The full-length mirror in our tiny entryway isn’t forgiving, but at least it’s giving me an honest reflection of her handiwork. My hair is parted in the middle and smoothed, as much as I could get it to do, in a bun at the nape of my neck.

I’m wearing large, silver hoop earrings that she got at the mall over Christmas break. I think they’re too much paired with the lipstick she told me to wear, but I’m trusting her judgment on this one.

The chunky sweater actually looks cute with the high-waisted skirt, but it’s a little shorter than I’m comfortable with. I dug out a pair of thick black tights from my closet and slipped on her heeled chunky boots that are actually not too terrible to walk in.

I’m second-guessing this decision when James walks in and eyes me.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You look great.”

I look at myself in the mirror again and frown.

It’s not that I disagree with him. I think Audrey did a good enough job of micromanaging this entire look into fruition, but the problem is that I don’t look like myself.

And I like being myself.

“Come on,” he says, helping me shrug into my jacket. “We’re already late.”

James is wearing his favorite pair of dark, worn jeans and a button down I’ve never seen before. I wonder if Lyla helped him pick out the shirt when they were at the mall together. Usually, he’s in plain T-shirts that come in a pack, but like me, he made a little extra effort for the night.

On the drive over to Brandon’s house, James vents about how frustrated he is that he didn’t get first in the four-hundred-meter race. Then, he flips to some of the conversations he had with his teammates after the fact.

I don’t contribute anything to this. In fact, the only time I open my mouth the entire car ride is to gasp when James reaches for my hand and doesn’t let go. I want to lecture him about how stupid it is to drive with one hand, even if the roads are clear and it’s only fifty degrees out.

But I don’t.

I stare at his warm, calloused hands and try to pinpoint the moment I started to pull away from him.

Mentally, of course.

Physically, I guess I’m destined to remain attached to him always.

A prick of discomfort hits my spine. I always say it’s the little details that matter, and there’s something disappointing about him owning a shirt I don’t recognize and how I actively am dreading spending time with him tonight.

Things change as we get older. I know plans will shift; I’ve prepared for it.

Is this the beginning of the end for us?

That question has the potential to shatter me, but I pull it together when we cross the threshold of Brandon’s house.

He drops my hand and hands over his car keys.

I didn’t realize this was a drinking party or that James, himself, was going to partake.

Is this another thing I don’t know about him? That he’s a partier now?

“James,” I say, grabbing his arm before he can get too far away from me. “I didn’t tell my parents I would be out all night.”

This is one of about one thousand reasons I don’t want to stay here, including the fact that these are his teammates, not mine, and I didn’t pack a toothbrush or anything comfortable to sleep in.

“I’ll drink a few now, switch to water, sleep it off, and have us back before they wake up,” James says quietly and too proudly, as if he actually thought ahead to my objection and wanted to solve it. “Or you could just drive us home.”

“Is this why you insisted I join you?” I ask him between clenched teeth. “So I could drive you home?”

“Of course not,” he says quickly.

“James, hi,” Lyla practically purrs, marching right up to step between us. “And Harper. Hey! I didn’t realize you were coming.”

She takes in my appearance, and her gaze isn’t entirely unkind. “Cute skirt.”

“Thank you,” I say politely.

When they start getting all touchy feely, I make a quick exit, winding back through the large party unfolding in the foyer, complete with a DJ set up and flashing lights, to the kitchen.

Although Brandon’s house is in the same neighborhood as Dylan’s, it might as well be in a different zip code. It’s still grand but on a much smaller scale, and there’s a homey vibe here that’s definitely missing from the Archer family home.

The oversized granite island in the center of the kitchen is covered in a number of bottles and mixers, and I’m at a little bit of a loss on what to do.

There’s a keg in the foyer where everyone is congregated, but I’m too intimidated to figure out how to try and work it, so I hide behind all the labels and try to figure out what’s going to be the least disgusting.

The few people who pass through politely acknowledge my existence, but I’m self-conscious every time someone’s gaze lingers a little too long on my appearance.

“He’s not coming, you know,” Brandon says.

I can count on one hand how many times Brandon and I have interacted directly, and most have happened this semester.

Even though our school isn’t overly large, I don’t think we’ve had a class together since freshman year. My only associations with him are reading his captions for yearbook, the one time we made each other less miserable at a track meet, and occasionally catching his eyes across the cafeteria when I’m trying not to look at Dylan.

“Who?” I ask innocently, keeping up our game from the last time he brought up Dylan unprompted.

I, of course, know immediately who he is referencing, but I don’t bother to tell him that I was actually fidgeting over my appearance instead of fretting over the guests.

Brandon gives me a look with his eyebrows pulled up and lips thin.

Instead of responding, he pulls out two glasses from the shelf. I’m surprised he’s using actual glass instead of the red plastic cups I’ve seen in movies, but I don’t comment on it.

“How is tutoring going?” Brandon asks like it’s a joke.

“Well enough,” I tell him. “I would elaborate more, but I’m not sure if doctor-patient confidentiality also applies to schoolwork.”

He chuckles and drops a few ice cubes into the glasses.

“Do your parents not care if you have parties?” I watch him pour a sizable amount of vodka into each cup. “Or drink underage?”

“What parents?” He pauses to smile at me. “The ones whose names are on the mortgage actually live in Venice or Switzerland or Vail or who knows where? Yeah, they don’t give a shit.”

He takes a large swig of straight vodka on ice and grimaces.

“Is having heaps of money a good substitute for parenting?” I ask.

“Mostly,” he admits.

He pours a few different juices and some seltzer into the glasses, then hands me one, which I accept tentatively.

“I heard you met Andrew Archer,” he says, leaning casually against the counter across from me.

Dylan’s sharing stories about me with Brandon.

Interesting.

“‘Met’ isn’t the right word,” I joke. “More like ‘he barked at me and seemed irritated that I wasn’t Serena.’”

“Sounds about right,” Brandon admits. “Andrew Archer is a complicated man. He’s a prick on the outside, but once you get into his inner circle, he’s…”