“We’re going out on the town.”
I stare at her blankly.
“It’s Friday! We’re young! We both have the night off for once!” She pauses. “Plus, I got in a big fight with my sort-of boyfriend who is, for all intents and purposes, my actual boyfriend, except that he doesn’t believe inlabels.” She rolls her eyes. “And now I have to put on something hot and go out dancing to make him jealous enough that he comes to his senses and commits to being my certified, label-embracing boyfriend.”
“But—”
“Felicity. I need this. And, more importantly, you need this.” Her eyes are serious. “You’ve been on the schedule practically every single night since you got here. You’ve lived in Nashville a whole month, but you’ve barely left Nightingale property, for god’s sake!”
“I explore during the day,” I say defensively. “I walk all around the city. The parks, down by the river, Music Row, The Gulch, Printers Alley. I made it all the way out to Five Points the other day and got to wander around a bit before I had to turn back in time for my shift.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s totally different at night.” She pushes to her feet. “Nashville is a city best served under the cover of darkness.Trust me, that’s when the real magic happens.”
“Magic?”
“Music.”
I chew my lower lip. “I don’t think I have anything to wear…”
“I figured as much. That’s why I brought this!” She flourishes her massive shoulder bag. Before I can stop her, she upends the contents on my bedspread. All manner of things come tumbling out — a makeup bag, several different clothing combinations, hairbrushes, and even a curling iron.
“You were carrying all that around with you?” I ask, stunned.
“My arm went numb a half hour ago.” She shrugs. “Anyway. You have a fake ID, right?”
I blink at her in shock.
“Oh, relax, I’m not going to rat you out. Isaac might buy that you’re twenty-one, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Yes, I have a fake ID.”
“Let’s see it.” She sticks out her hand.
With a sigh, I rummage through my bag and yank out the flimsy laminated card. I’m blushing as I place it in her palm.
“This is a piece of crap,” she declares after less than a second of examination.
“I know.” I run a hand through my hair. “A kid I went to high school with made it for me. He wasn’t exactly an expert.”
“Clearly.”
“I don’t even drink, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“They’ll still card you at the door. But don’t stress. This just means we’re gonna have to sweet-talk a bouncer or three.”
“Oh, joy.”
“It’ll be fun, I promise.” Her eyebrows quirk up as my previous statement sinks in. “Wait, you don’t drink at all? Ever?”
“Never.”
“Huh. Fancy that.” She pauses. “You do dance, though?”
“I dance.”
“Excellent.” She plants her hands on her hips and evaluates me head to toe. “I’m guessing… Nineteen?”
“Eighteen,” I admit.