“Harley!” he calls, framing his hands around his mouth like he is shouting at me from across a field and not his kitchen.
Oh, no. He’s drunk. He only ever calls me that when he’s drunk, though he used to call me that All. The. Time. Well, until Bryson Wells quipped that he always wanted to ride a Harley. Welcome to watching my first fistfight.
“C’mon over,” Blaze adds.
I elbow my way past his admirers. I would say excuse me, but there’s no way they would hear me over the music, and, even if they did, I just want to get this over with, get William, and go home.
I choke on someone’s perfume—the overwhelming scent of orange blossoms—and a platinum blonde who looks like real-life Barbie gives me the evil eye and tries to spill her beer on me. She’s too drunk though, and it sloshes all over her feet, resulting in a shriek I hear even over the thump of the base.
I keep moving.
When I emerge from his groupies, Blaze snatches me and squeezes me tight, squishing my face against his barrel of a chest. I laugh. He is definitely drunk. Blaze only ever hugs me when he’s drunk, which is funny because he is not one for holding back his physical affection for anyone of the opposite sex.
“I am sooooooo glad you’re here!” I roll my eyes as I peel myself off him, but I find myself laughing at his ridiculous grin nevertheless. He raises an eyebrow at me, his green eyes glinting. “Dance with me.” He does a ridiculous little shake to the beat.
“Rain check?” I half-shout.
He leans in close and ducks his head so that our noses are nearly touching. “One of these days,” he murmurs, “I’m going to cash in those rain checks, and you better be ready, Weathersby.”
“Blaze,” I groan in embarrassment, tilting my head back in an effort to further my second eye roll as a blush warms my cheeks. He always does this to me. I deflect quickly, not wanting to encourage his attention, which would no doubt result in one of his admirers landing a stiletto in my spine. “Where is William? Our parents will murder us both.”
Blaze pouts, his lip sticking out dramatically from his handsome face. He acts as though I have wounded his soul, broken his heart, and denied his hand in marriage all in one fell swoop. But I know the truth.
As soon as I leave, he will find a pretty distraction to keep him company for one and only one night. His M.O. is like a skipping record that plays on repeat every Monday following one of his parties.
Blaze jerks his head toward the stairs.
“Second floor, take a left. I saw him head that way with Everly about an hour ago.”
I sigh, and Blaze places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. He knows how I feel about Everly. I think he even agrees with me, though I know the last time he tried to talk with William about Everly, it resulted in the two of them not speaking for over a month. He hasn’t brought her up since.
Everly is, in my humble opinion, the worst thing that ever happened to my brother. He loves her—I know he does—and that’s the only reason I put up with her shit. She is controlling, already trying to convince him not to go to NYU like we both dreamed because she wants him to stay here with her at the local college. The girl spends more time partying than at school and her GPA reflects it.
I mutter my thank you and squeeze my way through Blaze’s posse.
“Chug! Chug! Chug!” a circle of students chants around a keg as they watch a bull of a guy with a bald head attempt to drink his weight in beer.
My hand steadies on the wrought-iron railing as I climb the stairs, my sneakers squeaking on the waxed hardwood. A bag of Cheetos spills out from the landing of the second floor, dusting the stairs in orange crumbs and Cheeto dust. The smell of pepperoni and cheese wafts in the air. The stoners must be hungry.
The place is what I imagine a rave would be like, sweaty bodies pressed together, an abundance of alcohol, and strings of multi-colored Christmas lights hanging haphazardly from the ceiling. Except Blaze doesn’t charge a cover, and it’s BYOB.
Myra—who I met in gym class last semester and who shares my dislike for group exercise and Coach Adams—pops a breath mint at the top of the stairs before kissing her girlfriend. She’s got a nose ring, and she’s changed her hair from purple to black and flat-ironed it straight. She looks kick-ass, and she smiles at me as I reach the landing.
“Harlow Weathersby,” she says, grinning. “I never thought you would grace one of Blaze’s famous parties.”
I shrug. “Just here for my brother. You seen him anywhere, Myra?”
She shakes her head, but her girlfriend gives me a glassy-eyed stare.
“You William’s sister?”
I nod.
“They went in there.” She points to a closed door down the hall.
I thank her and make my way forward. Crushed soda cans litter the floor and crackle under my feet.
I reach the closed door, and my hand stills on the handle. A cavity in the pit of my stomach tears open, and the world doesn’t feel right. It’s as if I have stepped off my planet and onto another one completely. My new world is dark and lonely and scary.
“William!” I yell at the door, my voice slightly quivering, but I don’t know why. “You better be dressed, or we’re going to have a talk about boundaries!”
As my hand turns the knob, I am suddenly breathless, the darkness squeezing the breath from my lungs.
I awake from the memories that haunt me. I’m in my dorm room, my bedsheets soaked with sweat, and my cheeks wet with tears. I blindly reach for the bottle on the nightstand next
