Inside is the Stanford mascot suit.
The Tree.
I stare at it.
Then at them.
"You're joking."
"Nope."
"Absolutely not."
"Too late," Kane says, already walking toward the door. "Party's starting."
Twenty minutes later I'm sweating inside ten pounds of foam and fake leaves.
The Tree head bobs dangerously every time I walk.
Everywhere I go people cheer.
Because drunk college students love mascots.
Someone hands me a drink.
I pretend to sip.
Another guy throws beads around my neck.
Someone shouts, "TREE! TREE! TREE!"
This is my life now.
I'm halfway through regretting every decision that led me here when I see her.
Stella.
Across the backyard near the fire pit.
Hair pulled up tonight, soft tendrils escaping around her face and curling against the back of her neck like an invitation. Oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder — that shoulder, bare and golden in the firelight. A can of fizzy water in her hand while everyone else is pounding beer.
Still Stella.
Still the only person in the crowd not trying to be part of the crowd.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with ten pounds of foam.
She hasn't seen me.
Perfect.
I shuffle closer in full mascot glory.
She glances up.
Then laughs.
Actually laughs — head tipping back, throat exposed, the kind of laugh that punches me somewhere low and warm.
