Erika grabbed Tucker’s arm.
“Holy shit. They kept the ball pit.”
Tucker whirled around.
“Oh my god,” he said. “Do you think people use it? Do you think they ever clean it?”
“Did we ever clean it?”
“Fair point. We should go jump in it with Dean, whoever he is.”
There was rustling then, from the man who was sitting next to Tucker. He’d been facing the other way, talking to his friends, but now he turned to stare at them. He was absolutely enormous and covered in tattoos.
“I’m Dean.”
“Oh!” Tucker said. “Hey. I, uh, heard you’re having a party. Is it your birthday or something?”
Dean started to slowly and systematically crack all of his knuckles.
“I just turned forty. What are you—twelve?”
“No!” Tucker said. “I’m, like, thirteen and a half.”
Erika poked Tucker in the arm. “You should buy him a drink! For his birthday.”
Tucker turned and gave her an incredulous smile, like he still couldn’t believe she was all in on this. Then he looked back at Dean.
“Uh, what can I get you? I am very familiar with grown-up drinks. Do you like fancy beers? My stepdad’s super into microbrews. He has an app on his phone where he tracks all the new ones he drinks.”
Dean continued to stare at Tucker, blank-faced.
“Whiskey,” he finally said. “I drink whiskey.”
“Cool, cool. Me too. Mikey, can we have two whiskeys? Oh, wait.” Tucker turned to Erika. “Do you want a whiskey?”
“Ew, no. I’ll have a Miller Lite.”
Mikey had their drinks ready in less than a minute, then disappeared down to the other end of the bar. Erika took a long, awkward drink of her beer, holding it with her left hand, since she was busy hiding her bright blue one in her lap. She watched as Tucker picked up his glass and took the smallest sip.
He coughed so hard, people all down the bar turned to stare at him.
“Oh my god. Is it supposed to taste like fire?”
“Definitely,” Dean said. “It puts hair on your chest.”
Erika leaned forward and gave Tucker’s shoulder a protective little pat. “He has hair on his chest! Just, you know, not a lot.”
Tucker threw his hands in the air. “What’s wrong with that? Who wants a lot of hair on their chest?”
“I have a lot of hair on my chest,” Dean said.
“Well, sure, sure,” Tucker said. “I imagine that’s a good look for you. Not that I’m, like, actively imagining it.”
Dean watched Tucker for a few long seconds, then got out his phone and started typing.
“Uh, you’re not calling the police or something are you?” Tucker asked. “Because I’m not really thirteen, I swear.”
“I’m not calling the police. I’m texting my brother, telling him to hurry up and get over here. This party’s finally getting interesting.”
Tucker raised his glass to that and tried to take a sip, but as soon as he smelled it, he shook his head and put it back down. Then he swiveled his stool toward Erika.
A giant goofy smile had taken over his entire face.
“So . . . how do you know what my chest looks like?”
Erika took another swig of her beer, pretending to focus on the baseball game that was playing behind Tucker’s head.
“I may have gotten a glimpse of it when you were wearing your teeny-tiny Cave shirt.”
“Okay, okay. Didn’t realize you were looking.”
She did her best not to react to that, continuing to stare at the television as though she was deeply invested in what was going to happen in the bottom of the ninth. Meanwhile, she had something that she had to ask him too, but it took her a few tries before she managed to form the words.
“That thing you said outside. The proposal. Did you really come up with that on the spot?”
The noise from the bar was loud—all those people talking and laughing, the music blaring. Tucker started fiddling with his glass.
“No, not exactly. It was something I was going to say to you, that night at St. B’s. I’m sorry if it was a little too much, to say it now. I was, you know. Trying to get us inside.”
Erika nodded.
“Of course, of course. It’s no big deal.”
But it was. Erika couldn’t stop replaying those words in her head. They felt so real to her. So right. She was thinking of earlier this evening, when Tucker had told that story about the couch at St. B’s, how that moment had been given back to her as a beautiful thing.
