Excerpt from The Animators by Kayla Rae Whitaker, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I feel instant guilt. She's your best friend, I tell myself. If you were wiped off the face of the earth tomorrow, she's the only one you are sure would miss you.

Mel reappears downstairs with a blender full of her special Robitussin cocktail, an unspeakable combination of gin, cough syrup, fruit brandy, gummy bears, God knows what else. As many different things as she's snorted, swallowed, injected, and inhaled, Mel still goes for the drugstore option first, her favorite kind of high, that smooth, out-of-body tussin lift—that feeling of cruising through the softened world. More people stumble in, holding out wine-spackled party cups. A few simply open their mouths and crane back while Mel pours and shuffles to the ridiculous vintage mix someone's put on: throwbacks to the first Bush administration, grade school, the Running Man. She does the Axl Rose Snake Shimmy, the Ian Curtis Crazy Arms, the Wayward Pizza Boy. "Do you want a slice? Do you want a slice?"

Suddenly everyone's dancing, frenzied. A bizarre, sweaty Prince impersonator vogues very, very hard in the midst of bystanders. Fart gets down on all fours and Mel rides him around the room, screech-ing, "Lookit me! I'm Roy Rogers!" Her iPhone flies out of her pocket and hits the floor with a glassy crack.

There's an excited scramble when someone puts on Guns N' Roses. Mel stops, puts her hands in the air for "November Rain." Her jam and hers alone. Gives me the double-gun salute. You know, she's saying. You. Know.

How do all parties get to this eventual point for me? I've spent one of the best nights of my life checking the door for someone who never came. I'm not supposed to be at the margins anymore. I am thirty-two years old. This shrinking feeling was supposed to have been absolved by now.

I put my cup down and slip away.

On the street corner, I fish out a cigarette. I think I'm alone when I see movement from my periphery.

A couple is entwined nearby, vigorously making out. They move their faces apart when they see me. The girl grapples with the guy's belt loops, talking into his ear. Stops when he stops. Says, "Who?"

I look away politely. Dig around for my Bic.

The taller figure steps away, looking in my direction. When I glance up, I see the chin, the stubble outlined against the streetlight at the corner. It's Beardsley.

The girl is small, raggedy-cute. She shakes her hair out of her face and looks over her shoulder, irritation scrunching her nose. Half my size, easily.

I take a deep breath and run back into the building.

I skip the industrial crank elevator, last service date 10.4.92, dart up the stairs. Back to the party, which has dialed down a few decibels; Danzig spits Robitussin into a corner, yells, "That shit is vile." Indian John is throwing up out a window while Surly Cathie pats his back, rolling her eyes. Mel materializes from the crowd. Opens her arms as she comes toward me.

"I have to go," I tell her.

"Why? This party's fuckin rad." My face crumples. It is a college moment, public and embarrassing. "Beardsley's outside. He's with someone."

Mel grimaces and ushers me into a side room, closing the door. It's an ancient workspace, a metal table pushed to one wall, a couple of bolt- legged stools nearby. A yellowing map of the five boroughs is nailed to the wall, one corner listing off. "Okay," she says. "Tell me what happened."

I give her the rundown while she props herself up on the table, arms crossed over her chest. When I'm done, she sighs, rubs her eyes. "Well, this confirms it," she says. "Beardsley is a bottom- feeding cocksuck."

I fold at the middle and cover my face.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry sorry." She pats me on the back. "I'm sorry. Were this not such a good night, frankly, I'd go out and stomp his ass. But then that would be all we'd be able to remember." She guides me to a stool, presses her mug of Robitussin shake into my hands. "Sharon. It's okay. To be honest, I didn't think you guys were, like, official or anything. Which I thought was a good thing. Because that guy's a toolbox."

Excerpted from The Animators by Kayla Rae Whitaker. Copyright © 2017 by Kayla Rae Whitaker. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.