“Hunter’s got game.” Summer is studying Hunter’s entourage.
The DJ has switched the beats from electronic garbage to Top 40 hits. Blessedly, he’s also turned down the volume, probably in anticipation of the nearing countdown. Thirty more minutes and I can make my escape.
“He does,” I agree.
“I’m impressed.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. Greenwich boys are usually secret prudes.”
I wonder how she knows Hunter is from Connecticut. I don’t think I’ve seen them exchange more than a few words tonight. Maybe Dean told her? Or maybe—
Or maybe it doesn’t frickin’ matter how she knows, because if it did matter, then that means the weird prickly sensation in my chest is jealousy. And that, frankly, is unacceptable.
Summer does another visual sweep of the crowd and blanches. “Oh my God. Gross.” She cups her hands to create a microphone, shouting, “Keep your tongue in your own mouth, Dicky!”
Laughter sputters out of me. No way Dean could’ve heard her, but I guess he possesses some sort of sibling radar, because he abruptly pries his lips off his girlfriend’s. His head swivels in our direction. When he spots Summer, he gives her the finger.
She blows a kiss in return.
“I’m so glad I’m an only child,” I remark.
She grins at me. “Naah, you’re missing out. Tormenting my brothers is one of my favorite pastimes.”
“I’ve noticed.” She calls Dean “Dicky,” a childhood nickname that a nicer person would have stopped using years ago.
On the other hand, Dean’s nickname for Summer is “Boogers,” so maybe she’s right to torture him.
“Dicky deserves to be tormented tonight. I can’t believe we’re partying in Brooklyn,” she grumbles. “When he said we were ringing in the New Year in the city, I assumed he meant Manhattan—but then he and Allie dragged me to horrible Brooklyn instead. I feel duped.”
I snicker. “What’s wrong with Brooklyn? Allie’s dad lives around here, doesn’t he?”
Summer nods. “They’re spending the day with him tomorrow. And to answer your question—what isn’t wrong with Brooklyn? It used to be cool, before it got overrun by hipsters.”
“Hipsters still exist? I thought we were done with that nonsense.”
“God, no. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She mock shudders. “This whole area is still teeming with them.”
She says “them” as if they’re carriers for a gruesome, incurable disease. She might have a point, though—a thorough examination of the crowd reveals a large amount of vintage attire, painfully skinny jeans on men, retro accessories paired with shiny new tech, and lots and lots of beards.
I rub my own beard, wondering if it places me in the hipster camp. I’ve been rocking the scruff all winter, mostly because it’s good insulation from the bitter weather we’ve been experiencing. Last week we got hit by one of the worst Nor’easters I’ve ever seen. I almost froze my balls off.
“They’re so…” She searches for the right word. “Douchey.”
I have to laugh. “Not all of them.”
“Most of them,” she says. “Like, see that girl over there? With the braids and the bangs? That’s a thousand-dollar Prada cardigan she has on—and she’s paired it with a five-dollar tank she probably got at the Salvation Army, and those weird tasseled shoes they sell in Chinatown. She’s a total fraud.”
I furrow my brow. “How do you know the cardigan cost a grand?”
“Because I have the same one in gray. Besides, I can pick Prada out of any lineup.”
I don’t doubt that. She was probably deposited into a designer onesie the moment she popped out of her mother’s womb. Summer and Dean come from a filthy-rich family. Their parents are successful lawyers who were independently wealthy before they got hitched, so now they’re like a mega-rich super-duo who could probably buy a small country without even making a dent in their bank account. I stayed at their Manhattan penthouse a couple times, and it was goddamn unreal. They also have a mansion in Greenwich, a beach house, and a bunch of other properties around the globe.
Me, I can barely make the rent on the townhouse I share with two other dudes. We’re still on the hunt for a fourth roommate, though, so my share will go down once we fill that empty room.
I’m not gonna lie—the fact that Summer lives in penthouses and owns clothes that cost thousands of dollars is slightly unsettling.
“Anyway, hipsters suck, Fitzy. No thank you. I’d way rather—oooh! I love this song! I had backstage passes to her show at The Garden last June and it was amazing.”
The ADHD is strong with this one, my friend.
I hide a smile as Summer completely drops her death-to-all-hipsters tirade and starts bobbing her head to a Beyoncé song. Her high ponytail swishes wildly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” she pleads.
“Positive.”
“You’re the worst. I’ll be right back.”
I blink, and she’s no longer beside me. Blink again, and I spot her on the dance floor, arms thrust in the air, ponytail flipping, hips moving to the beat.