Someone stumbles between us—shower curtain girl, now missing several rubber duckies. The interruption breaks the standoff momentarily.
“Babe, let’s get some air,” Harper says, pulling at Miles’s arm. His toga slips further. Harper rolls her eyes and heads out.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, not looking at her. His focus is entirely on Piper. “I need to talk to you.Please, Pipes. Tomorrow?”
The audacity of this guy.
“She’s busy tomorrow,” I say before Piper can respond. “We have plans.”
“We do?” Piper glances up at me.
“That thing. With Greg. Remember?” I squeeze her hand, hoping she plays along.
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Right. The thing. With Greg. Can’t miss that.”
Miles looks between us like we’re speaking in code. Which, technically, we are.
“Greg?” The disdain in his voice is palpable.
“My houseplant.”
“Greg’s very social,” Piper deadpans. “Books up fast.”
I could kiss her for that. Actually, I could kiss her for lots of reasons, but that’s a dangerous thought path.
Harper finally succeeds in calling Miles outside, though he keeps glancing back. The moment they’re swallowed by the crowd, Piper sags against me.
“That was...”
“Weird,” I suggest.
“I was going to say awful, but yeah. Weird works.” She looks up at me. “Do we actually have plans tomorrow?”
“We do now. Can’t leave Greg hanging.”
She laughs, but it’s shaky. “I need a drink. Or five.”
“The punch is probably pure vodka by now.”
“Perfect.”
We make our way toward the kitchen, her hand still in mine. I tell myself it’s for show, in case Miles is watching. I’m getting good at lying to myself.
The kitchen is in chaos. Someone’s doing body shots off what appears to be a periodic table made of jello shots. Freddie’s explaining his brownie recipe to a very high sophomore. Troy and Alex are engaged in an arm-wrestling match on the counter.
“Ethan!” Troy shouts, spotting us. “Tell Alex that I absolutely let her win!”
“You absolutely did not let me win,” Alex retorts. “Piper, back me up here. Women can be strong too, right?”
“The strongest,” Piper agrees, grabbing two cups of punch.
She hands me one, and we toast silently before drinking. It tastes like Hawaiian Punch had a baby with rubbing alcohol.
“Jesus!” I cough. “Who made this?”
“Chemistry majors,” Freddie calls out.
“That explains the periodic table,” Piper mutters.