The memories she had with Tucker—she could hold them in her heart now, take them with her. They were all like Christmas songs.
“Tucker . . . I said that we had to make the most of tonight because it’s all we had, but that’s not really true. We have a year’s worth of parties to remember, you know what I mean?”
He’d been swinging back and forth on his stool, but now he went still. His face lit up.
“Yes, absolutely. You’re right. I’m going to think about those nights all summer. All next year. Forever.”
He reached out and took her hand.
“Hey, just because this isn’t going to work out right now . . . it doesn’t mean we’ll never hang out again. Right? We’ll have more nights like this someday. I’m sure of it.”
A smile crept onto her face, and she shifted their hands a little, rubbed his palm with her thumb. “Maybe we could visit Maryland on the same weekend this year? You could stay with Bobby, and I’ll stay with Marissa.”
“That’s perfect. Nina will be there, too. If she and Bobby are both single, that will totally be the weekend they finally make out.”
“They’ll do something that’s completely unlike them. They’ll hook up in front of a million people on the campus shuttle or something.”
“That’s so going to happen. It will be super gross, and we’ll make fun of them for years.”
Both of them were laughing. Then Erika leaned on his shoulder, and they sat like that without saying anything. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she managed to hold them back.
“Thank god we escaped,” she said. “Because this was very, very worth it.”
“One hundred percent worth it.”
“This is better than the other Cave party. Better than the Christmas party.”
Suddenly, Dean slammed his fist on the bar, hitting it so hard that both Tucker and Erika jumped. He was pointing at Tucker with a big smile on his face.
“I knew you looked familiar. You’re the kid who sat on my lap.”
Tucker looked at Dean, then at Erika, then back at Dean.
“I . . . don’t think so? I feel like I would remember that.”
“It didn’t click until I heard your girlfriend say ‘Christmas party.’”
Tucker covered his face with his hands and mumbled that he needed a second, because his mind was completely blown. He shook his head a few times before he finally looked up, placing both palms flat on the bar.
“Okay, first of all, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s my fiancée. Second of all, were you eavesdropping on us? And third of all, oh my god—you’re fake Santa!”
Dean squinted at Tucker, like something might be wrong with him.
“Well, I’m sure as hell not real Santa.”
“Why is everyone so mean about that? But seriously, this is unbelievable. Do you think we’re cosmically connected? Also, I can’t believe a biker was fake Santa.”
Dean leaned closer to Tucker, peering at him. “Do you know a lot of bikers?”
Erika was laughing out of control now, hiding in Tucker’s shoulder as she did.
“Actually, I do know one biker,” Tucker said. “My stepdad’s an orthodontist and one of his techs rides a Harley to work every day. Her name’s Steph.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. He twisted his stool so that he could look to the other end of the room, then turned back again and started stroking his chi
n.
“You mean that Steph over there? The one playing darts?”
Tucker’s mouth dropped open. Slowly, he stood and peered out into the gloom, to the farthest corner. Then he cursed and ducked back down.
Panic-stricken, he looked at Erika.
“Oh my god, we have to get out of here. She hates me! She will totally rat us out.”
“Why does she hate you?” Erika hissed.
“I told you about this! It was my job to make the retainers, but I always messed them up and she had to fix them.”
“That does sound pretty annoying,” Dean said.
“Okay, yeah! In retrospect it was super annoying, but I’m way more mature now.”
Tucker looked at Erika, crestfallen.
“I’m sorry, but she will seriously get me in trouble. I think we have to go.”
Erika shook her head at him and smiled.
“Tucker, I don’t care. This was amazing. You got us in, and we got to see the place again. We can go. It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Steph just got in line for the bathroom,” Dean announced. “I’d make a run for it now.”
Tucker started fumbling for his wallet, but Dean gestured for him to stop.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
Tucker thanked him profusely, then shook his hand. Dean patted him on the shoulder and wished him good luck.
