“You alright?”
I nod, finishing off my beer. I collect an unopened beer can off a fold-out table and pop the tab. Chugging. Something is in Banks’ eyes that I try to ignore.
Concern? I don’t fucking know.
You do know.
I don’t.
I don’t.
We check the living room, the dining room, and the den to no avail. Passing the laundry room, I hear deep grunts and overenthusiastic moans. My face contorts. No. That can’t be her. Banks adjusts his earpiece and looks faraway before telling me, “Akara will be here in five.”
Third beer. I pop the tab.
I drink.
Banks is stressed.
I’m making him stressed.
I reach for a fourth beer before I’ve even finished the third. The knots in my stomach won’t subside and go away. Go away. Find Luna.
I drink.
“Where the fuck are Frog and Tovin?” Banks questions huskily, glancing around.
We’ve returned to the living room. “We must keep passing them.” I sip and look. Sip—
“Oh my God that’s Banks and Sullivan!”
Oh.
Fuck.
I freeze.
Banks draws me to his chest. I hide. I bury my face into his jacket. My pulse is jumping as girls shriek, “What are you doing here?!”
“Oh my God!”
“Can I have a picture?!”
“Where’s Akara?!”
People cram around us. I feel them pushing. Touching. “Banks,” I choke out.
“Back up!” Banks yells caustically, shoving. He shoves people back.
I roll my face to the left. Peeking. Holy fuck…college students circle us with their phones out, recording and snapping photos. Like we’re about to break dance.
Instead, we’re stone-cold statues.
And they just keep videotaping us.
Banks has a protective hand on my head. I’m afraid to leave him. To break away. But the music grows louder and the drunken shouting is inarticulate. I piece some apart.
“SULLI!”
“SHE’S MY BESTIE!”
“FUCK ME, BANKS!”
He’s mine.
Fuck you.
Hands are on me again. Banks tears them off, and I hear an angered frat bro bark, “Hey, don’t touch my girl, man!”
And another guy yells, “Just let us take pictures with Sullivan!”
“Let us fuck her!” Laughter.
Banks is pissing off the frat guys as much as they’re pissing off Banks.
“Fuck you!” my boyfriend yells what I want to but struggle to scream.
“We hear she likes multiple dudes! Is that why she’s here?!”
A guy reaches for my ass.
Banks catches his wrist, twists, and socks him in the nose.
“Ohhhh!” the crowd reacts and winces.
And then, the frat brothers all seem to swarm us.
“Sulli, go,” Banks whispers against my ear. He literally puts my hand into another hand. Who’s fucking hand is this? It doesn’t feel like Akara’s hand. It’s too small.
I hold tighter, trusting Banks, and when I risk a glance backwards, I see Banks in a full-on fucking brawl. With four frat brothers. Smashing into beer pong tables. Into furniture. Throwing punch after punch.
“Kits,” I breathe.
Akara has entered the frat house. He’s pushing towards Banks, to help him. I’m being pulled, dragged, away from my boyfriends.
And when I face forward—that’s when I see the long, pin-straight black hair.
She steals a bucket hat off a drunken dude, passed out on the staircase. Without turning, she passes me the hat.
I replace my Eagles cap with the bucket hat, and she swipes an abandoned leather jacket off the banister. After she hands me the jacket, I slip my arms through, spilling some beer, and she reclasps my hand.
“I saw her last this way.” She climbs up another flight of stairs. The third-level.
“Ahhh! Ahhhhh! Fuck me, yes, right there.”
As we pass that room, I peek through the ajar door. A redhead. Definitely not Luna. I chug the rest of my fourth beer and crumple the can.
Banks and Akara are in a frat fight.
Luna is missing.
My pulse is still haywire.
“Frog,” I finally say.
She spins around. Meeting my gaze for the first time tonight. Whenever I see Frog, I’m blown back and think, wow, Akara has family. I’ve never met his mom or any relatives until now. And besides being Thai, Frog looks like Akara. They have the same photogenic features that verge on delicate but also strong. Like they could simultaneously laugh and throw a punch.
Wispy cat-eyeliner highlights her brown eyes, and her earpiece is hidden behind her hair. Where’d she put her radio? A spaghetti strap red dress hugs her thin frame, and she’s barefoot?
I frown more. “How’d you lose Luna?”
Frog sighs, “She ran. I had to ditch my heels. Wait—there they are.” She snatches four-inch heels out from under a hallway bench. Less college students are up here, and I avoid their drunken glances as they pass.
I leave Frog to knock on doors. “It’s me!” I shout, knowing Luna will recognize my voice.
“Not you too. Slow down,” Frog orders.
I don’t slow. “It’s me! It’s me!”
“I think she might be hiding in a bathroom.”
Where’s the other temp? Before I even think to ask, a familiar face enters the hall from the other side. Ripped jeans, an old Van Halen shirt, chestnut brown hair and tattoos—Paul fucking Donnelly is here. He opens doors, not even giving courtesy knocks like me.
“You see Luna Hale?”
“Luna Hale is here?”
He shuts the door.
Opens another, does the same.
Just as we meet in the middle, Donnelly opens a door, and I peer inside with him.
“Come on, baby. Open up,” a drunken dude curses. “I’m sorry, baby. I won’t be mad at you anymore. I know it was an accident.”
Frog whispers to Donnelly, “That’s him. She’s in there.”
I’m about to bum-rush the fucking room. Grab my cousin—wherever she is, but as soon as I step through the doorway, Frog wraps her arms around me.
Sorry, Frog.
I rip out of her hold.
Stronger.
A lot fucking stronger, and she curses as I barrel ahead. But Donnelly has already reached the six-foot-something brown-haired frat boy. Beer stains his Polo shirt, and his face is reddened in alcohol-induced rage. Or maybe just pure rage.
He’s mid-pound on the bathroom door when Donnelly calls out, “Luna, you in there?”
“Donnelly?” Luna sounds hopeful.
“Back off, dude,” the guy tries to shove Donnelly, and Donnelly decks him once, twice, and the lights go out. He thumps loudly to the floor.
I rush to the bathroom and jiggle the locked knob. “Luna? It’s me!”
“Sulli?!” I hear her race to the door.
“Donnelly knocked the guy out.” I barely release the words, and Luna swings open the door. I wrap my arms around my cousin.
She clutches tight, and I clutch tighter. “Are you hurt, Luna?” I ask, tears welling.
“No, he was just…I thought he…he was just really angry over nothing…” She pulls back. Mascara is smudged under her amber eyes. Glitter streaks uneven on her cheeks. Her fishnets are ripped, but maybe on purpose. Frayed jean shorts are wet. Her Thrashers sweatshirt hangs oversized on her frame. “We were dancing. I spilt beer on him by accident.” Her voice shakes. “…I don’t want to talk about it…”