“Say what? You’re dating guys from Academy? I thought you hated Academy?”
“We do, but we don’t hold it against the guys,” Audrey purrs.
“Oh boy. “Why aren’t you together? I mean, you’re pretty and you fit in…?” I ask Isla.
“Carlos,” Isla begins, “doesn’t really go for girls who play sports.” Isla plays volleyball and tennis.
“That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I said,” Audrey exclaims. “He says sporty women are too muscular, and he doesn’t want to be dating someone who could be mistaken for a dude.”
I snort. “Please. There is no mistaking Isla for a dude. Impossible. She’s no She-Hulk. Her muscles are defined and shapely. I’d date you if I were him.”
“Thanks, Jillie,” Isla replies with a soft smile and a blush.
“Screw him if he—”
“He doesn’t know,” Isla blurts out.
“What? Why?”
“She’s afraid,” Audrey answers for her.
“We’re all afraid, but if you don’t toss that fear aside and take a risk, you’re going to miss out on a lot of good things and people,” I remind her.
Isla lifts a brow. “You should take that advice, too.”
I shrug. “I will if you will.”
Audrey perks up.
“Really?” Isla grins.
I shrug again. “Why not? What do I have to lose?” I mean, really, who knows how long I’m going to be here. Likely, not too long. Deployments are usually six months, nine, twelve? I may as well go with it.
“So, if I let him know I’m interested, you’re going to start talking to people and being normal?” Isla asks.
I give her a bland look. “I don’t do normal, but I’ll do my best.”
She holds out her hand and I look at it, hesitating for a second. This could turn out badly for me. Six months. I can do this. I clasp my hand to hers and we shake on it.
“Deal.”
“Deal,” I reply.
“This is going to be so much fun,” Audrey declares.
“Oh boy.”
We make our way to the bonfire and I immediately sit down before I fall down. What are these girls thinking? Me in heels in sand…
“Want a drink?” Audrey asks.
“Yeah, whatever you’re having.” I know it’s going to be alcoholic and I’m good with that. It’s not like I never partied before. I mean, I’m sixteen. Teenagers party. I’ve only gotten falling-down drunk once and my dad didn’t say a word about it. He said cleaning up the puke on the floor in my bathroom while so hungover I could barely see straight was punishment enough. He was right. It took me all day. I had to keep taking breaks to stop myself from vomiting again—unsuccessfully, I might add. I’d rest my head against the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink and fall asleep standing up. I’d scare myself awake when I started to fall over. That hangover lasted three days. Moments I hope to never relive again.
“Here,” Audrey says as she passes me the red plastic cup that has become the symbol for partying.
I sniff it. It doesn’t smell so bad. Fruity. At least it’s not beer. Beer and I don’t work well together.
