Free Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David Page A

discuss how depressing Hollywood parties can be, and I explain to him how much trouble I have with my friendships. The whole time we’re talking, I’m wondering if he’s thinking about kissing me.
    I don’t mention to Adam that I’m jetting to my bedroom for regular intervals of coke because I feel utterly certain he’ll judge me, and we seem to be getting along so well that I don’t want to risk putting him off. My next trip to my bedroom and inhalation of four lines, however, puts me a little on edge and I find myself rambling more manically than usual when I return. I suddenly see myself as an outsider, or a movie camera, might capture me, telling some incredibly pointless story about how I may or may not have a hostile relationship with the gossip columnist at work. I need to chill out , I pep talk myself, then immediately wonder again if Adam is thinking about kissing me.
    And then I basically lose patience with wondering, and lean in to kiss him myself. Call me a feminist but I’ve never much seen the point of always waiting for guys to make the first move. Adam returns my kiss with far more passion than I’m expecting, and I’m suddenly literally dizzy as we continue to make out. The word “swooning” travels through my mind, as does the phrase “weak in the knees.” I’m not exactly sure what he’s doing but Adam has somehow found a way to access something apparently deep inside my larynx that is turning me on more than anyone ever has before. I wonder if I’m literally ever going to be able to stop kissing him. As I start to feel my chin tingle with that raw-verging-on-scabbed feeling I always get when I’m making out with a guy who has stubble, Adam suddenly pulls away and looks me directly in the eye.
    “Wait a minute…have you been doing coke?” he asks. He says the word “coke” the way I might say “coconut,” something I hate, and I become immediately anxious, like he’s a cop and I’m being put through a sobriety test.
    “What are you talking about?” I ask him but I’m really just buying time, wondering what the hell I’m going to say.
    “I can taste it on you,” he says, and I disentangle myself from him entirely, lean back on the couch, and light a cigarette using a funky lighter I got at the Pasadena Rose Bowl flea market. I exhale deeply. I had no idea someone else could taste coke on you if they were kissing you, and I immediately start thinking of all the other men I’ve made out with while I’ve been wired who never said a word about it. Were they simply not familiar with the taste or did they just not want me to stop?
    I cop to what I’ve been doing, both because it’s evident I’ve been thoroughly busted and because I’ve always been an atrocious liar. Adam doesn’t ask any more questions, but the moment is gone and my panties have become about as dry as the Sahara during the stress of The Inquisition.
    And then things are completely, horribly awkward. He says that he should go because he has a lot to do tomorrow, even though he’d been telling me like ten minutes earlier that he had no plans at all.
    “But I’ll call you,” he says, as he stands up.
    I write down my number, even though I feel like we’re both just going through the charade of polite behavior and he doesn’t have any interest in calling me, because I’m an out-of-control girl who secretly does coke while she’s making out with someone. Then I walk him out, where he leans in and gives me a quick and absolutely rudimentary peck on the lips. He folds the piece of paper with my number written on it in half, and puts it in his jeans pocket.
    “I’ll call you,” he says again, but when he walks down the driveway back to his car, he doesn’t look back once. I go inside and tears start streaming down my face. I’m not sure if it’s because I feel rejected, because there’s no more Alex left, or because I know that it’s going to take several vodka shots and at least four Ambien to get to