Page 27 of Lovefool

Unfortunately for me, Ellaria has become a Lake expert after extensive studying, and she is fine-tuned to every tell I have. “You wouldn’t ask me to go with you to a party if something wasn’t seriously wrong. Admit it, you need emotional backup.”

As I glance out my window, an omen crackles in the gray-bellied sky, darkening stratocumulus with strokes of pitch-black oil pastels.

“Even if I wanted something to happen tonight, there’s no guarantee anything will.”

“Come on, the two of you have already seen each other half-naked.”

“Gasp! I told you that in confidence!”

My pathetic supplicating transforms into a much-needed motivational talk, and my best friend casts a metaphorical reel to save me from the bottomless depths of self-doubt. “You’re Lake fucking Capitano. You have enough sex appeal to make a monk break his vow of celibacy. If Sutton can’t see what’s right in front of him, then he’s an idiot, which is why you should whip out your sexiest dress and show him what he’s missing. If you want a kiss tonight, make yourself irresistible.”

I do want a kiss. I want a long, hard, passionate kiss from the one man I can’t stop thinking about. And if he wants to rip my clothes off Bridgerton-style and confess his undying admiration for me, I wouldn’t be opposed.

I know just the dress Ellaria is talking about. All black, short hem, plunging neckline, cinches around my waist and makes me look like I got a few ribs removed. It’s the dress that gave Buford an inferiority complex whenever we would go out together—which wasn’t a lot. If Sutton doesn’t cream his pants when he sees me, I’ve failed.

I must’ve gotten my signature I’m-about-to-fuck-shit-up-and-make-it-everyone’s-problem look in my eyes because Ellaria shares a complementary expression of mischief. My confidence comes swinging into the picture with the force of a mallet.

I’ll get the inside scoop, make a move on Sutton, and be out of Sigma Chi’s house before midnight. The plan is seamless. Not even anxiety’s relentless undertow could wick me into the ocean.

My pussy is ready for action (wishful thinking), I have enough adrenaline surging through me to kill a cow, and every reservation Sutton has stuffed in the rafters of his skull are about to come crashing down.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

Sigma Chi and I have a…complicated…relationship. Once a piss-smelling vessel used to mollify me on the loneliest of nights, it’s now a popularized staple where everyone goes to drink their problems away or make out with a stranger that they’ll inevitably never see again.

The womb of the two-story house throbs with obnoxious EDM music, a myriad of stains glutting every conceivable surface. Untainted air is scarce, my breath frays while a spate of nerves make themselves known in the pit of my belly, and my latent hatred for social events on par with the size of a small, underground concert supplicates me to turn around and evacuate the premises as soon as possible.

With sweat lacquering my forehead, I shove my way into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of hard liquor, needing this bad boy to dull the edge before I strangle the next person who rams into me.

Tequila. Nothing top shelf, obviously. It’s lukewarm, artificially too sweet, and singes my stomach lining after one consecutive chug.

Ellaria watches me with a grimace. “You good?”

Call it the placebo effect, but I swear this shit is already kicking in. “Huh? Oh, me? Yeah, I’m good.”

“You never drink hard liquor right out the gate. Is this about Sutton?”

“It’s not about Sutton,” I insist through a tooth-bound grievance, realizing a second too late that there’s not enough food in my belly to sponge up the violent stream of alcohol I just guzzled down.

It’s not about him, nor is it about my bruised ego. We’re not together. He didn’t invite me to this party, even though it was broadcasted all over his teammates’ socials that they’d be in attendance tonight with their significant others. It doesn’t mean anything. They probably have plans afterwards or something.

Careful, Lake. Your jealousy is showing.

After a few more drinks, I needle my travel-sized notepad out of my dress pocket like a true journalist, beginning to make my rounds, and jotting down the underwhelmingly predictable behaviors of MU’s so-called “gods.”

Beer pong champions. Sex fiends. Cocaine enthusiasts—shit, I can’t include that.

All of it is rather redundant, but the good news is that I’m exceeding my tolerance and passing the state line of tipsy. It takes a lot to slow me down.

Ellaria has been by my side the entire night, keeping an eye on me like I’m a five-foot-seven toddler determined to open all the child locks and stick my chubby fingers into all the prohibited substances.

She’s pulling me behind her to weave single file through the dense mass of people before something stops her in her tracks. There are too many heads in the way for me to pinpoint her distress.

“Let’s turn back. We should go over there,” she shouts over the music, switching gears and reorienting me a full one-eighty. The panic in her tone piques my curiosity, and, as usual, I heed her warning with a grain of salt.

Thanks to my slippery reflexes, I squat underneath her arm, start shuffling, and use the congested throng of partygoers to my advantage. We break apart pretty easily, and sure enough, when I make it to my first checkpoint not overflowing with inebriated college students, the hockey team is posted up near one of the windows.

Maybe I was subconsciously manifesting my own destiny, but Sutton is standing front and center before me, graciously silhouetted by a navy-blanketed sky festering with a glaucous bloom of heavy storm clouds. He laughs at something one of his teammates says, his cheeks puckering with an ear-to-ear grin that I wish was directed at me.