoff of the year’s gayest week, winning underwear contests, the object of quite a few lustful gazes, and I’ve trapped him in a corner with my crisis.
    “You should go over there,” I say, but Mark doesn’t even seem to hear me. That despair I mentioned I was feeling? It’s like it has suddenly become contagious, taken over Mark’s entire body. His shoulders are slumped; his breathing seems labored.
    “What is it?” I ask him. “What’s wrong?”
    “It’s Ryan,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “He’s dancing.”

 
    3
    MARK
    Someone is pulling me back to the bar. The bartender is giving me an envelope with fifty-seven singles in it and a gift certificate to a dry-cleaning service. Ryan isn’t even watching. Katie’s watching. Plenty of other guys are watching. But Ryan’s on the dance floor, leaning into this guy whose arms are covered in words I can’t read.
    He’s not doing it to hurt me. I have to believe that. He’s doing it to make himself happy. Which just happens to hurt me.
    I take my envelope and push my way back to Katie. Guys are putting their hands on my shoulder, telling me congratulations, using that as an excuse to put their