A frat party.
I’m going to kill her.
I’ve never actually been to a frat party, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that it’s not my scene. As a matter of fact, most house parties aren’t exactly my scene. I don’t drink. I’m a horrible flirt. I’m shy, which often times translates into awkward. And I’m not Brooke—no matter how hot she thinks I am. In the year and a half that I’ve been a college student, I’ve been dragged to two college parties—which, considering Brooke’s penchant for loud and rowdy crowds, is actually quite a remarkable feat. The point is, in both instances, I was miserable the entire time. Brooke knows this—she knows this, and yet she’s brought me tonight to “have fun.”
I’m going to kill her.
“Turn that frown upside-down, Kenzie Willis,” she demands, linking her arm through mine as we cross the threshold into the Phi Delta Theta house. “Tonight is going to be amazing.”
I scrunch my face, appalled that she would think so, and—just in case she doesn’t understand how much I hate her right now—I tell her, “I’m going to kill you. Better yet, I’m going to ditch you.”
She laughs as if I’ve told her a joke. Squeezing my arm, she replies, “You love me too much to ditch me or kill me. And you only think you hate it here because you haven’t given it a fair shake.”
I look around the house, already filled with frat brothers, sorority sisters, and a few wildcards, like us. Everyone is engaged in some sort of activity—most of which revolves around various drinking games—and they’re all clumped together in their respective cliques. I groan inwardly as I start to plan my escape.
“How did you even get invited to this thing?” I ask. As soon as the words tumble from my lips, I know how stupid it is for me to even question her. She’s Brooke. She gets invited everywhere.
“So, do you remember Kathleen?” she asks, not pausing a beat for me to even try and remember. “She’s a Delta Zeta, and she’s dating Will, who is a Phi Delt. Anyway, she’s in my lit class this semester, and I overheard her talking to Freddy—who is also in my lit class—and when I asked what was going on, Freddy said I should come check it out myself.”
“And Freddy is….?”
“You know Freddy! He’s a Phi Delt, too. He plays soccer with Owen.”
I nod, even though I couldn’t name a single one of Owen’s teammates. Sure, I’ve been to plenty of his games, but Owen plays year-round and with far too many other guys for me to keep track.
“Speaking of Owen, he said he’d be here tonight, too.”
“Great! Then you have a ride home. I’m out of here,” I state, turning to take my leave.
“Kenzie—no,” she commands, her arm tightening around mine. She then grabs my chin, tilting my head so that I have nowhere to look but into her big, blue eyes. “Please. Please, stay. I know you don’t think you can have fun here, but that’s just because you’re not opening yourself up to the possibility that you might enjoy doing something outside of your comfort zone.” She lets go of my chin and cups her hand around my face, her expression softening as she goes on to say, “It’s time you spent more of your weekends with people your age. People who aren’t sick. You need a breath of fresh—non-sterilized—collegiate air. Hell, if you want to let loose and have a drink, we’ll have Owen take us home later. Just—don’t go.”
I study her for a moment, our gazes locked, and I feel it in the air the second I give in; as if the very atmosphere recognizes that I can’t say no. Not to Brooke. Not tonight. Her intentions are good, even if her choice of venue is a little selfish.
“Fine,” I grumble, sliding my arm out of hers. I start to make my way further into the house as I say, “I’m leaving at midnight, with or without you.”
An hour later, my back against the wall in the far corner of what appears to be the dining room, I watch as Brooke flirts with her beer pong partner. They met just fifteen minutes ago, but it’s as if they’re some sort of love match or something. The little touches they exchange—his hand gliding across the small of her back, her shoulder rubbing against his every time she leans into him, giggling when her aim is bad—it all appears so natural and genuine. I know it’s really harmless and meaningless. I’ve seen her like this before, and it’s just how she is. But watching her sends a pang of longing through my belly.
Guys don’t look at me like they look at her. They don’t touch or flirt with me. When I enter a room like the one I’m in now, I’m practically invisible. I know it’s probably my fault. I’m a wallflower, I can’t help it—but that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes wish that someone might want to flirt with me—laugh with me—touch me. It’s been a really long time since anyone has tried.
I’ve had two boyfriends in my life, both of whom I dated in high school. Boyfriend number one broke my heart. I was fifteen and under some grand illusion that it was love. It wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell when he told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. Then when boyfriend number two came along, I was seventeen. We dated for all of senior year. After graduation, it was my turn to be the heartbreaker. He was going to a college in another state, and I just wasn’t interested in long distance, which I took to mean that what I felt for him wasn’t love, either. It still hurt to say goodbye, but it was for the best.
Since then, the closest I’ve come to having a boyfriend is my friendship with Owen—which, hello, it’s not like that between us; so, basically, I haven’t even dipped my toe in the dating pool. To be honest, I sometimes don’t understand it. I’m so much more put together now than I was in high school. I’m less frizzy, I know how to apply mascara, and I’ve got a best friend who likes to dress me up so I look hot. Then again, I guess none of that matters so long as I’m too shy to break away from the wall.
