Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

“Whether or not Eric is there.”
“I said okay.”
Bridget hadn’t been to many clubs, but each time was
the same. All eyes, at least all male eyes, followed her
hair. Maybe it was the combination of bar light and alcohol
that made it glow extra bright.
They made for the dance floor. Bridget was indifferent
to drinking, but she loved to dance. She grabbed Diana’s
hand and pulled her onto the crowded dance floor.
Dancing was like soccer or miniature golf or gin rummy.
It was just one of those things she was good at.
The salsa music pounded through her body. There were
shouts and stares and catcalls that she suspected were
aimed at her—or her hair, anyway. She looked for Eric.
At first she didn’t see him, so she gave her whole self to
the music. A little while later she spotted him with other
coaches at a table away from the dancing. The table was
covered with big, salty margarita glasses, mostly empty.
He was watching her. He didn’t see her see him seeing
her yet, and she didn’t want him to. She made it a point
never to be coy, but she wanted him to be able to watch
her if he wanted to.
He looked mellow from sun and running and probably
tequila. He had a sexy way of tipping his head to the side
when he looked at people.
Men kept bobbing around her, but she stuck with
Diana, her preferred partner. A few minutes later, Ollie
joined them, a beer in one hand.
Ollie spotted the coaches’ table and waved to them.
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