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They’reperfectfor each other, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little envious of their relationship. No matter the fact that I’ve never been in love or reallythatattracted to a boy—well, except for Phoenix when my raging hormones pointed me at the most attractive thing in the vicinity—it’s still a goal to have a relationship where someone is the perfect other half.
Or at least willing to pick up after themselves and make their own dinner. The bar may be low, but I’ve learned that it’s still a tripping hazard for most of the guys in Hollow Bridge.
Oh well.
Absently, I adjust the cat mask on my face, loving the feel of the smooth, cool material against my skin. Occasionally, my tail brushes the backs of my legs, but I’m too busy admiring the other costumes people are wearing to care that much.
Within minutes, Nic has found her friend. The two of them seem to magically clear off a sofa of people that wander away at that moment, and when they sink into deep conversation with grins and enthusiasm, I waver.
Socializing is exhausting at the best of times, and their level of commitment to it right now is overwhelming my brain tonight. Even Nolan looks a little intimidated, though he perches on the edge of the sofa to be the supportive boyfriend of legends.
But I’m not in love with Nic, nor do I feel particularly attached to her at the moment. The longer I stand here not doing anything, the more itchy my fingers get, and the more my muscles twitch with restless, nervous energy.
I need to be doing something other than this.
I back up one step. Then another. Nic glances up and I offer her a smile from under the borrowed mask, my gestures and flicking fingers indicating that I’m going to find the kitchen and, maybe, some kind of alcohol. Being the lightest of light-weights, all I really need to do is sniff an empty beer can to get buzzed.
Well, maybe I’m notthatbad. But if I try to chug any of the mixed drinks that Nic does, or any of the ones that are on the kitchen island that looms into view the moment I cross into the kitchen, I’ll be out before I can realize what I’ve even picked up a drink.
My fingers come to rest on the cool surface of the island, just as my upper lip sinks lightly into the lower. I have no idea what to ask for, when three kinds of Halloween punch and bottles of tequila, rum, and vodka litter the counter.
I don’t want to get that drunk tonight; I don’t think.
“The punch isn’t that bad.” The voice makes me tense, and my shoulders rise, as a guy in a toga that should’ve been left behind in the nineties swaggers up to stand beside me, elbow brushing mine with obvious intent.
My eyes fall on his bare chest, his questionable tattoos, and move up to his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobs precariously. It trembles as he swallows… up and down. Up and down. Finally, my eyes go further upward, resting on thin lips and a thin nose that looks as if it would snap under just two of my fingers.
He opens his mouth and says something again, though my attention is fixed once again on that bobbing piece of him.
“What?” I ask finally, not looking at his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first, but does offer me a small, wide-lipped cup made of plastic. In the orange liquid, three ice cubes swim, their edges shiny and going transparent as they lose some of their coldness.
“The punch. It’s uh…” he trails off and I see little blobs of ice cream in the drink he’s offering. It’s that view of melting ice cream, and the nostalgia of park-held birthday parties and homemade punch, that gets me to slide the cup into my fingers, the coolness of it sinking into my skin. “Really, it’s not bad,” he shrugs, and as I take a drink, I finally look up at his nondescript eyes, the dusting of freckles, and red hair that’s a mess of untamed curls.
He’s right. It’s not bad, and it doesn’t taste like alcohol, which is either very good for me or very bad. There’s a chance there’s still something in it. More than a chance, given the bottles. But the sherbet, juice, and whatever fizzy drink was dumped into it are doing a solid job of masking it, if that is the case.
“You’re right,” I admit, not oblivious to the grin that flashes across his lips. “I was expecting worse. It’s not bad.”
Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. It launches him into a flurry of words in explanation. His hands up and moving in front of him and distracting me from his words while I absently drink the glass until it’s completely gone.
He’s still talking when I dip myself another half-glass of it, and for a few minutes, I’m sure of my decision. I haven’t tasted alcohol so far, and I have no reason to think that my assessment of the drink is wrong.
Until life shows me that it is.
The feeling is smooth as it hits me, traveling through my veins and snaking fuzzy, warm tendrils through my brain. It’s easier, at least, to look up at the ginger-headed boy as he talks when I can feel fuzzy cotton in my skull. He pauses when I finally do make eye contact, his lips still parted to address whatever he’d been talking about.
The fact that I can’t remember is my next warning sign.
My third and final one is the way I stumble back when he leans in, his intention to kiss me so clear that he couldn’t be more obvious if he announced it to the room.But I don't want to kiss him.
My steps teeter, two turning into four as Isubtlytry to express my disinterest, but when my shoulders bump into something solid and an arm slides over my shoulders to steady me, I realize I’m being anythingbut.
“She’s not into you, Fritz,” a stranger’s voice chuckles as someone walks by, a glass of punch in his hand. He salutes both of us and leaves, though after a momentary look of disappointment at me, and trepidation at the owner of the arm on my shoulders, Fritz flees with him.
Leaving me…not so alone.
My head tips back, tilting until I’m resting the back of it against my new friend’s shoulder. The mask he wears swims in my vision, the whiteness and smoothness causing my focus to slip and slide on the surface unnervingly. For a moment there’s four of him, then three. And with a jolt, I realize that I’m notcompletelyhallucinating.
There are two of them, dressed almost completely alike. Their masks, for sure, are identical in every way, and with their black hoods drawn up, it’s impossible to even tell their hair color.
