What if Hayes is finally done with me this time?
“Why so serious, Alysander?” Dylan slurs, stumbling up behind me. His hand brushes the back of my stool, just a little too close to my neck. He’s clearly shit-faced, but at least he got my name right this time.
“Oh... hey, Dylan.”
“Here,” he says, handing me a red Solo cup and then dropping into the stool beside me. “This’ll cheer you up.”
“I’m driving. I really shouldn’t?—”
“Less talking. More drinking.”
He grins and lifts a half-empty bottle of Kora’s favorite wine, pouring generously into my cup, some of it sloshing onto the marble floor.
I stare at my drink for a moment, contemplating. The night has already gone to hell. Maybe a drink is exactly what I need. A little wine. A lot of water. Worst case, I’ll Uber home and come back for my car tomorrow.
“Okay, sure.” I shrug. “Why not?”
The mandarin and caramel notes flood my mouth as I take my first sip. Smooth. Dangerously sweet.
One cup turns into two. Two into three.
And then… I stop thinking altogether.
I forget Hayes is upstairs with Amber. I forget NYU. I forget the crazy letters to my father buried in the back of my mother’s closet. I forget everything except the sharp, sweet rush of distraction.
Soon, everything becomes lovely and amazing.
Even Dylan.
I never liked him much before, but maybe I misjudged him. He’s more charming than I remembered. Handsome, too. I feel weightless and light and happy as I laugh at all his jokes.
The rest of the night unspools in fragments.
Music.
Spinning lights.
Dylan’s hand on my back?—
And then nothing.
Hours later, I wake in bed in an eerily quiet, dark room.
Well, quiet, except for the pounding in my skull.
Sports trophies and gleaming medals line the shelves of the matching oakwood desk and dresser across the room. Football and basketball championships. National archery titles. Fencing awards. Far more accolades than I can count. On the wall in front of me, a 90-inch flat screen is mounted. Beneath it, the latest gaming console and every video game money can buy.
Draped over windows are thick burgundy curtains that blot out the moonlight. A matching duvet and black sheets, silky and soft, drape over my body, woven from the finest Egyptian cotton. Everything here is effortlessly luxe. Perfectly curated. I’ve seen it all so many times before. I know exactly where I am.
Hayes’s room.
Hayes’sbed, technically.
I bolt upright, and a flash of pain slices through my skull.
“Shit, that hurts,” I croak, one hand flying to my temples. My head feels like it’s been dropped into a blender and set to purée.
Then—
