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12
JACKSON
“Do you think I got enough?”
I don’t acknowledge my friend’s skeptical question with anything more than a scoff; his truck is completely packed full of every alcohol under the sun, yet Nick regards it all dubiously. Like drinking the contents of an entire liquor store in a single night is not outside the realm of possibility. I did tell him to go nuts when I gave him my card but Jesus Christ, I didn’t realize he was the boozy equivalent of a magpie.
Nick kisses his teeth, both hands braced on his hips. “It doesn’t look like enough.”
“Are you serious?” I can’t even see the bed of his truck nor the leather of the backseat.
“A lot of people are coming,” Nick defends himself. Which is true. And entirely his fault. That’s the thing about Nick; he likes to pretend he doesn’t like people. To be unapproachable and unfriendly and rude. To bitch and moan about his space being invaded by strangers. But at least half of the people celebrating Halloween in our home tonight scored a casual invite from the giant grump with the mushy middle. Not that he would ever admit that; I’d bet my pitching arm he’ll blame the whole thing on Ben.
“The entire campus could come,” I drawl, hoisting a couple slabs of beer into my arms, “and we would still have enough.”
I amend that statement about half an hour later when our loot is spread across the kitchen, covering every inch of counter space. The entire town could turn up, and we’d have drinks to spare. Ben’s eyes practically bug out of his head when he catches sight of everything, and I can’t tell if it’s in horror at the quantity or sheer delight at the many, many options for internal pollution.
“Where’s Cass?” Nick asks as we start sifting through the mountain of grocery bags, pulling out booze and cups and mixers while I imagine how wonderfully scandalized my grandparents would be if they knew a substantial portion of the money they deposited in my account this month went towards intoxicating the local students.
Ben and I exchange an amused glance, my friend rolling his eyes as he loads the fridge with soda. “He ditched us for one of the frats.”
Nick’s lack of surprise is telling, and equal to mine earlier when Cass told me he was bailing; we all know if there’s anything Cass loves more than a house party, it’s a frat party. Especially on Halloween when near nudity is practically required; my friend will use any excuse not to wear a shirt. Or pants, if last year is anything to go by.
That’s not a sentiment I share. I’m not keen on dressing up at all, and I wouldn’t if Ben wasn’t so damn insistent. I’m only embellishing my jeans and t-shirt with a cowboy hat and boots under his insistent command. And I suspect Nick’s costume is a direct result of the same thing; I can’t imagine any other circumstance under which Nick would be frowning at a recently bought kid’s face paint kit.
It causes me actual, physical pain when my friend rips the thing open and dips a thick finger in the white shade, using his phone as a mirror as he smears it on his cheek. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Tryna be a skeleton.”
Huh. I would’ve guessed panda.
Bundling up the last of the emptied bags and chucking them in the cabinet beneath the sink, I wet a clean dishtowel and chuck it at Nick, sighing. “I’ll do it.”
For once, Nick puts up minimal resistance, wiping off his godawful attempt and letting me create something better. It’s a soothing process, even if it takes more time than we have. Even if all that work is going to be smudged by some random girl within the hour. Nick lasts almost the entire time with only minimal fidgeting and no gruff, snarky comments.
Almost.
“Your girlfriend coming tonight?”
If I didn’t take such pride in my work, I’d smudge the shit out of Nick’s perfectly executed skeletal face. “Is yours?”
Nick’s scoff is hilariously exaggerated. “She has a boyfriend and it sure as shit isn’t me.”
Ah, yes. The boyfriend. Neither Nick nor I can tell if the guy was actually familiar or if he just had that recognizably insufferable air all douchebags possess. I would laugh at how quickly Nick’s mood changes whenever the guy appears if I wasn’t deeply, genuinely concerned about Red and the way she flinches every time the guy touches her. “Since when has another guy ever stopped you?”
“And what, exactly, is stopping you,seu medroso?”
Ben snorts from the other side of the counter, head shaking as he stirs a pitcher of too-bright blue liquid. A Cass recipe, if the strong smell wafting from it is anything to go by. “Both of you are pathetic.”
Oh, I know. I am painfully aware of my patheticness. And how ridiculous it is, so goddamn ridiculous, to feel sick to my stomach at the thought of Luna turning up tonight. Even sicker at the thought of her not. Which she probably won’t. She definitely got a better offer. She probably forgot I offered at all, actually. So, I’m not holding my breath.
Obviously.
* * *
She’s here.
Luna is in my house.
