She holds up her cup. “Already set, but thanks.” Then she gives me a sly wink, melts back into the crowd, and leaves me alone with him. No! This is not what I want! But I manage to smile wanly at the frat boy.
Meanwhile, Clay doesn’t bother asking if I want a drink. He just puts a big, warm hand on the small of my back and steers me toward the kitchen, like it’s a done deal. His grip is firm, just this side of possessive, and for a second I have to fight the urge to pull away.
In the kitchen, the air is even hotter, and the counters are crowded with kids in various stages of intoxication. He grabs a Solo cup, fills it to the brim with foam, and hands it to me. I take a sip, then grimace at the taste: cheap beer, flat, and laced with something like orange peel. But I hold onto the cup anyway. That’s what girls do at parties, right? They always have something to sip.
He leans in, voice pitched low so only I can hear. “You look really hot tonight, Mary. I mean, Kate.”
I grimace with a smile, stalling by tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Um, thanks.”
He moves closer, his hand still at my back, thumb drawing slow circles. I glance up at him, and for a second, I can’t help but compare him to Kent. Clay is younger, but he smells like Axe body spray and gym socks, and the way he looks at me is pure calculation.
But Clay has changed tactics, and evidently the frat boy wants to dance. He guides me into the living room, where a makeshift dance floor has been set up — basically just a cleared space between the couch and the TV. The music is so loud it vibrates the windows, every beat a physical force. Clay sets his drink down, grabs my hand, and pulls me into the mass of gyrating bodies.
I let him lead. His hands are solid at my hips, steering me to the beat. For a minute, it almost feels good, to lose myself in the noise, to be just another girl at another party, to pretend that I’m not the prey. The bass thumps in my chest, rattling my ribs, and the heat of the room blurs the edges of everything. Clay spins me, then pulls me back against his chest. His arms circle my waist. We move in tandem, sweaty and a little awkward, but not unpleasant.
I shut my eyes and let the lights blur, let the crowd swallow me up. My head is spinning, but in a good way. I think, for a second, about Kent: the way he would have hated this place, the way he would have pulled me out by the wrist and slammed the door behind us, and the way I would have loved that, secretly.
Clay leans down, his lips at my ear, breath warm. “You’re a good dancer.”
I laugh, and the sound vibrates in my chest. “I’m terrible. You’re just drunk.”
He pulls me closer, one hand splayed on my lower back, the other tracing the edge of my waistband. I feel the heat of his palm even through the fabric. He’s not shy about it. He’s not even pretending.
I let it happen, because this is what college is supposed to be. Right? You go to a party, you let a boy hold you, you drink something cheap and pretend it’s the best night of your life.
I open my eyes, and the world snaps back into focus. There’s a moment, brief but sharp, where I see myself from the outside: a blonde in a skanky outfit and cowboy boots, pressed up against a guy she barely knows, trying not to think about how easy it would be for someone to take a photo, to send it to my stepfather, to make him hate me.
I shake the thought off. I force myself to have fun.
I turn to face Clay, hand braced on his chest, and for the umpteenth time I notice the acne along his jaw, the patch of unshaven hair just below his lip, the scar that bisects his left eyebrow. He’s not perfect, but he’s real, and right now, that’s fine. I’m having fun. I swear it.
The song ends, the next one even louder, and Clay pulls me off the floor, laughing. “You’re a natural,” he says.
I smile wanly, catching my breath. “Thanks.”
He looks down at me, like he’s sizing me up for something. “Want to see something cool?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
He takes my hand, leads me toward the stairs. The party rages behind us, but up here, it’s quieter. The lights are dimmer, the air cooler. For a moment, Kent’s warning rings in my head.“Don’t go upstairs. Nothing good happens upstairs.” But I brush the warning away because I’m feeling good, actually. Maybe it’s the gummy, maybe the alcohol, or maybe the dancing, but I feel relaxed, so I decide to go. Clay and I climb together, our steps rhythmic.
Maybe this isn’t so bad.
Maybe I could get used to it.
Maybe Kent will never know.
The first thingClay says is, “You ever play Pac-Man?” but he’s already pulling me up the stairs like it’s his job. His hand stays locked around my wrist, thumb pressed so tight I can feel the pulse in his palm. I follow, because that’s what I do, and also because it’s hot as a sauna in the living room and the gummy I ate with Emmeline is sending tiny glitter bombs through my bloodstream.
The stairs are narrow and steep, each step bowed from a century of frat feet. There’s a single bulb overhead, swinging on a frayed cord. It’s so dim that my eyes have to adjust, everything going blue around the edges. We pass a landing which leads into a hallway with a bunch of shut doors, and then go up again, to another landing with another hallway of shut doors.
“Those are the bedrooms,” Clay says. “But we’re headed to the attic. You’re going to love it. We have so many insane arcade games and some of these games are worth fortunes. Even better, they still work,” he quips with a grin.
Okay, this isn’t so bad. I guess the frat has a rec room upstairs. It’s likely foosball, sports memorabilia on the walls, regular guy stuff. It’s going to be fine.
We go up another flight, this one tighter, less traveled. The music from the party recedes to a background pulse, more heartbeat than melody, and the air gets dry and weirdly electric, like the charge before a thunderstorm. My boots slip on the last tread, but Clay catches me, his grip steady.
At the top, a hallway. There are no doors, just three blank walls and, at the end, a single battered door with a strip of yellow light under it. I half expect to hear the blip and whine of an arcade game, but instead it’s something deeper, a kind of chanting. Maybe even cheering. That’s weird. Is football on this late?
