“Oh hey, you don’t fucking have to.”
She glances to Donnelly. “I don’t think frat parties are my thing.”
“Nah?” He assesses Luna, up-and-down, then nods to her. “They’re not mine either.” He pauses. “You okay?”
She shrugs.
“We’re getting out of here,” Donnelly says. “That alright?”
She nods vigorously.
My hand catches and clasps hers.
Luna asks, “How’d you guys know to come?”
“Sulli texted me,” Donnelly says.
“And you butt-dialed me,” I proclaim.
She frowns. “My phone died though.”
“It must’ve been before that.”
Donnelly speaks into his mic, saying something about finding the space babe, the mermaid, and the frog, then he eyes Luna for a long beat before turning to me. “We need to bail. Akara and Banks are outside.”
“They’re okay?”
“Yeah.” His blue eyes drift to the doorway. “But we might have a problem.”
I learn quickly.
The frat guys slashed all of our tires.
We have no way of leaving.
Never did I think this night would end with me, Frog, Luna, Banks, Akara, and Donnelly in my Uncle Connor’s limo. But after Akara had a tow truck take the SUV and its slashed tires back home, he called my uncle.
Apparently, he knew my uncle had a meeting in the area. And Uncle Connor quickly sent his driver to pick us up and take us to the penthouse.
Now we bump along the city streets, and while Luna sprawls upside down, face hidden in her sweatshirt, Donnelly has been sketching on cocktail napkins he found in the limo. Reading glasses perched on his nose.
I’m smushed between Banks and Akara, and I scoop ice from the ice bucket into a baggie. The bottle of champagne catches my eye. But I focus on filling the baggie, then pressing the ice to Banks’ head. A goose egg already forming.
“You wore heels?” Akara says to Frog. “While you were on-duty?”
“You said if I went to a party, I needed to blend in. This is what I wear to parties, Nine.”
“No one’s going to look at your feet, Frog.” He throws up his hands, heated and exasperated, and his eye is already reddened from being punched or elbowed or whatever-the-fuck. Akara keeps checking on me in quick glances, to ensure I’m fine.
He checks on Banks, to ensure he’s fine.
He checks on Frog.
On Luna. On Donnelly.
“Here, Kits. For your eye.” I gather more ice into another little baggie, used I think for trash in the limo. I hand him the ice bag.
He’s distracted on us. “I’m fine.”
“Kits.”
He reluctantly takes the ice, then presses it to his eye and uses the other to glare at his cousin. “No more heels.”
“I seriously think that’s the least of the screw-ups tonight but go on.”
“You’re right. Tovin should’ve never left you. He’s fired.”
Frog eases a little. I already heard that Tovin, the other temp guard, ditched Frog an hour into the party. His friends called him to go hang at a local bar, and he thought that sounded more exciting, I guess. The pay must’ve not been incentive enough.
“You need to take another course in using comms,” Akara says with the shake of his head.
“They’re not easy,” Frog defends. “Like, there has to be a simpler system. Text messaging was invented for a reason.”
“It’s not fast enough.”
“Hello, there’s a thing called emojis.”
Banks laughs.
Akara tries not to smile, and he shakes his head at Banks. Why is my pulse still skidding? Why am I still panicking?
The champagne catches my eye again.
I’ll just drink enough to let tonight go away.
To drift off into the ether.
Maybe it’ll help me sleep. I reach forward and capture the champagne bottle out of the sloshy water. Donnelly and Frog watch me from the other side of the limo.
And I can feel Akara and Banks tense beside me.
“Anyone want champagne?”
Frog shrugs.
“No drinking on-duty,” Akara reminds her.
“I’m almost off-duty. Doesn’t that count?”
“No, and you’re eighteen.”
She groans, “You’re such a dad.”
“I’m not,” he snaps.
“You are,” she snaps back.
Banks is paying more attention to me as I unspool the foil of the champagne neck. I pop the cork, and I press the bottle to my lips.
Gulping and gulping—and then he tears the bottle out of my hands.
“Sulli.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You want some?”
“I want you to stop.” Banks looks pained.
“It’s nothing.” I grab the bottle.
He won’t let go.
We’re in a tug of war. “Banks.”
“Stop.”
“You’re overreacting!” I yell. Why am I yelling?
His eyes redden more. “You don’t need this.”
“I want it. Just like I bet you want a cigarette.”
It’s a low blow. His face twists. “I’ll quit smoking. I’ll quit with you.”
I don’t respond.
I want the champagne tonight.
I need it.
I need it.
“Give it to me,” I say.
Akara cuts in, “Sulli, let go.”
Pain shoots into my chest. Not Kits too. “No—I don’t have a problem. I can prove it.” I tear the bottle out of Banks’ hands. Champagne sloshes on us, but my head spins from all the beer tonight. And I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I want to care even less. So I drink.
And I drink.
I hate myself.
I hate how I empty the contents of the bottle down my throat with total ease. I hate how Akara is staring at me. Like I’m someone he hardly recognizes. Like I’ve morphed into a stranger. Like he wants to shake me and wake me and he can’t see how.
I hate how Banks breathes steady, sharp breaths. Like I’ve staked dagger after dagger into his chest. I hate how he gently pries the empty bottle from my hand and rests a hand on my wet, sticky leg.
How much did I spill?
I hate that I don’t know.
I hate who I am.
I need air.
I need air.
I want out.
Fumbling with buttons, I find the one that opens a portion of the roof. They call my name, but I don’t look or listen. Wobbling, I stand up through the roof—feeling hot, I breathe in the big gusts of air. Night sky and city lights of Philadelphia all around me. We zip fast, and if paparazzi sees me—I don’t care.
I can’t care.
That’s what I wanted right?
Tears squeeze out of my eyes. Drip down my cheeks. The wind takes them, and for a second, I wish the wind would take me.
And then, Akara and Banks are outside. They fit through the sky roof with me. Their arms are around me, and I’m crying on their shoulders. How do I deserve this love tonight? How do I deserve them?
I’m shaking my head as I stare between them, “I don’t want to drink anymore.” My voice breaks. But I repeat the sentiment over and over into their chests. Their arms. Shoulders. Into Philly as the wind whips against us.