Attachments by Rainbow Rowell

worries!” Lincoln wasn’t worried. He didn’t have any game to kill.
    They drove into the suburbs and stopped at a strip mall, in front of a place called The Steel Guitar.
    “Isn’t this a country bar?” Lincoln asked.
    “It used to be, back when everybody was into line dancing. Now they only do that shit once a week. Thursdays, I think.”
    “What do they do the rest of the week?”
    “The usual. This is where the girls go, so this is where we go.”
    The place was already packed. There were people on the dance floor, and loud hip-hop music was playing—the ugliest kind of hip-hop, all thumping and shouting about luxury cars. Justin found a tall table near the dance floor and motioned to one of the waitresses, a woman wearing a bandolier full of shot glasses. There were bottles of alcohol clipped to her belt. It all looked really heavy. “Two Jägermeisters, miss,” Justin said. “Thank you.”
    He pushed a shot toward Lincoln and held his own in the air.
    “To you, Lincoln. The graduate!”
    Lincoln clinked his glass and managed to down the shot.
    “I thought you were the designated driver,” Lincoln said.
    “I am.” Justin lit a new cigarette.
    “I thought that meant you didn’t drink.”
    “No, that means you don’t get drunk. Or you get drunk early, so it can wear off …” Justin was already ordering two more shots and scoping out the bar.
    It was big, practically cavernous, and everything was painted black. There was a haze machine somewhere and black lights everywhere. An expensive-looking metal guitar sculpture hung in the dark above the dance floor.
    That’s where all the girls were. Mostly dancing by themselves or with friends. There was a bachelorette party in the middle, dancing in a circle. It was terrible music to dance to; all you could really do was nod and hunch to the music. The girls all looked like they were listening to the same sad story. “Yes, yes, yes, that’s awful. Yes, yes, yes.”
    A few girls had climbed onto raised black platforms at the back of the dance floor, beneath a row of green flashing lights. They were dancing with their hips together, mechanically riding each other’s thighs and arching their backs. It was unpleasantly arousing to watch. Like masturbating in a portable toilet.
    Justin was watching them, too. “Nasty things,” he said, shaking his head. “When we were coming up, girls wouldn’t even dance with boys like that …
    “Look over there,” Justin said, pointing to a table by the door. “Those are our girls. Too much self-esteem to dry hump their best friends, but not so much that they’ll turn down a drink from us.”
    Justin was already walking, so Lincoln followed him. They stopped at a table where two women were sitting and nodding with the music. Lincoln couldn’t tell how old they were in this light. He could hardly tell them apart. They were both youngish, mostly blond, wearing the same Saturday-night costume—tank tops, candy-colored bra straps, shaggy shoulder-length hair and pale beige lips.
    “Hey there,” Justin was saying, “do you mind if we join you? My friend Lincoln here is buying.”
    The girls smiled and moved their black backpack purses out of the way. Lincoln sat in the seat Justin didn’t take and smiled at the nearest girl. Strangely, he wasn’t nervous. This place and this girl were so far outside his everyday life, they didn’t seem quite real. Definitely less real than the women he felt avoiding him on sidewalks and in hallways. Plus, he had Justin there taking the lead, breaking the ice and ordering the drinks. What was Justin’s thing with Jägermeister? And how many shots had Lincoln had so far? Two? Three? At least three.
    “I’m Lisa,” the girl said, holding out a small manicured hand.
    “Lincoln,” he said, smiling. “Can I get you something?”
    “Your friend just ordered for us.”
    “Oh, right, sorry, yeah …”
    “I’ll take a cigarette if you have one.”
    “Sorry,” he said,