I KEEP MYSELF BUSY by filling in the blanks in my schedule with visits to the gym. And I don’t think about my stupid ex-boyfriend, or my overbearing manager, or even college. I’m wearing a black pair of gym tights that make my butt look good, and a matching sports bra that makes my boobs look good too, and with my workout playlist, I feel like the baddest bitch in the city.

And I’m not letting anything get me down anymore.

When I walk back to the apartment, a cool breeze settles on my skin, clinging to the fine layer of sweat on my skin. Mae’s coming over in a few hours so we can get ready for the party at College House. When I reach the apartment, I try not to spend too much time in the shower, even when the tepid heat of the water sinks into my muscle like honey, tempting me to.

I step out the shower, wrapping my towel around my body. Since I washed my hair, I have the gargantuan task of having to go through my haircare. My mom’s black, and my dad white. My hair’s a mixture of their texture—and the dark brown color from my dad. It isn’t curly in a wavy, low-maintenance kind of way. If I use a hairdryer, I become pre-makeover Mia Thermopolis.

I’m not going to straighten it, because doing that ruins the curls over the long term. And I like the curls. I have to dry it with an old t-shirt, treat it with argan oil, then use a wide tooth comb to comb through the knots. By the time I’m done, my hair has volume sent from heaven itself, but Mae’s knocking at the door and I’m still only in a towel.

I slide on a pair of slippers and trudge to the door, opening it. Mae walks in with a bright smile, and as always, her raven black hair is perfectly straight. She smells like watermelon lip-gloss. When she catches sight of me, her eyes crinkle a little. “You hair looks good. And you’re radiating this kinda bad bitch energy. Love that for you.”

I glaze over her compliment with a smile. “You’re already ready?”

“No.” She scoffs, tapping the duffel at her side twice. “You really think I’m going to wear this?”

Closing the door behind her as she walks in, I stare down at her cute outfit: shorts and an oversized pastel pink sweatshirt with a strawberry patch. “It looks cute.”

“Cute is not bangable,” she says, “I’m getting railed tonight. I’m claiming it right now.”

Mae’s all about claiming and manifestation and energy. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been obsessed with zodiac signs and personality tests and tarot readings. Me? I wouldn’t even know that I was a Virgo if it wasn’t for her. Every time she makes me read my horoscope; I feel like the universe is attacking me personally.

“What’re you wearing?” I ask her.

“Oh.” She lifts a finger excitedly, telling me to wait a second before she places her duffel on the arm of our couch and pulls back the zipper, digging in to find a skimpy piece of black material that she stretches out to show me.

I smile. “Isn’t that like the fifth black tube top you own?”

She makes a face. “No. This one’s different, look.” She makes a theatrical show of how hard it is to stretch the fabric. “It’s super elastic. That way, if I die and they take a picture, there won’t be a nip slip situation going on.”

The corners of my mouth lift. “You’re more worried about a nip slip than dying?”

“It’s all about consent, baby,” she says, “What are you wearing?”

“Jeans, and…” I pause, turning as I walk to my room, plucking the hanger with my top on it as I show it to her.

She squeals. “What the hell? That’s so pretty. Your boobs are gonna look so good.” The top is a white lace bustier, and when I saw it through the glass door, I knew it would bleed my pockets dry, but I wanted it anyway. “You never wore stuff like this with—” Mae pauses as she catches herself. Her gaze is self-reprimanding and regretful.

I sigh. “Kade? Yeah. I know.” She’s right. Kade didn’t exactly adore it when I wore anything too exposing. I told myself it was what any self-respecting boyfriend would do. But now? I’m thinking I lied to myself. “All the more reason to wear it.”

A slow smile spreads on her face, and it reaches her obsidian eyes. The door opens, interrupting us. We snap our heads to the door, where Scarlett’s standing. She drags her gaze my way, then slides it to my right, at Mae. I’m about to take it as my cue to disappear into my room, when she actually speaks. Like, to me.

