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I’m determined to go out and have fun, no matter how nerve-racking it is. The only way to know more people is to meet more people.
But I didn’t think the party we’re going to would be taking place at ahockey house, where Aidan will very likely be.
I’m dreading Tuesday, our next tutoring session, but I thought I had a few days before facing him again.
And now, I can’t think of a single excuse why I can’t continue out the door. Except maybe to have another drink for some liquid courage.
“Rylan! Come on!” Malia calls.
My steps speed up again, this time determined.
Aidan Phillips doesn’t own this damn school.
Technically, this is home turf for me. He can’t accuse me of trespassing this time. If I want to go to a party with my new roommates, I will. I’ll get to know Malia and Chloe better, and maybe I’ll even meet a guy who will make me forget that night. I’m clearly incapable of shoving it out of my mind myself. It’s been three days since I found out his real identity, and I’ve thought about it triple that. At least.
The light-hearted teasing as we walk down the street isalmostenough to make me forget about my apprehension. I missed this, the easy banter of inclusion. Ironic—and sad—that I feel less excluded around Malia and Chloe, who’ve been best friends since meeting freshman year, than I did around Walker’s friends or the haughty crowd that made up most of my fellow abroad students.
The tension has totally left my body by the time we reach the end of the block, or maybe that’s just Chloe’s cocktail taking effect.
Either way, I’m mostly excited as we approach a house with a white clapboard exterior. The walk took less than five minutes.
Whoever Logan is, he or she was right; the houseispacked.
Once we shove our way through the front door, we take an immediate right. The living room is crowded, clustered groups standing around laughing and talking. The air is thick and warm, flavored by the scent of sweat and vape smoke.
Malia spots some friends and peels off to say hello. Chloe continues into the kitchen, and I stick with her.
Even more people are crammed into here, close to the alcohol,a sea of unfamiliar faces. I can barely see the counters or the cabinets, just a mass of people.
“Want a drink?” Chloe asks once we’ve pushed through to the center island covered with an assortment of bottles.
More like shouts, really. The music is even louder in here than it was in the living room.
I nod.
At the very least, holding a red cup will make me feel like less of an outsider. I finger the suede of my sleeve, wishing I’d left behind a jacket like Chloe and Malia opted to. Now that we’re inside, I can feel the prickle of sweat under my arms and in the small of my back.
Chloe hands me a drink, then starts mixing her own.
I shout “Thank you,” then take a tentative sip. It’s good. Just vodka and ginger ale, I think. The bubbles almost erase the burn of alcohol.
I relax more, propping a hip against the counter. Slip off my jacket and toss it over one arm, then take a longer pull of my drink.
“Phillips!” someone calls out.
I choke, ginger and condensation burning my throat and making my eyes water.
Fuck.
I cough, then take another sip.
My posture tenses as my heart rate picks up.
My focus remains on Chloe, watching as she adds ice to her cup, resisting the strong urge to glance around the kitchen and look for him.
I have no clue how Aidan might react to seeing me here. Ignore me? Avoid me? Ask me to leave? Point me out to the entire team as the coach’s daughter?
I regret the way our last conversation ended, even if I wasright. I checked the team stats, and Aidan is in the solid middle for goals scored this season. But I didn’t need to bring that up. I should’ve kept my mouth shut and stuck with my plan of pretending he doesn’t exist unless I’m actively tutoring him. The satisfaction of calling him out wasn’t worth the inevitable awkwardness during our next tutoring session or, even worse, tonight.
