“Smart,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
Marie’s character gets cornered by a pack of zombies, and she lets out this high-pitched squeak of alarm that shouldn’t be as funny as it is.
“See?” Z says, vindicated. “Shit form.”
“Shut up and help me!”
“Why would I do that? This is hilarious.”
“Z!” Marie’s actually laughing now, even as her character gets overwhelmed, smashing keys on her laptop she brought with her. “You’re the worst teammate ever!”
“I’m teaching you a valuable lesson about self-sufficiency.”
“You’re teaching me that you’re an asshole.”
“You already knew that.”
I’m about to jump in and save her—even though Z’s right and watching her panic is pretty entertaining—when a voice from the doorway stops me.
“I’m heading out to the big New Year’s Eve party. Do you want to come?”
Marie and I both look up, mid-zombie massacre, to find Caleb standing in the basement doorway.
Z keeps playing, doesn’t even glance over.
Caleb’s barely gotten out of his pajamas all break. I’vewatched him shuffle around in sweatpants and ratty T-shirts, hair uncombed, looking like a sad ghost haunting his own house.
But now?
Now he’s dressed like he walked straight out of a catalog—dark jeans that fit just right, a button-down shirt in deep charcoal that makes his eyes look darker, hair styled into that rich-boy perfection that looks effortless but definitely wasn’t. He even smells good from here, some kind of cologne that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
He looks good. Too good. Dangerous good.
The kind of good that makes my stomach flip and my brain go fuzzy.
“Tyler’s party?” Marie asks, pausing the game. Her character immediately gets eaten by a zombie, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah.” Caleb’s hands are in his pockets, his posture casual, but there’s something wrong about it. Something too controlled. Like he’s wound so tight he might snap. “Figured I should make an appearance.”
“Tyler’s McKenzie’s boyfriend,” I point out. “You hate both of them.”
“I hate a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I can’t go to their parties.”
That’s... not like him. The old Caleb would’ve listed seventeen logical reasons why attending would be a waste of time. Would’ve stayed home with a book and his color-coded study schedule.
This Caleb looks like he’s looking for a fight.
Or looking toforget.
Neither option feels good.
“I’ll come,” I hear myself say, setting down my laptop.
Caleb’s eyes flick to me, something unreadable passing through them. “You don’t have to if you don’t wa?—”
“I want to.” I stand up, brushing Dorito dust off my jeans. “Could be fun.”
“I’ll come too!” Marie pops up like an eager puppy. “I’ve never been to a real high school party before.”