“You guys are going to the CH party?”

I’m never going to get used to Scarlett speaking. We might’ve spent months not talking to each other. I mean, I did try. My throat is dry, and I glance at Mae for help, but she’s too busy admiring my white lace top to notice. So I clear my throat and manage a low, “Yeah…”

I expect Scarlett to walk past (or even roll her eyes before she does, as a bonus). She doesn’t. She just lingers for a second too long, and I figure I’m meant to be catching at some hint that I’m…not.

“Do you,” I start, “uh…want to come with us?”

Scarlett rolls her eyes as she heads for the fridge, taking out an energy drink. Ah, there it is. “We’re going to the same place, aren’t we?”

“Yep,” I say, slowly.

She brings her lips to the bottle and lifts her head, swallowing before looking back at me. “So I’ll come with. No big deal.”

“...Yep.”

Somewhere in between, Mae realizes that there’s an extremely awkward, dysfunctional conversation going on, and she finally decides to step in. “Great,” she says, “We’ll go together then.”

Scarlett’s eyes settle on Mae for a second before nodding. “I’ll be ready in an hour.”

*

A whole sixty minutes later, Mae and I are done. I add an extra layer of Mae’s watermelon gloss, while she touches up her mascara. We look good. Better than good. The top does make my boobs look nice, and Mae’s tube top is clinging to the upper half of her body like she wanted it to. I’m not sure how she’s breathing, but with her petite frame, she pulls it off perfectly. 

We meet Scarlett outside, and she’s on her phone. Her dark hair is styled up with a claw clip, and she’s wearing gold hoops. She’s removed her brow piercing, and my guess is the usual silver stud she wears doesn’t go with her earrings.

Mae places a hand on my lower back, nudging me toward the door. “Let’s get going then, shall we?”

We take the subway, and I honestly prefer walking, because people always—always stared on the train, but with Mae and Scarlett, it’s more tolerable. It’s deep into the night when we reach North Lane where College House is situated, but we still reach much quicker than I anticipated.

The scene is not too different from expected, though. It’s a frat party after all. No matter how pretty your top is, it’s still going to reek of weed the next day. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re probably going to be too hungover to care.

We cut through the bodies on the lawn before we enter the building, and Scarlett mutters a barely audible “bye” before disappearing. Mae doesn’t leave my side, and I’m not sure if I made the right choice wearing this top, because I’m definitely getting more attention than usual. Male attention. I catch Chad’s gaze as I walk past, and he offers me a wide-eyed smile, and he drawls “damn” under his breath as he pulls up in front of us.

“Gallagher,” he says.

I try a smile. “Shields.”

“You look…great.”

I smile, but I’m not sure what I’m meant to say. I’ve come to like Chad a little more over the past few weeks, but it doesn’t extend past the boundaries of friendship. So in the end I just settle with, “Thank you.”

He seems to get the message, because he bites his bottom lip as he grins. “Have fun,” he says, “I’ll see you around.”

And then he blends back into the crowd. “Was that Chad?” Mae tugs onto my arm as she finally comes up behind me. “Indigo please tell me that Chad did not just come up to you.”

“Chill,” I say, “He was just saying hi.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hi to your boobs, maybe.”

I laugh as I tug back on her arm. “Let’s get something to drink.”

“Hells yeah. Itʼs why I came.”

“And to get railed.”

Mae offers me a tongue-in-cheek smile. “And to get railed.”

I’m two solo cups of boxed wine down when a dark-haired Asian guy goes, “Nakamuraaaaa.”

Mae turns, her brows pulled together as she tries to find the source. I put my arms at her side to straighten her. When she finally notices the guy, she squeals. “Will?”

The guy—Will, laughs. “The one and only. What are you doing here? I thought it was freshman only?”

Mae shrugs. “Seventy percent of the people in here aren’t freshman.”

“Well,” he says, then he notices me at Mae’s side. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Will.”

“Hi,” I say, “Indigo.”

