I grab her hand instantly, the heat from her palm and the complementary butterflies that spawn silencing the voice of worry in the back of my head. A gunshot to my self-sabotaging thoughts, muffled by the chamber’s suppressor. A clean kill. Quiet.
“Ace, you look fucking incredible,” I assure her, dewy-eyed admiration smoldering through my veins—a warmth akin to the marigold hues of a paint-splattered sunset.
Who am I right now? I’ve never given a girl a compliment if it wasn’t about her rack or ass.
She perks up a bit. “I do?”
“Yeah, you do. I already know you’re going to blow everyone away at this party, so why don’t we go in there and show the people just how lucky of a guy I am?”
“You know you don’t have to say any of this, right? Nobody can hear us.”
I brush my thumb over the apple of her peony-pink cheek, sliding a genuine beam her way. I can’t tell if her skin is pebbling from the cold or the contact. Touching her like this is a covenant to touch her forever.
“Not everything has to be a performance.”
Staten’s lips peel apart to say something, but she’s cut off by an incoming mob of scantily clad students shepherding us toward the entrance.
Once we stumble over the threshold, the smell of body odor and booze pollutes my nostrils immediately. Diaphanous moonlight is traded for neon-colored LEDs, every singleseating area occupied by handsy couples who are tongue-deep down each other’s throats.
An impressive cache of alcohol is easily accessible to impressionable twenty-somethings, and those who aren’t partaking in light conversation are sweating out water retention on the crowded dance floor. The feng shui of it all is underwhelming—paint-thin walls, a floor so tarnished in grime that there’s no telling if that mystery stain is a spilled drink or some bodily fluid, moth-eaten couches, and overexposed Bud Light posters that cover up unsightly cracks in the foundation.
I lead her with my hand on the small of her back, clobbering any suspicion that the two of us are nothing but friends. The dissonance of whispers rends the THC-infused atmosphere, the tracking of raptorial gazes reminiscent of the first time Staten and I met—where sensationalized rumors touched base in the hub of a restless crowd.
Nobody would’ve expected that Little Miss Straight A’s would be providing charitable service to the broken boy light-years away from her league. From the outside eye, people probably think the opposite.
I don’t know what over-exaggerated commentary will emerge in Mustang Mania’s gossip column tomorrow, but I hope the delivery is merciless.
A few Alpha Phi girls glower at me—past conquests, unfortunately—and harp amongst themselves, probably using some kind of collective coven witchcraft to mentally curse me for the wrongs I’ve committed against half of their sorority.
And to my utter dismay, I recognize a couple of one-night stands who focus all their efforts on unimpressed perusals of my fake girlfriend—nothing but broody hens clucking and ruffling their feathers in fierce intimidation.
Protectiveness cracks through my chest like frostbite. I need to get Staten away from them as soon as possible.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, guiding her with a careful touch. I won’t be the one to break her. Not this time.
Uncertainty stilts her words. “Uh, sure.”
I nod at the giant keg in the corner. “Great. Beer? It’s kind of all they have.”
Taking her polite, stiff smile as acquiescence, I ferry her over to the less populated area where the cloying scent of malt interferes with the air quality. I shove a red Solo cup under the nozzle, hit the tap, and watch as a runnel of amber liquid splashes against internal grooves.
I have no idea what to say to her. I feel this inherent responsibility to make sure she has a good time tonight, and that’s a feat in itself considering a frat party isn’t really the ideal place to get to know someone.
Aside from the diamond-forming pressure, it’s so stuffy in here that I can barely pull a breath through my nose, my heart is a hiccupping mess unattributable to one too many IPAs, and I feel as if I’m an overworked conduit for both Staten’s and my anxiety.
“Are you having fun?” I blurt out of nowhere.
When she looks up at me, it’s like her brain pops back online. “We just got here.”
Shit. Nice going, Knox.
“No, right. I know that. I just meant…you know, if you’re not having fun, we don’t have to be here. We can blow this popsicle stand and do whatever you want. I’m good with anything. No pressure. It’s really up to you. But if you want to stay, that’s totally fine too.”
Staten’s eyes trail to the drink that’s still gripped in my hand, and I don’t even realize it’s overflowing before she points it out.
“You’re spilling,” she tells me, stepping back just an increment to avoid the splash zone.
Warm, sticky beer slathers my hand, thin rivulets conveningbeneath my wrist and dripping in one long stream onto the already-stained floorboards. Humiliated, I instantly flip the nozzle, and I reach for a conveniently placed stack of napkins to mop up my gaffe.
