Page 6 of The Unexpected

In the mirror, I look—well, not like the girl in the park photo from last summer, but not bad either. I tilt my head and try to see myself the way Hunter might: the lines of my shoulders, the way my hair slips down my spine, the contrast of skin and silk. I practice a smile in the mirror, a little too sly, then laugh at myself and turn away.

I lie back on the bed, the dress bunched up under my knees, and check my phone again. The replies are rolling in, the group chat blowing up with memes and screenshots and, from Chloe, an ungodly number of GIFs. I tap out a few answers, suggest a time, then scroll up to the message from Hunter.

Arriving Saturday evening. Do you need anything from town? – H

I let my finger rest on it, feeling the latent charge in the single letter. What I want is to reply with something glib and dangerous, like: Only if you’re bringing trouble. But I don’t. I let the question sit, a dare in the dark, and focus on the now.

The HVAC hums in the walls, the house holding its breath. I close my eyes and picture the party: bodies pressed together on the dance floor, spilled champagne on the marble, someone making out on the velvet bench in the foyer. I picture myself in the middle of it, laughing until my sides ache, kissing someone I barely know just for the rush of it. I picture Hunter arriving, his face impassive, and what it would feel like for once to make him jealous.

I sit up, finish the last swallow of champagne, and open the window. Cold air floods in, sharp and cleansing. The future is a blank page, but for the first time in a while, I want to write all over it.

The phone lights up with a new text: See you tomorrow, star girl.

I don’t know which of my friends sent it, but I like the sound of it. I set the empty glass on my nightstand and watch the city lights blink in the distance, each one a tiny, perfect invitation.

I have one night left before Hunter arrives.

I plan to make it count.

3

WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY, THE MICE WILL PLAY

Stella

The night begins the way a good story should—sweaty, disorienting, just a little bit dangerous.

By ten, the mansion is unrecognizable: all those cold, curated lines of architectural intent have vanished beneath the onslaught of heat, bodies, and music, the raw nerve of it vibrating up through the imported marble floors. The great room is a single, undulating mass of movement, the pulse of the speakers so deep and relentless it rattles the glass shades of the sconce lights. The air is thick with the tang of alcohol and the oily, expensive resin of burning candles, the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to unbutton your shirt before you’ve even made it past the foyer.

Kayleigh and Mary Kate are early, and so are Chloe and her entire Nicolette coterie, plus a few boys from the St. Thomas business school and a pair of local influencers who show up with a camera and a ring light, like this is a planned PR event and not just a get-drunk-and-ruin-the-upstairs bathroom affair. There are more people than I remember inviting, and by eleven, there’s a line at the kitchen island for cocktails and someone has already filled the powder room sink with ice and half a handle of Tito’s.

I glide through the crowd on bare feet, my stilettos slung rakishly from two fingers, dress clinging to my ribs like a second skin. Each step is accompanied by the hiss and fizz of my own breath, punctuated by the staccato sound of glass on glass: champagne bottles opening, shots lined up, the hiss of a shaken shaker. Every time I pass through a cluster of people, I catch someone’s gaze—always lingering, always curious—and I meet it, head-on. My hair is a wild, blonde halo tonight; my lips are a little redder than I’d planned. I feel more visible than I have in months, and I drink it in like oxygen.

Somewhere near the fireplace, Mary Kate is perched on a velvet ottoman, her legs crossed and her new ring glinting in the light. She’s surrounded by a phalanx of girls, all overflowing with questions about her engagement, and she’s loving every second of it. Chloe’s crew has colonized the formal dining room, playing King’s Cup with antique Waterford crystal and shouting rules so loud that the next room over vibrates with it.

Kayleigh materializes at my elbow, already tipsy, her hair in a glossy, artfully messy bun. “This is insane, Stell,” she says, voice thick with pride and tequila. “How does it feel to be the queen of the castle?”

I clink my glass to hers, which is sloshing pink liquid everywhere. “Like I’m one gust of wind away from a total collapse.”

She grins, then pulls me close, so her words are just for me: “I hope you’re planning to make out with at least one of the hockey boys tonight. You deserve it.”

I tip my head back and let out a laugh, high and bright. “I’ll consider it,” I say, “if I can figure out which one is actually legal.” She howls and whirls away, leaving me at the center of the room, the music hitting a new high. It’s true though because my actual tastes run towards older, magnetic alpha males. But still, beggars can’t be choosers and at least the hockey boys are here.

The crowd changes shape every few seconds. New faces appear, old ones disappear, and every so often, someone in a designer coat cuts across the room and deposits a chilled bottle on the marble. The windows are all steamed up, and outside, Minneapolis is reduced to a glittering, black-smeared void beyond the heavy velvet drapes. Someone’s turned the study into a makeshift coat check, and the kitchen has become a low-stakes casino, with a couple boys playing poker with a wad of bills in front of them. The whole scene hums with the energy of a house just past the point of no return.

I love it, but I don’t. I’m restless, almost buzzing. For every moment I throw my head back and laugh, there’s a counter-moment—a flash of unease, the feeling of a phantom limb, like something (someone) should be here but isn’t. I pour another drink, the action practiced and precise, then slip onto the patio for a gulp of cold air.

The contrast hits me instantly: inside, bodies and heat; out here, the icy slap of the wind. I draw a slow breath, then lean back against the railing, scanning the dark. My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Andie—she’s already posted a boomerang of her and my father on the plane, the caption a dozen hearts and “Missing my girl!!” I tap out a quick, affectionate response, then pocket the phone and press my bare feet to the flagstones.

“Hey.”

I turn. I squint a little. What was his name again? Oh right, Brad. The jock’s standing half in shadow, a longneck dangling between two fingers, his other hand tucked in his jeans. Even out here, he looks like he could bench-press a small sedan: six foot two, hockey hair perfectly artful, jawline built to feature in cologne ads. He’s been at three parties I can recall, but I always get the sense he’s not a party guy—not really. Too watchful, too self-contained. But tonight he’s dialed in, a little drunk, and grinning with a lopsided smile that could probably power the city grid.

“Hey,” I say, letting the word linger.

“Your place is sick.” He nods at the French doors behind me, where a thumping bassline makes the glass shudder. “You could fit my entire apartment in that kitchen.”

I laugh, because it’s true, and also because I want him to think I’m a little above it all. “Technically, it’s not my place. I just live here.” I step closer, so we’re almost shoulder to shoulder, then glance up at him through my lashes. “You’re not one of those dudes who wants a tour, are you?”