“I know Will from high school,” Mae fills in for me, “I tutored him.”

I nod in understanding. Just then, two girls flank Will. One is a petite blonde with, her hair is short, the other is taller and has long, dark hair and tanned skin. Both are pretty. Will offers us a pearly white smile. “This is my girlfriend, Ever,” he says, then gestures to the taller girl, “and this is—”

The taller girl smiles. “I’m Rhia.”

Will rolls his eyes. “I was getting there.”

Rhia makes a face. Mae takes it as her cue to introduce us, and then we’re all taking shots together. Will gets us the good stuff, because he dorms at College House, so he knows the ins and outs of the building, and, more importantly, where they keep all the booze.

We play beer pong, and with my terrible aim, I am definitely more drunk than tipsy when we’re done. As she predicted, Mae finds a sandy-haired freshman who can’t stop looking down her shirt and gushes a little too much about how good she is at the game.

She doesn’t mind.

I shake my head with a smile, because I know what’s coming next. “I’m gonna go,” Mae yells, over the music, “I’ll be back, and we can leave together, okay?”

I nod, yelling back, “Okay.”

“Wait,” I say. Then, I hug her. “I looooove you. So much.”

Iʼm more drunk thank I think I am, because the point where I start expressing my undying love for Mae? Yeah, Iʼm pretty drunk at that point.

Mae laughs. “I love you, too, babe.”

I want her to stay with me, but I know I can’t force her to. She slinks away from me, hand-in-hand with the sandy-haired frat boy, and right past Scarlett, who catches my eye.

She averts her gaze, chugging from the bottle in her hand before kissing the guy next to her. He startles at first, but then he realizes that the girl who’s making out with him is actually pretty hot, so he kisses her back. I refrain from making a face, and stare straight ahead of me instead.

And then I squint.

And squint again.

Because I have to be sure it’s him.

And it is.

The guy from the elevator. From the flower shop. Jem. He’s sitting at the bar, next to who I assumed were his friends. And he’s smiling — at the girl on his lap. She has this really dark red hair, the kind you can only get from box dye. I feel my stomach churn, and I blame it on the drinking. I’m about to avert my gaze, but itʼs like staring at a train wreck, you know you’re facing something terrible, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.

And then, from all the way across the room, he catches my eye.

Adrenalin shoots up my spine and I whip around, suddenly very engrossed in the pool table in front of me. The green felt on its surface is now the most interesting thing I’ve seen in my whole life, I watch as Will takes his shot with his cue balanced perfectly in his hold.

“Indigo?”

It’s him. I know without turning. It’s his voice. Low and just a little rough, with the cadence of woodsmoke. He has to speak louder than he normally does because of the music. I don’t turn, because I’m drunk, and the music is loud and it’s very easy to blame my nonreply on all these things.

But then he says it again. My name. I turn.

He’s right in front of me now, and my palms are no longer dry. His hair is still in a buzzcut, and he’s wearing a slate grey shirt that almost matches his eyes. In the hot red light of the frat, the ink covering almost every inch of his arms seems to glow.

I clear my throat. “You.”

There’s the slightest suggestion of a smile on his lips. “Me.”

I sway a little on the balls of my feet. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “I get bored from time to time.” His grey eyes don’t stray from my face. “You?”

“Yeah?” I say in a duh tone, “I get bored too.”

He smiles. “I meant—” he starts, but then he drops it, clearly figuring out something. “Never mind.” His gaze wavers, but only slightly. “Did you do something to your hair?”

“Yep,” I say, not elaborating, then, “Is that the same line you used on that girl?”

I’m spurting things I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. My brain’s filter has taken a temporary vacation, all thanks to the alcohol in my system.

Jem frowns. “Which girl?”

I frown back. “The one with the red hair.”

Realization seems to dawn on his face, or maybe that’s just the strobe lights. Whatever. There’s a mixture of emotion on his face, but I’m too buzzed to tell. All I know is that it’s something between a smile and a grimace. He’s about to say something, but then he decides against it. “I get bored from time to time.”

