I drain half the cup in one go, chasing away the phantom sensation of Caleb’s fingers tangled in my hair, his mouth on mine, his voice ragged against my throat?—
No.Not thinking about that.
That’s the whole point of tonight. Drown it all.Forget.
He’s too good for me, and we both know it.
Tonight I just need to lose myself in the noise and lights until there’s nothing left but a warm, heavy body with no inconvenient feelings attached.
The living room’s been gutted into a dance floor, furniture shoved against the walls like they’re in time-out. The fog machine works overtime, pumping white clouds that curl along the hardwood like ghosts. Laser lights cut through the haze in knives of green and blue.
I shoulder deeper into the chaos, watching the hierarchy of high school social dynamics play out in real time. The chosen few glitter in the middle, snapping selfies every thirty seconds. Satellites orbit around them, desperate for proximity to popularity. The wannabes hover near walls. The jocks have colonized the kitchen doorway—red-faced, loud, and sweating booze already, I swear.
And the girls. Jesus. They’re like a cloned species—all wearing heels, barely-there dresses, and chemicallyidentical beach waves in every shade of blonde the salon could produce. Lips so full of filler they should come with a hazard warning. They move in synchronized flocks, scanning for cameras like the whole night’s really about content for later.
I catch sight of myself in the massive mirror above the mantel.
Dark hair in a messy ponytail. Trucker hat from a gas station. Thrift store Doc Martens. Walmart jeans with a rip in the knee that’s genuine wear, not designer distressing.
I look like the before shot in a makeover montage.
Perfect.
The whispering starts before I can even move.
“—isn’t that the girl who?—”
“—stepbrother’s total social suicide?—”
“—trailer trash, obviously?—”
Heat flares in my chest, bright and familiar. Part of me wants to walk right over and give them a live demonstration oftrailer trashup close. Show them exactly what this East Texas girl learned from years of survival in places that would eat them alive.
But what’s the point?
I’m gone in two days anyway. Let them whisper.
I finish the Jack and Coke and grab another red cup. The drink’s stronger this time. Good. I want the edges of this night to fuzz. I want everything to feel like it’s happening to someone else.
The kitchen’s less crowded, so it’s a little easier to breathe in here. At least until I see McKenzie herself—wearing an actual fucking tiara—holding court by thegiant kitchen island like she’s filming a reality show confessional. Her friends huddle around her, a flock of concerned blonde heads bobbing.
“My parents will literallykillme if they find out,” McKenzie’s saying, voice pitched high enough to communicate with dogs. “It was supposed to be exclusive. Invitation only. Not a… a… fuckingrager.”
She says it like she’s describing a natural disaster.
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing and down my drink. This is what stress looks like for these people—Mommy and Daddy getting mad about too many people in the mansion while they’re globetrotting through Italy. Not wondering if your mom’s boyfriend is going to corner you on the couch again. Not calculating how many more months until you can legally escape.
Just… rich girl problems.
A guy at the back counter mixing drinks slides me a fresh Solo cup with a smile. I don’t recognize him—he’s older, maybe graduated already—but I take it anyway.
The alcohol’s doing its job now. Warming at the edges, softening the spikes in my chest, turning everything into a low hum instead of a knife to the ribs. The music swells, and I can’t tell if my pulse is syncing to the beat or if the beat’s syncing to me.
Either way, it’s better than all those awfulfeelingsI couldn’t seem to escape, back at the house. I fucking hate feelings.
I drift back toward the living room, weaving past couples making out against walls and clusters of kids capturing their perfect party moments for the algorithm. In the formal dining room—formal, as if—they’ve set upbeer pong, and the whoops and groans bleed into the bass.
It’s all hazy now. Not just the booze, though that helps. The whole scene feels like I’m looking through dirty pond water. These kids with their orthodontist smiles and trust funds, playing at rebellion in a place where nothing bad can really touch them. They’ve never learned the math of survival. Never had to choose between food and keeping the lights on. Never had to lock their bedroom door against their own mother’s boyfriend.