With a sigh, I shake my head, scattering my silly thoughts. I don’t want what Brooke has. Not really. I just think that I do. It looks nice, but it’s all just surface level. She’ll make out with that guy later and wake up with happy thoughts of a fun night had by all, but she won’t remember his name. And when she sees him again—if she sees him again—the cycle will likely repeat itself. It won’t go any deeper. Brooke isn’t a settler. At least not yet. The truth is, she knows what these guys are about. She doesn’t get attached because she knows they won’t get attached, and she’s smart enough to protect her heart. She always tells me that when she meets someone who is genuinely interested in what’s underneath her boobs, she’ll know.
Though, I think it’s safe to say that she’s not exactly looking. If she was, she might see Owen a lot differently.
Remembering that Brooke said Owen would be here, I decide to push away from the wall and wander around to see if I can find him. Considering the view I just abandoned, I’m not surprised I haven’t spotted him yet. He likes to make himself scarce when Brooke cozies up to other guys, which I completely understand. Self preservation and all that.
As I walk around the house, I notice it’s gotten more crowded in the last hour. People have also had a chance to up their level of inebriation, a few of them clumsily colliding into me as they stumble to their destination. Most of them apologize, which I must say I appreciate, but I’m about one collision away from abandoning my search for Owen. Then it happens.
I’m standing at the mouth of what looks like the den when a mob of people come charging down the hallway, the guys bellowing and the girls squealing as they barrel past me to who knows where. Instinctively, I hug my arms to my chest, clutching my purse against my side. Just as the group starts to thin out, and I think I’m in the clear, a girl trips into me, spilling her beer all over the bottom half of my sweater. I gasp, throwing my arms out in surprise, then someone else bumps into my back, causing me to drop my bag, sending the contents flying everywhere.
“Oh, my god! I’m so sorry,” the girl giggles, looking into her empty cup.
My jaw still open from a moment ago, I watch as she brings the red cup to her lips before she tilts her head back and swallows.
How lucky—not so empty after all.
“Um, glad to see you didn’t spill all of it,” I mutter sarcastically, squatting down to gather my things.
“Shit. Let me help you,” she replies, dropping her solo cup as she bends down next to me.
“No, please—don’t.” I hold my palm up with one hand, sweeping my hair out of my face and behind my ear with the other. When my vision clears, I see her turn her nose up at me before she stands to walk away.
“Basic bitch,” she mumbles, sauntering after the others.
My cheeks heat in a blush as I watch her go. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here. Well, even more than I did before, that is.
Hurriedly, I turn my attention to the floor space surrounding my feet, sweeping up the contents of my purse and shoving it in my bag. When I think I’ve got everything, I look inside and notice that the book is missing. My head shoots up and I widen my search perimeter, spotting it just barely within reach. It must have slid across the hardwood floor after being jostled out of my purse. Relieved that it doesn’t appear to have landed in any spilled beer, I extend my arm out to grab it when someone’s shoe—long, thick, black, biker boot to be more precise—steps right on the cover. I choke on a shriek, suddenly feeling as if someone has just stomped on my heart.
“No!”
I see the boot halt, my hand still stretched out in its direction, and then I watch as the owner of said boot carefully lifts it, as if moving in reverse. I let out a strangled sigh and lean forward, in an attempt to reach for the book a second time, but he grabs it before I can. Startled, my eyes follow my possession as its captor stands to full height. I don’t look at his face, too concerned about the book, hoping that he doesn’t do something careless or mean.
“Mack’s Big Adventure?” he reads aloud.
I close my eyes tight, praying he’ll just give me back the book. The last thing I need tonight is for someone to humiliate me even further.
“Hey. Eyes up, Mack,” he speaks, his voice gentle and smooth—warm and manly.
I don’t know if he’s speaking to me, but my body responds before my brain can catch up. My eyes fly open and my lips part as I suck in a quiet breath when I look up to see an outstretched hand waiting for me. Hesitantly, I accept his offer, placing my fingers in his palm and allowing him to help me to my feet. His hand is hot, and his touch sends a shock of tingles up my arm, though I don’t know why. I still don’t seek out his face, feeling wildly embarrassed.
“Can I—?” I start to say, letting go of him as I reach for my book.
I give the corner a tug, but he doesn’t let go as he repeats, “Eyes up, Mack.”
My cheeks heat in another blush, realizing that somehow I’ve become Mack, and I tilt my head back to look up at him. When our eyes lock, I swear my heart skips a beat, my stomach does a somersault, and my palms start to sweat all at the same time.
He’s…so-freaking-gorgeous.
Yup. Gorgeous. That’s the word.
He’s tall. Taller than Owen, who is six feet—so, yeah, he’s tall. He’s got deep, dark, rich brown hair that he wears messy on top but neat on the sides, and his eyes—good Lord—his eyes. They’re soulful. His irises are dark and surrounded by thick, long lashes, making them appear even darker. And when he smirks at me, the curl of his lips making the skin wrinkle on one side of his face, my stomach clenches.
Yup. Gorgeous. That’s the word.
“What’s with the kids book?” he asks, yanking me from my thoughts.