I roll my eyes. “You said that already.”

He shrugs. “Because it’s true.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Jeremiah Valentine.”

There’s a beat before I say, “I don’t like you, Jeremiah Valentine.”

Yep, definitely was not meant to say that.

“Really?” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting, “Why’s that?”

I rest my face on my hand as I pretend to look up in thought. “Was it the part where you almost screwed my roommate? Or the part where you stole my marshmallows?”

Okay, well, the last part was untrue. I didn’t care that much about the marshmallows. Then I stop my train of thought, catching myself. Because that meant I cared about the near hook-up.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he says, “You tell me.”

I face him. “The part where you almost screwed my roommate.”

He’s smiling now. It reaches his eyes, and my stomach is in turmoil over it.

Why why why did I admit that out loud? I might as well just get I WANT YOU tattooed on my forehead. I can’t be drunk around him. Nope. I need to be somewhere else. Yes, I need to be somewhere else right about now. I take a step away from the pool table, away from him, but then I trip and his hand circles around my wrist and his arm is around my waist, and I’m cursing myself for wearing this top, because he’s touching my skin.

I glare his way like he didn’t just save me from faceplanting, and he retracts his hand from my back. He takes my place, leaning against the pool table, and his other hand is still around my wrist, like he doesn’t trust me enough to stand on my own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I—” 

But I’m not listening to him. I’m too busy staring over his shoulder, because for what seems like the hundredth case of déjà vu, I recognise a face.

Kade.

And he’s not alone. There’s a girl. Again. My heart cramps. Jem notices my line of sight, and when I look back at him, something resembling hurt slips into his gaze.

“You’re beating yourself up over that guy?” he says, “Him?”

The disbelief in voice does nothing. I’m cracking. The overconfident faced I’ve built up this entire week is ripping to shreds as I see Kade with the girl. And he can’t even take his eyes off her for a second to see me. I’m here, I want to scream. I’m here.

“Use me.”

I snap my attention to Jem. I’m one puzzle piece closer to sobriety. I look at him slowly, waiting for him to say that it’s not true, that he didn’t say anything, that I’m making things up. But he just clenches his jaw, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “You want to him to notice you, right?”

“Wh—” I splutter, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jeremiah Valentine.”

“Are you more wound up than this when you’re sober?”

I make a face, and he tries a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon Indie,” he says, “Let’s give ‘em something to talk about.”

I hesitate, but then I sneak a look back across the room, and Kade still doesn’t have a clue I’m here. The word slips from my lips before I have time to think about it. “Fine,” I say.

Something clicks in Jem’s disposition, because his features darken as he backs off the pool table. “Fine?”

I nod. “Fine.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I know.”

“I have to touch you for it to work.”

“I know.”

He visibly swallows. “Fine.”

His hands edge precariously to my sides, and they settle there lightly. He stares down at me, the silver in his eyes melting in the strobe light.

“Loosen up,” he says. 

“I know how to dance,” I hiss.

“You do?” he goads, brows raising slightly.

“I do.” And just to prove my point, I turn, and spur out his hands from behind me. They’re big, warm, and rough at the edges, and I’m trying to burn them into my memory because I know I’m never going to get to touch him again. The ink starts at his wrists. One or two of the tattoos break free from the skin on his wrist, snaking closer to his knuckles.

But as much as the alcohol gives me fake confidence, it also blurs the details, and I know that I’m not going to remember the exact way Jeremiah Valentine’s hands feel, or look, but I place them on my hips anyway.

And then I move my hips to the beat of whatever song is playing, and then I back further into him. He doesn’t expect it. I know because he stiffens, and his entire body draws taut behind me. His fingers press tighter into my sides, and I feel the pressure of them through the material of my jeans.

And then someone’s whistling, and there’s more than one pair of eyes on us, and when I look across the room, Kade’s looking too.