“Thanks,” I murmur, taking a sip. It burns, sharp and sweet.
I take a slow look around. The girls already in Delta Phi are a blur of sequins and denim shorts, perfectly tousled hair and glittery eyeliner. The ones hoping to pledge—like me—stand out in their nervousness. Clutching plastic cups. Fidgeting. Smiling too wide.
Bella’s easy to spot. She’s in the middle of the room, down to her bra and panties, hula-hooping while she sips beer straight from the bottle. The crowd cheers her on, the hoop circling her hips like liquid gold under the string lights. Her co-captains—two tall girls with matching ponytails—clap and laugh beside her.
It’s chaos, but it’s the kind of chaos that hums with life.
Someone yells, “Shots!” and suddenly there’s a tray being passed around. I take one because everyone else does. The tequila hits hard, burning all the way down, and I can’t help but grin after it. Maybe this is what I needed. Maybe this—this noise, this light, this total abandon—is the real college experience.
For a few minutes, I let it be that. I laugh when someone trips near the kitchen. I dance for a song or two with the freckled girl who gave me my drink. For a moment, I even forget about all my problems.
Because my brain keeps drifting—to him, yes, but also to the hollow ache of home. To my father sitting in some cell, his once-expensive suits replaced by an orange jumpsuit. To my mother’s voice over the phone, soft and strange, saying,“I’ve started baking again, darling. The neighbors love my bread.”
She sounded happy. Or maybe she was just pretending.
It’s almost dystopian, the way life just keeps moving forward after it implodes. My father’s in prison. My mother’s in Paris. And I’m here in a sorority house surrounded by glitter and bass and beer foam, pretending this is normal.
I finish the rest of my drink in one go.
The downstairs bathroom’s crowded, laughter and whispers spilling out through the half-open door. I peek in, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There are definitely four people in there. Two on the sink, two against the wall. Limbs. Hands. Kisses that sound too loud.
“Sorry!” I laugh, backing out fast. “Didn’t mean to—uh—interrupt.”
Someone calls after me, “You can join if you want!” and the hallway erupts in laughter.
I shake my head, cheeks burning, and climb the staircase instead.
Upstairs is quieter. The music muffles into a dull throb, like a heartbeat under water. I glance at the framed photos along the wall—girls in matching costumes, arms slung around each other, fake blood and witch hats everywhere. Apparently, Delta Phi has a serious Halloween obsession. Every photo is filled with cobwebs, pumpkins, vintage horror filters, slutty outfits. This isgirlhood.
It makes my chest ache. If my father hadn’t ruined everything, maybe I’d have pictures like that with some of my closest girlfriends. Maybe my biggest worry would’ve been what costume to wear to the fall formal, not which parent still answers the phone.
I swallow the thought and head toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door’s closed. I wait.
When it finally opens, I step forward, and nearly walk straight into him.
Blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. The bartender from The Crest. I’ve also seen him on the ice and around school… but the most important memory is that of him, cock down some girl’s throat.
Jamie.
My brain scrambles for words. “Oh. Hi.”
He looks at me for a beat, and then his mouth curves. “Chloe, right?”
Why am I so excited over the fact that he knows my name? Oh, I’m definitely drunk.
“Jamie,” I say, my voice weirdly breathless. “Is this our thing now? Bumping into each other in bathrooms?”
His grin widens, that familiar boyish mischief flickering through. “Guess so.” He leans against the doorframe, casual in a way that feels practiced. “For the record, last time wasn’t what it looked like.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, really?”
He lifts a hand in surrender. “Swear. I was conducting a… medical checkup.”
I laugh. “You’re horrible at lying.”
“I am,” he admits easily, hands up.
Something about him—his ease, his humor—cuts through the static in my head. I shouldn’t feel lighter, not after the day I’ve had, but I do. The hallway light catches in his hair, and for a second the noise from downstairs fades.
