"Oh come on, it'll be fun!"
"Nope, not gonna do it."
"I swear, once you stop being so weird, you'll like them!" He cocked an eyebrow, vaguely offended. She clicked her tongue, "I didn't mean it like that!"
"What other way is there?"
"You're just- you're a lot, okay? Once you manage to calm down, you guys will get on fine."
"Not interested." He looked back down at the book he had been staring at.
She came up behind him, throwing her arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly, "Please? For me? It'll be no fun if you're not there!"
"How you managed to survive before me is a mystery," he muttered, trying to squelch the feeling bubbling inside him.
"I'm not going to stop annoying you until you agree."
"Then we'll just both have to miss it."
She swung around, dramatically flinging herself across him, "I haven't been to a party in ages! If we don't go, I will literally DIE!"
"Tragic."
"I'm serious!"
"Then go!" He lifted the book above her. She snatched it from his hands, shutting it, looking up at him as if she really was on the threshold of death. He sighed, defeated. "Alright, fine. But I'm not making any promises to be nice. I don't like them and they don't like me."
"You overestimate your pull," she sat up, rejuvenated by her win, "they hardly think of you at all."
"Well that's reassuring," he muttered.
"Shoot, I need to do my hair." She walked over to the closet, pulling it open, shifting through the clothes quickly.
"What do you need to get nice for? Aren't you already friends with them?"
She rolled her eyes, "You wouldn't get it."
"Evidently not."
"Here, hold this," she threw a black pool of fabric to him. He caught it, the material soft in his hands. He tried not to think about how it would feel on her. She disappeared behind the closet door, a quiet symphony of all the things girls do to get ready, "Are you wearing that?"
He walked over to the bed and reclined, staring out the window, "Unless you plan on having me go naked, yes."
She poked her head out, "It's not that kind of party, but I'm not going to stop you." She disappeared again behind the door. It was already dark outside.
He frowned, "How late is this going to go?"
"Why, do you have a curfew?"
"No, just wondering."
"There's only a few of us, so pretty late, most likely."
"Define 'a few.'"
"Ten or so?" There was a popping sound as she opened something.
"Great," he muttered.
"You'll have fun, you'll see."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"Don't worry, I'll make sure of it. Worst comes to worst, you get free alcohol then you leave."
He rolled over onto his side, staring at the opened door. He wondered what all went down in the sacred secretive process of "girls getting ready." It seemed almost ritualistic, but he would feel stupid asking.
"Here," she poked an arm out, "give that back now."
He walked over, gently placing the fabric in her hand. She pulled her arm back, and then there was the sound of fabric shifting, being pulled against skin. A shiver sprinted across his back, leaving his lungs feeling strangely empty of air.
"Alright, thanks a bunch," she stepped out, trying to push her hair back into a clip. He looked away, pretending he didn't care about the way the fabric fit over her skin. He had never been jealous of clothing before.