Let It Happen

“Aren’t you a little too young to be at this party?”

“I’m just short.”

The thrumming of the electronic music reverberates through the party. Laughter and yelled conversations light the house up with life, tossed through the air, barely making itself through the pulsing music. The place feels anything but spacious. It’s packed. Bodies collide every time someone decides to move, and a slosh of drink spills over the rim. The smells of alcohol, perfume, and smoke fly through the rooms. It’s chaotic. It’s electric. It’s one hell of a party.

“You’d look good with a mustache.”

“It’s itchy, and I’d look like a grumpy old man.”

It’s probably the answer that makes her laugh, covering her mouth with her hand, such slender fingers that she has. She glances down for a split second.

And she reaches her hand out to you. “I’m Gracie.”

She’s a little taller than you. Her long hair drapes down her shoulder beautifully. She has a gorgeous face—your opinion, brown eyes, attractive nose, thin lips. She’s wearing a black, long sleeve shirt that hugs all the right spots of her body. Her jeans also complement that slender shape she possesses.

“I’ve listened to your EP. I miss you, I’m sorry was great.”

“Thanks!” Gracie replies, chuckling softly. She tucks stray strands of her hair behind the ear. “So, who are you coming with today?”

You list out a few names that you consider as your closest friends to her. She nods and hums out a few acknowledgements as you talk about them. The party shows no sign of slowing down. Loud, shaking, crushing bass echoes through the house. Everything around you reeks of alcohol, cheap perfume, smoke, and the house owner’s air purifier. The lights are down low, making everyone here look better by at least ten times.

“Those are nice people. Keep them around,” Gracie says, pointing a finger gun towards you. You find it cute.

You can’t help but smile, swirling the contents in your cup in a losing attempt to get rid of the flush. “Sure, I will.”

“I’m a college dropout, so I’ll probably miss out on a lot of this,” she says, pouting, watching the scene unfolding around her. You’ve heard about her in the interview once—an international relations dropout.

“At least you’re a good artist? Doesn’t seem to be so boring standing there,” you say, shrugging. And she laughs, covering her mouth with her hands once more. Her body bends back slightly.

“Come on, my music’s not that good.”

“Anything I like is good.”

Gracie giggles again, taking a sip from her plastic cup. It’s a small gulp before she puts down her cup. She doesn’t look so drunk yet, while you are having the urge to ride a horse right now. “I’m finding someone to hang out with. Wanna go play FIFA? Or PES? I’m not sure what this house has,” she asks, pointing her thumb towards the unoccupied couch.

“I’m more of a Football Manager person, not really good at those two,” you reply, looking around you for an activity to do with her, until your eyes are set on the vacant foosball table. “Table football instead?”

“Sure.”

—

“So, what are you studying now?”

“Engineering.”

The people surrounding you don’t seem to care about the table much, so it’s just you two turning the handles in the middle of this loud, throbbing party.

“Ugh, my condolences,” Gracie snarks, smiling. Her figures are rolling the ball in front of your goal. It’s important to focus here.

“Thanks.”

And she whips it into the goal so easily, so quick, so painless. Your defenders and goalkeeper don’t stand a goddamn chance on that goal. You make a sound between your teeth.

“Good one,” you say, picking up the ball from the tray to put it in play again. Gracie only responds with a small laugh.

“Why engineering?” she continues, hands still busy with getting the ball in the middle of the table.

“Mom made me.” It’s you who gets the ball, and you’re trying to shoot it from afar. It hits the post, though, and you groan in disappointment. Gracie laughs softly.

“What if your mom didn’t make you choose engineering? Where would you be?” and she kicks the ball from her back row into her midfield, easily piercing through your forwards.

“Filmmaking, I guess? Like your dad.”

Gracie smiles, trying to control the ball in the midfield, before she shoots it from there. Luckily, though, it hits your goalkeeper. She groans as you get to build up your play from the back again. “You have Letterboxd?”

“salmahayekfootlicker sixty-nine, written in numbers.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Gracie snarls playfully, following the motion of the ball in your back row with her forwards. It gets cleared into your midfield, nonetheless. “You don’t seem like a Salma Hayek type.”

“Guess my type, then,” you challenge, flicking the ball to your forward line past her midfield. You let the ball roll between your player figures for a bit.

Gracie shoots you a smirk. You’ll have to admit that she has a gorgeous smile. Maybe it’s the alcohol, though.

“How about me?” she asks, still trying to block the ball with her defenders. You let the ball roll in the forward line for a heartbeat longer. You are thinking of playing it cool here, both on the field and off the field.

“You look good,” you answer, trying to pull some strings as you take a shot, and it gets in the goal. You raise your fists a little as the ball goes in. “Honestly, you look pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?” Gracie looks down slightly at you, repeating your words. She’s trying to make sense of the off-the-table game you’re playing with her here. “C’mon, you know I’m better than pretty good.”

You shoot her a small chuckle, looking up to meet her eyes. “You’re being narcissistic.”

“Being drunk cancels that,” she retorts playfully, before walking around the table towards you. “Wanna go somewhere else? Somewhere–”

And she pauses, letting the electronic music fill in between the vastness of the silence between you two. The thrumming bass lights up your nerves aflame. The shouting and hollering waves in the surrounding air. You’re not so sure what she’s going to say next.

“– quieter.”

Your breath hitches. The word alone sends you into the darkness, lost. You don’t know what to do next, or what to say next. Gracie moves closer and closer to you. Her height feels like a weight pressing on you with every second that passes by. Your hands tremble at the side of your body. Your legs shake so uncontrollably that you almost collapse.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Gracie seems to notice your body language, at least, and she lets out a laugh—definitely not the one that’s shown to the public, one that’s too loud.

“It’s just the front of the house! Don’t worry. I’m not thinking of sex,” Gracie assures, smiling, reaching her hand out to you. She tilts her head to the side a little. “Come on!”

You let out a relieved chuckle before taking her hand into yours.

“Sure.”