From across the room, I see Aaron still watching, his gaze heavier now. He says something to his friends, then starts moving toward us.
I freeze, but Sara and Hunter close ranks, forming a buffer.
“Showtime,” Hunter says, grinning like a madman.
And as the party swirls around me—music, lights, bodies moving in impossible synchronization—I realize I’m not just surviving this night. I’m at the center of it, burning brighter than I ever thought possible.
—ΠΩ—
I’m still riding the adrenaline aftershock of the contest, which I apparently lost to Lady Thor, when Hunter finds us in the kitchen. His eyes flicker with the kind of wild glee that means he’s already five steps ahead. He’s sweating only slightly, which for Hunter means he’s in total control. He grabs two cups, sloshes them full of the blue punch, and leans in.
“Montgomery,” he says, “I have a once-in-a-lifetime shortcut for you.”
I shake my head before he finishes the sentence. “That’s what the costume contest was supposed to be.”
He ignores me, flashes a smile at Sara—who cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed—then continues, “There’s a game in theback room. Classic party tradition. You go in, you get paired with a stranger, and the lights are out. You kiss, then you’re both free to go. No questions asked, no explanations, no names.”
I snort. “You want me to kiss a total stranger?”
Sara makes a face, halfway between skeptical and curious. “What’s the catch?”
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “No catch. One kiss and you’re done. It’ll satisfy the terms of the bet. You make an appearance, you participate, then you can peace out early. Everyone wins.”
I stare at my drink. The cup sweats in my grip, the plastic warped into an oval where my thumb presses into the seam. I try to picture it—me, in this Jessica getup, stumbling into a closet with some random Pi Omega pledge and swapping spit for a laugh. The thought is enough to make my scalp crawl, or maybe that’s just the wig again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What if it’s someone I know?”
Hunter shrugs. “Who cares? That’s the beauty of it.”
Sara looks at me sideways. “Where’s the harm? I say go for it. And you can blame the punch if it goes sideways.”
Hunter beams at her, victorious. “See? Even Sara agrees.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Hunter is already moving, signaling with two fingers to someone across the room. “Gotta get in line, though. It’s a crowd-pleaser. Come on.”
He steers us out of the kitchen and down a hallway lit by blacklight, the walls plastered with old event flyers and neon graffiti. Each step sinks my resolve a little deeper, but I keep walking, afraid of the spectacle if I bail now.
The back room is dim, filled with low, predatory laughter and the sound of a playlist even worse than the one in the living room. A couple of guys in sports jerseys lean against the wall, snickering at each other. There’s a short line by a black curtain. A sheet of notebook paper tacked to the door says “KISSING CLOSET: CONSENT = SEXY” in Sharpie.
Hunter positions me at the end of the line. “I’ll be right back,” he says, then disappears.
Sara, for once, seems at a loss for words. She fiddles with her phone, then glances up at me. “How are you doing?” she says quietly.
“Fine,” I lie. “Totally fine.”
“You want to leave?”
“I wouldn’t be in this line if I didn’t.” I glance up as a costumed couple exits the closest. “It’s just a kiss. Right?”
“Right.” She squeezes my forearm. Her hand is steady, but I can see her chewing the inside of her cheek, the way she does before a difficult quiz or a bad date. “If you want me to run interference, I can.”
The idea is comforting, but I’m not sure what that would even look like. “Maybe just wait out here. In case I collapse.”
She gives me a crooked grin. “Deal.”
The line inches forward. A girl in a toga repeats the instructions to the next person: “You go in, the lights are off, someone from the other line will enter. You have sixty seconds, and then you both come out. The safe word is ‘jalapeño.’”
Two people enter separately, one from my line and one from a line around the corner, then a minute later, they emerge—sometimes giggling, sometimes stone-faced, sometimes refusing to look at each other at all. The anticipation is worse than the deed, I decide.
