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Inside, she accepted a red Solo cup with vodka and Coke, and though she wasn’t going to drink it, she wasn’t going to turn it down. No one was drunk enough yet to start grinding to the music, and the house was only half full. Analise wondered where Conner’s parents were. She wondered if Taylor was going to come. She wondered why she cared.

Dave spoke in her ear and sent a spark down her neck. “Let’s hang out.” He led her up the marbled stairs, and her socked feet sunk into the white cushy carpet on the landing. She took a nauseating sip of her drink as he led her into a bedroom. It looked like a magazine spread she’d seen in a copy of Good Housekeeping at Missy’s house. Analise thought of her home, where every room had a function, along with every object, none of which were meant solely for eye appeal.

Dave set his drink down and turned on a lamp. It cast the room in a shadowy glow. He flopped onto the bed. It felt like they were in a furniture store. The cream-stitched duvet looked more expensive than an entire year’s worth of rent.

“Analise Berglund,” Dave said. His large white smile brushed thrills down her skin. “Where have you been all my life?”

Analise sat on the edge of the bed and told herself if Dave kissed her, he’d know instantly how bad she was at it. Her Homecoming date from Bandland, Ross, had kissed her. He scraped his teeth around her lips, dispelling all romantic notions that kissing was pleasurable. But Missy told her that there were good kissers and bad kissers.

Analise touched the vodka-Coke to her lips, licking the pungent drops. Where’s my purse?

Dave set her drink on the nightstand. She slid a Homes & Garden magazine under the cup and scooted next to him, hoping he’d remembered the condom. He turned her cheek and kissed her on the mouth.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Analise

Dave linked their fingers when they left the bedroom.

By that time, the house was brimming and pulsating with teenagers liquored up on alcohol, hormones, and weekend relief.

No one said anything to Dave and Analise, but she interpreted every glance in their direction. An easy lay is what they were thinking. But if anyone asked what she and Dave had been doing, she would’ve been honest. Just kissing. Sort of. With the one person she’d crushed on so hard. For so long. But she’d felt nothing. Worse than nothing—she had winced in pain, and he pulled his fingers from her underwear. “We can go slower next time,” he said with a smooch. Maybe she’d built an unrealistic fantasy? She’d have to give it time. That’s all.

Dave downed his drink, dropped himself into a couch corner next to Conner Patterson, and pulled Analise onto his lap. To Conner he said, “You know Ana, right?”

Conner rolled his eyes at Dave as if to say, of course I know Ana, and acknowledged Analise with a jut of his chin. She smiled, never recalling exchanging even a single word with Conner. He didn’t play any sports, but his dad owned a GT-3000, Lamborghini, and a Hummer and let Conner’s friends drive them.

Analise fiddled with the strings on her cross-country jacket, working to find a comfortable dip in Dave’s lap. It felt unnatural and forced, and she scanned the partygoers. Missy was surrounded, and most others were dancing, something Analise considered to be a cruel and unusual social norm for rhythmically challenged teenagers such as herself.

It was almost eleven o’clock, and Dave was buzzing. His words grew louder, stretched out, and everything was hilarious. It would be hours before his blood alcohol level was within driving range.

She cupped his ear and said, “Can I get your keys? My purse is in your car. I gotta leave.”

Dave fished them out of his jeans but held them back. “Stay. I’ll take you home later.” He kissed her lips and then her ear, saying, “C’mon, stay. Please?”

She forced a sad smile. “My mom is really strict.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll call her.”

An affable, but frustrated groan emerged from him. “Fine.” He handed over the keys. She shimmied through sweaty, gyrating bodies, sloshing drinks, and was back within minutes to return Dave’s keys. He snagged her waist, stealing another slurpy, rum-flavored kiss. “Call me?” he said with droopy eyes.

She nodded, eagerly escaping, and the farther she got from the epicenter of the party, the more relief she felt. Once outside, where the noise was only a hum, she drank in the chilly air and started down the winding private driveway toward the residential street.

About a half-mile down the road, a car drew near and its headlights cast her shadow onto the pavement. It moved slowly but she still jumped onto the curb and sunk into soggy leaves. If she dodged into the trees, it’d be obvious she was hiding. She prayed the driver would pass her by.

But no. The car shifted to a crawl, and someone rolled down the window. “Where are you going?”

Analise turned to Taylor in his Jeep Wrangler. “Home,” she said, thankful the dark shielded her anxious, dripping armpits.

“Home?” He shifted gears, yanked the brake, and jumped out.

Analise took several steps back as he leveled his face so close to hers it warmed her lips. His voice dropped to a hushed panic. “Are you okay?”

The fright in his eyes struck her mute. She formed her lips into a, Yes, but he continued, in a soft cry, “He didn’t like—do anything to you, did he?”

“Who? Dave? No!” She emphasized again, “No. No. He, we, just kissed. I swear, no, I—” Would forming coherent sentences around Taylor Barnes ever be possible? She flapped her lips, embarrassed. Taylor retreated, and she felt his relieved sigh.