When It All Goes Wrong Again

Silence.

Someone had turned the music down and conversations died as all attention turned to Pete, and well, me. “Everybody,” Pete said with a confidence I was envious of, “this is A.J. A.J., this is everybody.”

About a dozen pairs of eyes were pointing in my direction, some friendly, some scrutinizing, a couple hopeful. I was very aware of my pounding heart, my sweaty palms and the fact that I was still holding Pete’s hand tightly. Dropping it quickly, I gave the room a small wave and said meekly, “Hi.”

You would think I was the Queen of England or something with the reaction I was getting. I mean, come on, I walked into a room full of relatively famous people and it’s me they gawked at. I was only seconds away from making a mad dash to the exit when a skinny, dark haired boy jumped up from his seat in the corner.

“I know you!” cried the boy I recognized as Brendon Urie while pointing a long finger at me. "You showed up at my doorstep last month and sang me some song I’ve never heard before!” He dropped back dramatically onto the couch as he said happily, “That was the best day.”

Thankfully, that little outburst seemed to break the ice and people started talking again. A small group gathered around Brendon; I could see his arms waving around enthusiastically. My breathing was returning to normal and I looked around, finally taking notice of my surroundings.

There were streamers and balloons everywhere. Confetti littered the carpets and a bed sheet hung above the kitchen entry that read Happy Birthday Trick!!! The lettering was sloppy and half-assed. Apparently these guys would go to any lengths for a good joke.

An arm slipped around my shoulders and I jumped, my mind snapping back to reality. “Are you ready to face the dragons?” Pete whispered in my ear, a lazy smile crossing his face.

“I never called them dragons!” I said, pushing him away from me. “Don’t put words in my mouth Wentz.” Before I could come up with a smart retort, I was hit from behind, a pair of arms wrapping tightly around me. I’m a little ashamed to admit that a small shriek escaped my lips.

“You came! You lost me five bucks, but for once I’m glad to be proven wrong!” Patrick said. I slipped from his embrace, turned and narrowed my eyes at him. His face was plastered in a huge grin and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You bet that I wouldn’t show?”

He swept his hand through the air as if brushing away my question. “It was nothing. We bet on everything.”

Pete stepped closer, nodding in agreement. “He’s right. Yesterday, we bet Joe he couldn’t catch a Skittle in his mouth that was thrown from the other side of the room.”

“Well, did he do it?” I asked.

Patrick laughed. “Nope. We threw a whole damn bag at him and none even came close, unless you count the one that landed on his nose – that was awesome!” Pete snorted and they gave each other a high five. “And then,” Patrick continued, “he slipped on all the Skittles on the floor and fell on his ass!” He saw my bemused expression and blushed a little. “But enough of us acting like idiots. You must be thirsty.” He placed his hand on my arm and pulled me in the direction of the kitchen. Pete looked at me hastily but I just waved him away. Patrick seemed harmless – maybe overeager – but harmless all the same.

We made our way through the house, Patrick nodding and chatting with people as we did. He introduced me to a few of them, but didn’t stop, claiming a severe ‘dehydration dilemma’. Once at our destination, he turned and opened his arms at the surprisingly people-free room. “What’ll you have?” he asked, holding up a bottle of what looked like Triple Sec.

It was like we walked into a make shift liquor store. Bottles of alcohol were lined up along the counter, ice in the sink, beer in a huge tub on the floor. I guess when these people party, they party.

“Um, I’ll just take a soda, if you have it,” I said, lifting up a foreign bottle and inspecting it.

Patrick opened the fridge and pulled out a Pepsi. “Really?” He filled a cup with ice and poured my drink, holding it out to me.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I replied dryly, setting the sticky bottle back down on the counter and taking the soda.

“That’s cool,” he replied. He fiddled with an empty cup, suddenly shy. “Do you want to walk around with me? I could introduce you to some more people, or I can take you back to Pete, whatever.”

Patrick struck me as a pretty straightforward person, so his surprising shift to bashfulness was amusing. “I think I can stand your company for a bit longer.”

“Great!” he said excitedly. He took my arm and pulled me out of the kitchen, reverting back to his slightly hyper demeanor. “This is gonna be fun…”

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Ten people my ass. Add ‘exaggerator’ to the list of Things I’ve Learned About Pete Wentz Tonight. There were at least twenty-five, and more were showing up every minute. Trust me, I know – I was keeping count on my cup with a marker I found lying around. Every single one of them seemed to want to meet me. I was seriously considering writing out my personal info and pinning it to my shirt so I didn’t have to repeat it again.

Despite all of this, I was actually having fun. People weren’t nosey, just curious. They made me feel like part of the group, telling funny stories and dishing the dirt on Pete. I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in the past two years.

And speaking of Pete, we hadn’t hung out all night. Just the occasional wave, a few winks and the mouthing of ‘are you alright’ from across the room. I figured I would be pissed; he did promise to stay by my side. But I felt… normal, almost… for the first time in a long time.

“Okay everyone!” someone yelled over the party. “In the kitchen! We’re gonna do the cake now.”

Cake? I thought. They can’t be serious? I followed the crowd, getting a spot against the wall just inside the kitchen. The counter had been cleared and Patrick sat on a stool, a huge cake in front of him. Someone had found a Burger King crown and it was perched at an angle on top of his trucker hat. His eyes glowed with anticipation – either he had the mentality of a child or was just a little drunk. I’m almost positive it was the latter.