Tucker turned to Erika and asked if she was ready.
“Almost,” she said. “One more thing?”
51
Tucker and Erika
“You have to go first.”
“No, you have to go first. This was your idea!”
“All right, all right. How about we go together?”
“That’s a good plan, but before we do—I have a serious question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“I’m listening.”
“I know it’s probably too much to hope for that we might find each other again when the timing is right. But just in case, could you hold on to your candy cane tights? Because . . . OH MY GOD. Did you just snort? While we’re surrounded by bikers? You totally snorted. I totally got you.”
“Fine, fine. You got me. You always get me. Now can you stop talking for once in your life so we can do this?”
“I will in one second, I swear. But I had to say . . . someday, when I’m older, I bet I’ll be sitting around with my friends, talking about the first time I ever went to a bar. I love that this is the story I’ll get to tell.”
“Yes, yes! Me too. That’s why we need to do this! Because it’s so perfect.”
“Okay. Should we cannonball in? Meet at the bottom?”
“We’ll jump on the count of three. One, two . . .”
Acknowledgments
Thank you . . .
To my first readers. Elisabeth Dahl, you are always so kind to me and so generous with your time. Nate Gunsch, you have no idea how much I needed your Chris-Traeger-like enthusiasm or your reports of crying man tears. I’m so thankful for your thoughtful critiques. And Maggie Master, without a doubt you have been my Marissa on this whole publishing journey, and that is my highest compliment. You are stuck with me for life.
To my agent, Steven Chudney. I’m so thankful for all the hard work you put in for me, and I would not want to navigate this publishing world without your wisdom and dry wit. I will not forget how remarkably chill you were while I wildly stumbled around trying to write a second book.
To Andrew Eliopulos. I still can’t believe you read those meandering early pages and managed to find some unexpected potential in what—at the time—was just a poorly paced story that lingered too long on a couple of nights. The party book would not be a party book, or a book at all, without you. Thank you for your endless patience, support, and guidance while I found my way. I feel ridiculously lucky to call you my editor.
To all the people who made this story so much better and its packaging so beautiful—Bria Ragin, Alexandra Rakaczki, Jen Strada, and Joel Tippie. Books are such an extraordinary team effort, and I’m so glad to have you all on my team.
To the Sweet 16s. I’m not sure I would have survived my debut year without you all, and I feel so fortunate that I was able to meet such incredible and talented friends through this group.
To everybody who reached out to tell me that my first book meant something to them. Please know that you helped me keep going as I struggled to write something new.
To the Rivers and Hattrup families. I couldn’t ask for better supporters or loved ones, truly. Thank you for buying entirely too many copies of Frannie and Tru, for giving me reassurance on this one when the nerves kicked in, and for so much more.
To Kevin. Can you believe we started dating when we were Erika’s age and we’re still not sick of each other? That toga party will always be like a Christmas song to me. Thank you for putting up with me when my head is in the clouds, for being superdad when my nose is to the grindstone, and for coming up with amazing fake-song lyrics, not to mention so many excellent names for a terrible sexting assembly. I’m sorry I didn’t use GeniTales.
To Nora and Liam. You are exquisite and magical little people, and I can’t wait to watch you grow into exquisite and magical bigger people. Someday we’ll have to have an awkward conversation about gum and stuff, so I apologize in advance. In the meantime, always write your own stories—don’t let the world tell you who it thinks you should be.
About the Author
Photo by Alex Alexander
KAREN HATTRUP is a former newspaper reporter and studied writing at Johns Hopkins University. She lives with her family near Baltimore. Visit her online at www.karenhattrup.com.
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Books by Karen Hattrup
Frannie and Tru
Our Year in Love and Parties
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
OUR YEAR IN LOVE AND PARTIES. Copyright © 2019 by Karen Hattrup. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover photos © 2019 by Shutterstock and Plainpicture
Cover art and type design by Joel Tippie
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-241025-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-241023-8
1920212223PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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