“Still prickly?”

“Cheers to that,” Brandon says, draining half the glass in one go.

I take a few small sips. “Hey, this isn’t half bad.”

“Mixology is an art, love. Or maybe a science. Whatever it is, I’m the master of it.”

“Is that how you got roped into having a track team party at your house?”

“Actually, I heard that Lyla and James were talking again—”

“I hate that expression,” I cut him off. “Talking to someone. What the hell does that even mean? I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

He laughs but doesn’t spell it out for me. “A logical argument, but the minutiae aren’t important; the activities are. But, anyway, I’ve noticed that anywhere Lyla goes, Kyle usually follows.”

“Is everyone trying to ruin the productivity of the yearbook staff this spring?” I groan and take a large sip of my drink.

“Well, Kyle and I have been talking, to use your favorite description, and I’m trying to progress it into a friends-with-benefits situation.”

Given that we barely know each other, this is a very personal admission from him.

I assume the liquor is making his lips looser, so I’m just going to run with it.

“So, you just fool around without a defined label?” I ask him. “What do you do when you want to move on? Is there just no break up? No definitive end? How does one live without rules and parameters in their everyday—”

“Wow,” he breathes. “Dylan’s right. You do overanalyze to the point of exhaustion.”

I bite down a grin. “Did he mention it when you two were talking?”

“Yes,” he says, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “Your friendship is damaging his reputation.”

I scoff in full confidence but shift back on my heels uncertainly. “I hardly believe that my tutoring him is hurting his reputation with Serena and all the other girls he parades around town.”

He takes another drink to delay his response. I think he’s wondering if he should be spilling all of this information.

Whatever emotion is splayed across my features encourages him to continue. “He hasn't been with anyone else.”

I laugh. “Aside from Serena?”

“Not even Serena,” he says quietly.

“Well, that you’re aware of.”

He shakes his head. “He’s different lately. I’m still trying to figure it out, but the only change as of late is his renewed dedication to AP English and spending time with you.”

I can’t figure out a way to tactfully ask what Dylan has told him about our time together, so I swallow the rest of my drink.

Brandon shoves another one in my hand.

He’s supposed to be Dylan’s best friend. I can’t believe that he would speak poorly of him to me, an associate of his enemy.

Actually, he’s just telling the truth about him, but it feels like he is somehow sharing his secrets.

I compare it to my friendship with James, who would do anything for me and has told me so.

Only, now that I think about it, I highly doubt Brandon and Dylan would make plans and then Brandon would just decide to drag Dylan to a party. I mean, he’s having a party at his own house that Dylan doesn’t even want to attend.

It’s funny how James and I are best friends and Brandon and Dylan are best friends, and proximity plays a huge part in that. If James and Dylan grew up next door to each other, maybe they’d be best friends instead.

I giggle at that idea, earning a confused look from Brandon, who apparently dragged me into a conversation with a few of the long jumpers.

“Thank goodness you have something other than beer,” one of them says.

The three girls are clearly relieved, and I can’t blame them. The smell of stale liquid bread does not appeal to me at all.

“You should have Brandon make you one of these,” I say, holding up my half-full glass. “It tastes like candy.”

She frowns and turns to him. “How many calories are in it?”

They get into a deep discussion on macros, sugar intakes, and dieting apps, and I down the rest of my drink on principle.

I’m all for trying to improve one’s health, but there’s something inherently toxic about the way that stuff is marketed. Especially considering that the celebrities who push it have plastic surgeons and professional image editors at their disposal.

I try to refocus back on their conversation, but it’s a little bit blurry.

I’m thirsty, so I gratefully accept another glass from Brandon. I sip on it a few times, but it doesn’t quench my thirst. It somehow just makes my tongue feel like it’s moving slowly in my mouth.

I go to rub my eyes and clear my vision only to recall there are layers upon layers of make-up.

“I need some air,” I say to Brandon, careful not to slur my words.

“Sure you do,” he says.

I don’t know what that is supposed to mean.

After ensuring that the other girls are distracted with measuring out exact portions of their mixed drinks, he adds, “There’s a path through the trees in the backyard. It’ll take you about ten minutes to walk up to Dylan’s.” He stops, glancing at my shoes. “Well, maybe fifteen.”

I tug on my jacket, and my feet carry me out before I can second-guess myself.

13

It’s between chilly and warm outside.

Like the air couldn’t decide what it wanted, so it picked both.

It might be the alcohol.

Like that guy who survived the frozen waters of the ocean after the Titanic sank because he was absolutely plastered and couldn’t feel it.

Actually, that might not be a true story.

“NOT CONFIRMED!” I yell out loud.

Then I remember that I’m standing in the woods and feel stupid for saying it, but then I also recall that I’m standing in the woods and no one can hear me.

No one could find me if I stayed out here all night or if I were attacked by a bear.

Or maybe Brandon and Dylan would find me as they cross to each other’s houses. Eventually. Who knows how often that actually happens.

But they probably drive now or just meet up at various locations and talk in riddles to each other and fantasize about blowing their parents’ money.

I, for one, would love to sit around and contemplate how to spend lots of money instead of worrying about things like the cost of an apartment or food in New York or how to build credit or whatever us normal people worry about.

That’s why planning is so great.

Plans plans plans.

Everything figured out.

Always.

Cute.

Innocent.

Predictable.

I frown at those three words and shrug my jacket halfway off because I’m getting a little warm.

My toes are starting to pinch in Audrey’s boots. I want to take them off, but the ground is probably frozen.

But maybe that will help the pain.

I nearly fall over when I pull them off.

When I’m almost at Dylan’s front door, I power through, driving the motion forward with my arms, swinging them in exaggerated circles.

The rational part of my brain knows that although there are a number of cars in the driveway, I can’t be sure if anyone’s home, but Brandon encouraged me to go over.