All For You [New Girl]

3. No Place Like Home

One third of the reason that Claire was inviting her friend to the 4D was that Claire needed to borrow a costume. The airline still hadn't delivered her other bags, so she was on a sharp rotation of five shirts and four pairs of pants, one of which was sweatpants. So she went to the only other person in her office with a similar body type. That was Olivia. Olivia also happened to be the only other person in the office under thirty. She worked on the same floor as her, about five desk away. But they were always in communication. Texting about the boss's noisy shoes and bad breath. Placing bets on which of their elderly coworkers would be the first to jam the printer that day. Complaining about the asshole from H.R. who always found a reason to put his hand on your arm. The irony didn't make it any less uncomfortable.

So, more out of impulse than plan, Claire texted Olivia about the party and was met with great enthusiasm. Olivia promised Claire could come over and they would raid her closet for costumes. So that's what they did. And then, fashionably late, they headed over to 4D.

Another third of the reason that Claire invited Olivia was that she was worried that she wouldn't know anyone at the party. Olivia was kind of annoying. And in a weird, passive-aggressive way that made Claire wonder if one of them was going insane. Olivia wasn't exactly mean, but Claire always got the subtle feeling that her coworker would stab her in the back and watch her bleed to death with dead eyes in exchange for a two-dollar pay raise. She had a great smile, though. And Claire would take all the friends she could get. Being alone in L.A. was no joke.

It turned out Claire needn't have worried. As soon as she pushed open the door to the party, she was greeted with a chorus of "Claire!" She didn't even know some of the people who had called her name. It was kind of nice though, feeling known. She presented Olivia to the loft-mates she could find, which was everyone but Nick. The weirdest thing happened to Claire. Schmidt didn't hit on her. Every time Claire had seen him he'd been making some strange and borderline disconcerting advance, but now he just nodded politely. He still wasn't wearing a shirt. But regardless, it was progress.

He did give Olivia a flirtatious wink, but that was good. The third and final reason Claire had invited Olivia to the party was to distract Schmidt from Nick's Brazilian bar girl. Claire figured it was the least he could do. Nick had thrown this entire party, which was actually quite lively and a lot of fun. Plus, Schmidt's hit-on-anything-that-moves-and-has-boobs thing was kind of been getting on her nerves. Or, at least, it had been.

~~~~~

Claire was debating how best to sick Olivia on Schmidt when she was distracted by news of an announcement. Nick was banging on a beer bottle with a fork, trying to get everyone to shut up.

"Attention! Thanks for coming, guys. If you brought drinks, put it down somewhere and someone will drink it. Happy Halloween!"

"Happy Halloween!" shouted back an already tipsy crowd.

Claire was offered a cup of something that smelled like battery acid, and, knowing Nick's friends, could very well have been battery acid. Politely as she could, she declined it and ventured into the kitchen for a beer. Winston was there.

"Hey, Claire."

"How's it going?"

"I'm good. Just letting life float me down its river." Claire wasn't exactly sure what that meant, so she opted to change the subject.

"Has Schmidt done anything worse than usual yet?"

"Not yet," Winston said, "He doesn't have a lot of competition, though."

"I guess Nick's playing the long game."

"You didn't know? Nick's out of the game."

"Oh. I guess that's good. Schmidt must really like that girl. He didn't even stare at my boobs the whole time when he was talking to me."

"Yeah, that was the deal. Nick gave Schmidt dibs on the Brazilian and Schmidt promised to stop hitting on Claire."

"Winston?"—he didn't give any indication that he could hear her—"You know I'm Claire, right?"

"Sure, sure. It'll be good," he said, still facing forward.

"Winston?"

"I'm going to get another beer." He wandered off toward the bathroom. Clearly a lost cause. Claire already felt sympathetic for the version of him that would wake up tomorrow with a wicked hangover. She was just tipsy. The kind of almost drunk where everything is a little brighter and wobbly.

The apartment wasn't exactly packed, but the room was thick with people so that Claire couldn't see for more than five feet in any direction. Small crowds swelled and dissipated with a mesmerizing fluidity. Out of one lull came another, and out of another came Nick.

"Hey, Claire." Why did it sound different when he said her name? Everyone had been calling it out all day, but it was different when Nick said it. It was the accent, she figured, or was it? He said her name almost more carefully than others.

"Nick. Great party."

"Yeah, it's alright."

"Thanks for inviting me. Well, Winston invited me, but thanks for letting me come," she laughed.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, casual. She swallowed, half-formed words sticking in her throat. She tugged at the hem of her dress.

"So," she said finally, "Which one of you guys is most likely to wake up with a tattoo tomorrow?"

"I want to say Winston. He's pretty drunk already."

"Yeah, no kidding. He was telling me all sorts of stuff and I'm pretty sure he didn't know who I was."

"What? What did he tell you?" Nick furrowed his eyebrows.

"About you letting Schmidt have the bar girl so he'd stop hitting on me."

"Oh,"—his shoulders relaxed—"He was getting on my nerves. Besides, I had already given up on Veronica."

"Veronica?"

"The bar girl."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She's not my type?"

"Not your type? She could be a model. Her face is probably insured for thousands of dollars." He laughed.

"Is there something else?" Claire asked.

"About Veronica?"

"No, that Winston could have said to me. You looked nervous."

"No, no. He was saying weird things. Stupid things. You really shouldn't listen to him. Or Schmidt. Maybe Jess, but only sometimes."

"Who should I listen to then? You?"

"Definitely not."

"I don't know," Claire said, "I feel like you'd be good at giving advice." She looked up at him. And then stumbled backward into another person, almost breaking an ankle in her ruby shoes.

"Sorry!"—she turned back to Nick—"I might be pretty drunk too." He smiled easy.

"What are you supposed to be, anyway?"

"I'm Dorothy."

"The explorer?"

"That's Dora."

"The fish from Finding Nemo?"

"That's Dory. I'm Dorothy. From The Wizard of Oz? The shoes?" She lifted one red heel.

"There's no place like home," he quoted and took a sip of his beer. Claire nodded. She almost clicked her heels three times, but she was already there.