Z finally looks up from the game, one eyebrow raised. “A party? With the people who made your life hell for years? Sounds fucking terrible. I’m in.”
“You weren’t invited,” I point out.
“When has that ever stopped me?”
Fair point.
Twenty minutes later, we’re all piled in Caleb’s car. Caleb’s driving, I’m in front, and Marie and Z are in back. The drive to Tyler’s is quiet, apart from Z joking with Marie. Caleb’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road like he’s driving to war instead of some shitty high school party.
I reach over and put my hand on his thigh.
He doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t pull away either.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, under the music playing from the speakers.
“Fine.” The word is clipped. Final.
Not fine, then.
Tyler’s house is already packed when we arrive—cars lining both sides of the street, bass thumping loud enough to rattle windows, people spilling out onto the lawn with red cups in hand.
And the house itself is obscene.
Not just big—obscene. The kind of house that makes you wonder what his parents do for a living and whether it’s legal.
Three stories of glass and stone and architectural statements, perched on a slight hill.
“Jesus,” Z mutters, staring up at the house. “How the other half lives.”
“Other one percent,” I correct.
Inside is even more ridiculous. The entry has this massive chandelier that probably cost more than Helen’s car, and the living room—if you can even call it that—has been transformed into something that looks like a club. Professional DJ setup in the corner, light system that pulses with the beat, a bar that’s definitely been raided from Tyler’s parents’ collection based on the top-shelf liquor lining the counter.
There have to be a hundred people here, maybe more. Bodies everywhere—dancing, drinking, sitting draped over expensive furniture like they own the place.
The air is thick with perfume and cologne and sweat and that particular smell of teenage desperation masked as confidence.
It’s an uncomfortable flashback to the last party I came to, and I make a careful note to monitor everyone’s drinks tonight.
This used to be my scene. The chaos. The noise and the chance to disappear into the crowd, while the alcohol burned away anything resembling feelings.
But tonight it just feels… like I want to turn around and crawl right back into bed.
Z immediately peels off toward the kitchen, muttering something about “quality reconnaissance,” which I know means he’s going to steal every bottle of expensive liquor he can fit in his jacket. I watch him go with something between amusement and resignation—at least someone’s having fun.
The rest of us find Miles, Sara, and Kevin near the makeshift dance floor. Sara squeals when she sees us, pulling Marie into a hug that makes the smaller girl stumble.
“You came! Oh my God, you look so cute—is that a new top?”
Marie flushes, pleased. “Harper lent it to me.”
“Harper has excellent taste,” Sara announces, like this is breaking news, then grabs Marie’s hand. “Come dance with us! Madison and Brie are over there, and they were just saying how much they missed you?—”
And just like that, Marie’s absorbed into a group of girls who’ve apparently decided she’s adorable and must be protected at all costs. She catches my eye over Sara’s shoulder and grins, this huge, delighted smile that makes her look about twelve.
I smile back, trying to ignore the weird flutter in my chest. When did I become someone whofeels thingsabout other people being happy?
“Graham!” Miles shouts over the music, pulling Caleb into one of those bro-hugs that involve more back-slapping than actual affection. “Didn’t think you’d show! Thought you’d be home color-coding your sock drawer or whatever you do for fun.”