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old Madonna song was playing, but I couldn’t be sure because whatever it was, it wasn’t my taste. She watched the people and I watched her. She had on skinny jeans, thigh-high high-heeled boots, and a tiny little sweater that showed her midriff whenever she raised her arms. Looking at her standing there like that made me think of other women I had dated—but mostly it just made me want to do very bad things to her. Then I remembered it was Amelie—not one of those other women, and suddenly, I longed to lean in and kiss her. But I didn’t. I knew she wasn’t ready for more, and aside from that, she’d very clearly had too much to drink. It wasn’t my style.
    I stared at her lower back and was considering the way it ever so slightly touched the beam when she turned, caught my eye, and leaned forward. “I wanna dance, Jack. I think we should dance!” she screamed in my ear, even though there wasn’t reason to.
    “I don’t,” I said, shaking my head and her gaze burned into mine.
    Seconds later, she shoved her beer into my chest. Already, I knew where this was going—and I didn’t like it. “Fine. Hold this,” she demanded and I watched as she skipped out onto the dance floor.
    She wasn’t out there for more than thirty seconds or so when the music changed to some crap hip-hop stuff, and true to form, Amelie went all in. I studied the way she moved her body as though no one was watching—when so many people obviously were. As I watched, I found her moves amusing even though I was perturbed that she’d just left me standing there holding her drink. She doesn’t look my way even though I know she knows I’m watching.
    Unfortunately, however, for the both of us, I wasn’t the only one. I watched as two former frat boys sidled up to her, and I knew instantly what was about to go down. Immediately, they got too close for my liking and Amelie moved away. Apparently, they didn’t take the hint. Boys like them never do. And all of a sudden—I didn’t know if it was the alcohol—or my irritation over the fact that a girl can’t even enjoy a dance without two assholes manhandling her—but in two strides I was on the floor. Maybe I said something threatening, maybe I didn’t. I don’t even remember, honestly. But the next thing I know people were being shoved. There’s a scuffle, and suddenly, I was being led out of the club by two former semi-pro wrestler looking guys, and I was reminded once again why I hate shit-hole places like this.
    “Well, you didn’t have to go and get us kicked out, Jack,” Amelie said dramatically when she found me waiting outside by the curb. “I just wanted to dance!”
    “That’s the problem,” I told her, no longer in the mood to deal with her drunkenness. It’s funny how quickly one could sober up at the prospect of having to defend yourself against former frat boys double-teaming you. “You know I hate places like this.”
    She moves in closer. “Then why’d you come?” she shouted for no good reason. I was well within earshot.
    “To protect you from exactly the kind of thing that just happened,” I shot back louder than I’d intended. By this point, we had onlookers.
    ‘“Did it ever occur to you that I’m just fine on my own?”
    “You don’t look just fine. You look drunk.”
    “And you look like an asshole.”
    “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” I asked. “Because this certainly feels like déjà vu to me.”
    She shook her head, threw her hands up, and stormed off in the opposite direction. “I thought you were my friend,” she called back over her shoulder. “Now you’re just being mean.” Her face fell. “I’m not sure we should be friends anymore,” she told me, most of her rationale gone by way of her soberness.
    I don’t respond because this is drunk Amelie talking. She always reverted back to that eight-year-old girl I remember from camp whenever she drinks. I smiled even though I wanted to kill her. And I follow, of