Page 19 of Find My Way Down to You

“Which is a good time,” she says airily, smiling over her shoulder. “And ifI’mhaving a good time, then you are too.”

“That’s not true,” I counter.

“It is if you believe it!”

The dorm is one of those suites. Two bedrooms are opposite each other, doors thrown open with students spilling out. The living room is overcrowded with people. I’m not sure how anyone else will fit inside. Somehow, we do.

The lights are off. Strips of blinking LEDs on the ceiling illuminate all the faces. They look alien under the blue-and-green glow. In a corner, a group of girls talk with drinks in hand. I notice the one in the middle—short, curvy, and muscled, hair bright like afternoon sun.

Without Max telling me, I know who she is.

Max waves at Lake. Her next destination is obvious.

I grab her wrist before she can drift too far away. “Phone and location on at all times.”

She grins, as if expecting this part. As if it’s as comforting to her as it is for me. “Answer every text,” she says, nodding.

“Pick up every call.”

“Check in every thirty minutes.”

“Don’t go home with strangers,” I recite. A wry smile hooksmy mouth. “Especially not with girls named Lake.”

Max wiggles free of my grip. In the harsh flashing colors, her eyes go tender. “Do you want to come with me? Or I can stay here.”

She bites her lip. On the margins of her expression, I see concern. She’s worried I won’t be okay without her.

“What?” I pretend to not be annoyed. “And be the third wheel to your hookup? No thanks.”

She elbows me. “I was being nice.”

I lean down to say, “You failed. Now go. I might vomit if I have to watch Lake stare at you like she wants to eat your face a second longer.”

Even in the room’s shadows, pink pops warmly against Max’s cheeks.

“Every thirty minutes,” she repeats.

“Every thirty minutes,” I parrot.

Max drifts off. I squeeze through the knot of bodies in the other direction.

There isn’t much more room in the kitchenette. People rotate in and out. Some for beers. Others wrench open the refrigerator, faces washed out by the bright interior light. Awkwardly, I claim a space in the corner.

I never went through the party phase my classmates did. I wasn’t interested. Or, well, I wasn’t comfortable enough, even in spaces I knew and felt safe. Between us, London was the social one. The shameless extrovert.

He moved through rooms like the sun, always drawingattention. Always leaving a hint of his warmth behind.

He would fit in here. He wouldn’t be pressed to a wall, avoiding eye contact with all passersby. London wouldn’t wince at the boring music. Or flinch at something crashing to the floor. The sharp pierce of laughter that follows.

“Here.”

I look up, startled.

A boy leans against the counter. He’s long and wiry. His thick black hair shines like a crow’s feathers, ending at his collarbone. In his fingers is a plastic shot glass. He extends it toward me.

Violently blue liquid sloshes over the sides.

“You look like you could use it,” he says.