“On the count of three-” The party started singing the Birthday Song. At a fake birthday party. Because they thought it was funny. What the hell I thought and I joined in, too. When finished, everyone cheered, shouting out cheesy comments and what I hoped were inside jokes. I took a piece of cake that was passed to me and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of this whole thing.

Just as I brought the fork to my lips, a voice piped up by my side. “You didn’t think you’d get away that easily, did you?”

With a sigh, I let my chocolate frosting covered utensil drop back to my plate. “Hey Brendon.”

“It’s not often that a pretty girl sings to me then leaves without giving me her name,” he said leaning against the wall, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Sorry honey, you were just a job,” I joked.

“When you say it that way, it makes you sound like a prostitute,” he said with a cocky smirk.

“I would probably be offended it that was the first time I’ve heard that one,” I said blithely, finally lifting the cake to my mouth.

“So, how is it?” Brendon asked nonchalantly.

I swallowed, amazed. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and I’ve got an Italian grandmother!”

“That good, huh?”

“It’s just… wow. Do you know where they got it?” I really shouldn’t ask. Cake like this could make a girl want to give up the whole ‘thin’ quest, sit around in dark rooms covered in crumbs, happily licking frosting off her fingers.

“Sure, from my kitchen. I made it.”

“W-what?” I stuttered, utterly shocked and at a loss for words.

Brendon just nodded and said, “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” Someone called his name from the other room. “I’ll talk to you later, cutie.”

It was too much. The crowd, rockstars that baked, a cake that tasted better than anything grandma ever made. Call it information overload, call it whatever you wanted. The surrealism of it all was just too much. I needed air.

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The balcony was deserted, thank goodness, and I was finally alone with my thoughts. I should’ve been processing my newfound situation, dissecting everything that’s happened to me, obsessing over every detail. Instead, I leaned on the railing, enjoying the view and the cake, musing on how delicious life would be with Brendon as my personal chef.

As I was licking the last bit of chocolate from the plate (yes, I licked it – you would've too), I heard the door slide open. “A.J.?” Pete said softly. “Are you okay?” He walked over and leaned back against the railing, giving me a concerned look.

“I’m fine,” I said with a small smile. “Just needed a little air.”

Pete turned his attention to the patio door, watching his friends running through the house. “I feel horrible. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to talk to me again.”

The fork I was playing with slipped from my fingers and I said bewilderedly, “Why would you ever think that?”

“I lied to you,” he said bluntly, still avoiding my gaze. “However unintentional it may have been, I left you alone in a place you didn’t want to be and what was supposed to be a small get together has kind of gotten blown out of proportion and—“

I stopped him, twisting and putting my hand on his shoulder. “Pete, it’s not that big of a deal. Sure, I was pissed at first, but Patrick hung with me for a while, and everyone else has been really nice. I tend to overreact, and hey, I’m alive, aren’t I?” We stood there watching the party, our shoulders brushing as faint music drifted from the house. “Believe it or not, I’m actually having fun.”

“Good, you should be.” Patrick, Brendon and someone I didn’t recognize were running back and forth, chasing each other. From what I could tell, it was a weird game of tag, with the loser getting smacked on the back of the head. I chuckled at their antics while Pete checked his phone. “What time did you plan on leaving? It’s getting late – didn’t you say you have to work in the morning?”

Shuffling my feet, I said, “Well, I did, but my boss gave me the day off.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, he pretty much forced me to have fun,” I said jokingly. Pete’s downcast expression slowly changed to one of excitement, like he just had an epiphany. In that moment, I could see why all those kids hung on every word he said.

“We should do something!” he said exuberantly. “Just you and me, we could spend the whole day together! It could make up for me ignoring you and then I can defend myself from all the bad things the guys probably told you about me tonight.” He was bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking at me expectantly.

Shrugging casually, I said, “Sounds good to me. What do you want to do?”

“Well,” he started, “we could-“ Suddenly, there was a loud crash from inside, cutting Pete off mid sentence and startling me. With a long sigh, he said, “Those idiots. I should probably check on that. We’ll talk later, I promise.” He opened the door and went inside, muttering curses under his breath while I followed, not wanting to miss out on the excitement.

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“—and only the females have stingers,” Patrick mumbled to me as I gently brushed the hair out of his eyes. I had finally convinced him to lie down after he complained about the room spinning, him agreeing only if I joined him. The room was quiet, the few people left opting to watch a movie, and I sat on the couch with Patrick’s head in my lap. He refused to be silent, telling me about some honeybee program he watched earlier. “Did you know that bees have five eyes and can fly up to twenty miles per hour?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” He opened his mouth, but I interrupted before he could say anything else. “Did you know that the Italian for bee is ‘ape’?”

Patrick’s mouth dropped and he replied in a hushed tone, “Wow, how do you know that?”

Smiling at how easily he was impressed, I simply said, “Honey, I know lots of things. Maybe someday I’ll tell you some of them.”

“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” he said, closing his eyes and letting out a yawn. “No wonder Pete talks about you all the time.”

“Pete talks about me?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at the aforementioned boy throwing away empty bottles in the kitchen.

Patrick, however, was already half asleep and not listening. “And you’ll hafta tell me when your birthday is so I can sing to you. We can have a big party and smash cake in someone’s face. And there will be balloons, lots and lots of balloons…” he trailed off, lightly snoring.