“Why ButterBoi69?” Alex asks.
“It’s the name of my favorite cookie restaurant back home.” I shrug. “And 69 was the year my mom was born.”
“Sure, it was.” Troy smirks, and Delilah smacks his arm.
“This explains so much,” Alfie mutters.
“Okay, but can we go back to how Piper's been secretly dominating Alfie at his favorite game for two years?” Troy grins. “This is the best thing I've heard all week.”
“It's intellectual domination only,” I protest, making everyone laugh.
“Title of your sex tape,” Tara shoots back, then immediately covers her mouth. “Sorry, that was?—”
“Perfect.” I laugh. “That was perfect.”
And it is. This whole group of humans who shouldn’t get along, but do.
Six weeks wasn't enough. Six years wouldn't be enough.
“Hey,” Alex says, carefully adjusting Greg's position to catch the last of the sunlight. “Piper, you know you're stuck with us now, right? Group chat, ugly Christmas sweater photos, embarrassing birthday videos—the whole deal.”
“Even when we're spread across the country,” Freddie adds.
“Especially then,” Tara chimes in. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder and the group chat grow weirder.”
“Plus,” Alfie says, still buried under Baxter but maintaining eye contact with me, “we have unfinished chess business. You owe me a rematch without pity.”
“Deal,” I say, my throat tight with emotion.
“This is getting sappy,” Delilah announces, but she's leaning into Troy now, her usual sharp edges softened. “Someone change the subject before I start to cry.” Even when she jokes, she still kinda scares me.
“Too late,” Troy murmurs, and she doesn't even protest when he kisses her forehead.
“You know what we need?” Tara suddenly sits up, nearly elbowing Alfie and causing Baxter to readjust with a huff. “A toast! We can't end college without a proper toast.”
“With what?” I ask. “We have water and whatever's in that questionable pitcher Troy made.”
“The pitcher is a cauldron of my finest remaining alcohol,” Troy defends. “But yeah, probably not toast-worthy.”
Ethan disentangles himself from me and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of champagne that definitely wasn't there before. “I might have hidden this earlier. Figured we'd need it.”
“When did you—” I start.
“I have my ways.” He's already popping the cork, foam threatening to overflow. “Alfie, you're good at words. Make a toast.”
“I'm good at science, not speeches,” Alfie protests.
Of course, this just encourages everyone to chant his name, my guy leading the charge.
“Alfie! Alfie! Alfie!”
“Alright, alright, quiet down.” He's shaking his head but he stands anyway, pulling Tara up with him. “Fine. But if this is terrible, blame peer pressure, not me.”
We all raise our mismatched cups and mugs, champagne fizzing inappropriately in coffee-stained ceramic.
Alfie clears his throat. “Four years ago, we were strangers. Freshmen pretending we knew what we were doing. Troy was still trying to convince people he was just a pretty face?—”
“Still am,” Troy interjects.
