I’m a junior who feels like a freshman playing pretend.
Kai opens the front door, and the noise hits me like a tidal wave. Warm air. Too much perfume. Sweat. Too many bodies packed too close. Colored lights flash in the living room in a way that makes my eye twitch. Someone bumps my shoulder and doesn’t apologize. The bass thuds in my chest like a second heartbeat. My fingers curl into my sleeves on their own.
Kai dips his head close. “Stick with me.”
“I was planning to,” I say. “I’m not a pioneer.”
He snorts, then steers us through the crowd like he’s cutting through the defensive zone. He’s good at this—finding gaps, reading movement, making space. People shift out of his way without him having to ask.
Not because he’s scary. Because he’s respected. And judging by the googly-eyed girls tracking him like he’s a prize…also very wanted.
Gross.
We make it into the kitchen, and it’s somehow worse in here because it’s smaller yet louder. The counters are lined with cups and a sticky puddle on the floor that everyone seems to be ignoring. A girl in a sparkly top is laughing too loud to be natural, and the guy next to her is smirking like he already knows his night plans are locked in.
Double gross.
Someone bumps into me again, and my brain starts categorizing automatically:
Noise. Too much.
Smell. Too much.
Light. Too much.
People. Too much.
I swallow and paste on a smile anyway.
Masking is the sport I never asked to play.
Kai opens the fridge and presses a soda into my hand without asking. He knows I don’t drink. Not that he would ever pressure me. Kai does that—acts like he’s controlling everything when really he’s building guardrails to keep me from sliding backward into the dark hole I clawed my way out of.
As I flip the can over, my mind balks at the fact that it isn't a diet soda, but I can feel my brother’s eyes still watching, and the last thing I want is to cause a scene in front of his friends.
“Drink,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, popping the tab. The fizz is louder than I expect, and I flinch. Kai pretends not to notice.
“Better?” he asks, like he didn’t just clock it anyway.
“Totally,” I lie.
The kitchen doorway fills with bodies—guys coming in laughing and shoving, all broad shoulders and backward hats and the kind of confidence that makes me want to throw up a little.
Hockey players.
My brother’s people.
Which is funny, because I’ve developed quite the allergy to the same breed.
They spot us immediately.
“Kai!”
He gets slapped on the shoulder. Someone chirps him about last weekend’s game, their season opener. Someone else calls him a grandpa for showing up “early.” Kai answers with minimal words and maximum presence, like he’s saving his energy for things that matter.
I hover half behind him like a shy, anxious accessory. I hate it, but I also don’t know how to stop doing it.
