The crowd starts to cheer, and Ben turns back to the game in time to see one of our players heading to the end zone. “Come on!” he yells, along with the rest of the crowd. The guy is tackled a few yards short. “Oh man!” Ben sighs. “Can you believe it?”
“So close,” I say.
“Yeah,” Ben says with a nod. “So close.”
I should have known there’d be an after-party.
“It’ll be fun,” Rebecca promises, taking my arm and leading me to her car. “We won’t leave your side.”
The truth is, I don’t need much convincing. I’m having a good time. An uncomplicated, good time with my friends. For a long time, I couldn’t have had this—there would have always been the counterweight of Justin, the obligation of being in a couple instead of hanging with a couple of friends. This is part of freedom—not looking for anything, not missing anything, just happy with the friends who are here.
“Sure,” I tell Rebecca. “Let’s go.”
It’s not that late, and barely dark out. There’s an official after-party at some restaurant owned by a former high school quarterback, but the less-than-football crowd is gathering at Will Tyler’s house, which is very conveniently located across the street from a water supply area that’s never patrolled for trespassing.
Will Tyler’s this guy from the grade above us who sold a fantasy novel to a big publisher when he was fourteen. He has a banner over his door that says FOOTBALL IS FOR WUSSES; QUIDDITCH IS FOR GODS. Preston whoops when he sees that.
If the geekiness of the sign isn’t enough to ward off Justin, I’m sure the complete lack of alcohol will be. Instead of beer and vodka, Will and his parents have stocked up on every single soda that’s ever been created—or at least it seems that way. The bottles are lined up in identical pairs in the kitchen, like this is some kind of carbonated Noah’s ark. Some people are grumbling or pulling out flasks to spike their Fanta. But I’m into it. It’s been too long since I’ve had a Cherry Coke.
A would love this. I have no doubt A would love this. I wish he were here—not for us to be together, but so he could sample any of the sodas he never got as he bounced around his childhood.
“Will Tyler’s no fool,” Preston says, cheersing me with a red cup of purple pop. “This is a party we’ll all remember.”
“Why, thank you,” a boy behind him says. His voice has a slightly Southern twang. “Glad you could be here, Preston.”
Preston turns to the boy and blurts, “You know my name?”
Will laughs. “Of course I know your name! It’s a very nice name.”
Preston smiles.
Will smiles.
And I’m like, Wow. Yes. Go.
“I need to find Rebecca,” I say, even though Rebecca is all of ten feet away from me, pouring herself a Barqs.
“Don’t look now,” I whisper when I get to her, “but I think Preston’s found someone on his team.”
Of course Rebecca looks over. When she turns back to me, her eyes are wide.
“Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” she asks me.
“All in due time,” I tell her.
“And I’d say that time is due!”
Ben shuffles over. “Do any of you have any idea what Vernors is? I’m trying it, and it’s not bad. But I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be.”
“Out,” Rebecca says. “Out out out.”
We shuffle away from Preston and Will, into the den, where Ellie Goulding’s “Lights” is playing on high, and the lights themselves are playing on low. Looking around, I see we’re mostly surrounded by smart kids—Rebecca and Ben’s crowd. But I don’t feel unwelcome.
I think this would be A’s crowd, too. I mean, he could have turned into anyone—a jerk, a druggie, a social climber, a sociopath. But after all he went through, he’s basically a smart kid.
I scan the crowd, looking for that recognition even though I haven’t asked him to be here. If he’s here, it will have to be coincidence. Fate.
Someone suggests charades. The music is turned off, the lights are turned up, and Preston and Will come out of the kitchen. They’re on the same charades team, of course. And when either of them is giving clues, it’s the other he’s looking at.
More people show up—more smart kids who stopped off for dinner before coming over. It isn’t until nine that the official after-party breaks up, and a whole different wave comes. Some are drunk, and some want to be drunk. Rebecca checks her phone and there’s a text from Stephanie, saying they’ll be here soon.
“Do you want to leave?” Rebecca asks me.
And I say no. I’m happy here. I don’t want to leave.
But still, it’s awkward when Stephanie comes into the den, and I know that means Justin’s somewhere in the house. It’s awkward when I hear him yelling in the kitchen, asking someone where the booze is being hidden.
“Steve will keep him in there,” Stephanie promises me.
But Steve can’t keep him in there, not when there isn’t any booze. Justin comes jumping out into the den, and there it is: me and him, in the same room.
The look on his face when he sees me is awful. Like he’s been tricked. Like I’m the trap.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he says. He must be three or four beers closer to drunk already. I can tell. He turns to Stephanie. “You knew she’d be here, didn’t you? Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?”
Now Steve’s on the scene, telling Justin to calm down.
“Shit!” Justin says, knocking the nearest cup to the floor. It doesn’t really have the effect he wants. It’s plastic. And full of Sprite.
I’m standing there, and it’s as if I’ve stepped away from myself for a second. I am watching this from a distance. Calmly, I am wondering what he’s going to do next. Yell at me? Spit at me? Throw another cup? Burst into tears?
Instead, he looks at Steve and says, with more feeling than he’d want me to hear, “This sucks.” Then he bolts from the room, out the front door.
Steve moves to follow, but I surprise everyone in the room—including myself—by saying, “No. I’ve got this.”
Steve looks at me curiously. “Are you sure? I have his keys.”