“Oh, my gosh,” I whisper, tearing my eyes away from his before I close them tight. I dip my chin and shake my head, silently berating myself for being so stupid.
I was totally staring!
This—this is why I hug the wall. I can’t be trusted to my own devices.
“Eyes up, Mack.”
My stomach clenches again at the sound of his voice. My heart races hearing him call me Mack. I whimper in embarrassment as I’m forced to look up at him again. I meet his eyes only for a second before I look down at the book, back up into his eyes, and then back down at the book—each of us holding a side.
“You got a thing for trucks or something?” he asks with what I assume is a hint of amusement in his tone.
For reasons he’ll never understand, and at no fault of his own, his words crush me.
“Can I—please? Will you please let go?” I ask, giving the book another tug, wishing he would just leave me alone so that I could go hide in the corner.
“Strange thing to bring to a party.”
When I look back up into his eyes, the wires in my brain get crossed. I don’t know if I want to stand and stare at him forever, or run far, far away so that he won’t see me cry.
“Please?” I whisper through the knot that’s plugging up my throat.
“Oh, hey! There you are. We thought you bailed! Come on, everyone’s waiting in the kitchen.”
My eyes dart to his side, my gaze locking onto a girl—who obviously belongs here—as she reaches for his hand. She flicks her eyes to me for a split second—just long enough to come to the conclusion that I don’t belong here—before she starts to walk away, pulling Motorcycle Boots behind her.
“They won’t start without you. Come on!” she insists when he drags his feet.
His smirk fades as he begins to follow after her, his eyes still focused on me.
“Don’t hide those babies,” he tells me, letting go of the book. I hardly notice, too concerned with what he’s saying.
“What?” I manage, tilting my head to the side in question.
“Your eyes. Keep ‘em up, Mack.”
I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the hallway, staring after Motorcycle Boots. My guess is, long enough that I would be too embarrassed to admit it if I did know. Definitely long enough that I almost forget that I was looking for Owen. When I finally do remember, I carefully slide Timothy’s picture book back inside my purse before I start my hunt again.
I wander around for twenty minutes, checking my phone for any possible missed texts, and still come up short. When I circle my way back to the dining room, expecting to at least find Brooke, that’s when I find Owen. He’s on the far end of the table, and apparently winning, but I don’t see Brooke anywhere.
“Kenz! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he calls out when he sees me. He shifts his gaze for a second, tosses a ping pong ball, sinks it, then smiles over at me. I quirk an eyebrow at him, folding my arms across my chest, and his smile turns into a grin. “Okay, so, I stopped looking awhile ago. But hey—you found me. Get over here and be my good luck charm.”
“Clearly, you don’t need luck,” I say, making my way toward him anyway.
“Don’t give me that shit. A guy always needs some lady luck. Now, watch and learn,” he tells me, lifting his arm to take his next turn.
I watch him play—and win—another three rounds. I only pay attention for one. It’s not long before my thoughts start to wander and images of Motorcycle Boots begin to flood my memory. More than once, I catch myself looking around the room, wondering if I’ll spot him again. I don’t, and a small part of me is disappointed. Though, I squash the feeling almost as quickly as it comes. Whoever he is, he’s probably bad news. Guys like that—gorgeous guys with motorcycle boots and girls chasing after them—they’re always bad news.
My not seeing him again is a sign.
With a sigh, I look to my phone and see that it’s a quarter after eleven, which means I’ve only got forty-five minutes before I can get out of here. I reek of beer, and all I want is to go home, change into something clean, and crawl into bed.
Sliding my phone back into my purse, I look across the room just as Motorcycle Boots passes by. He catches my eye and winks, making my stomach flip and my heart skip a beat before he disappears from view once more.
I ignore the fact that I’m suddenly short of breath and remind myself that guys like that are always bad news.
My seeing him again is not a sign.
When my alarm clock sounds, alerting me that it’s time to get up for church, I silence it and then snuggle back under my covers, hoping for another moment in my warm bed. I keep my eyes open, knowing I’ll fall back asleep if I don’t, and then I remember.
Sheamus.
Before I left the hospital yesterday, I went back to speak to his dad, Lance. He told me that Sheamus was scheduled to have surgery on Monday morning, and that if I wanted to stop by for a visit, Wednesday afternoon would be a good time to do so. I have every intention of heading to the hospital as soon as I’m finished with my morning classes, but I suddenly have no desire at all to go to church.
I’ve never doubted the existence of God. I still don’t, in spite of all that seems to be happening. My parents raised me as a Christian, and I believe that Jesus is the son of God who came to save the world. At some point over the last nineteen years, I came to understand this as truth and not just something my parents told me. The world and everything in it makes sense to me because I believe there is a God. Yet, at the same time, the opposite is also true. There is so much I don’t understand, about this world and everything in it, considering there is a God.
I know that He is good, and just, and righteous. I know that He loves me, that He loves everyone—even the people that don’t feel as though they deserve His affection (even the people who I don’t feel deserve His affection)—He loves them. But sometimes, His mysteriousness makes me question Him. His master plan makes me doubt Him. Not His existence, just Him. Timothy’s death, Sheamus’s cancer relapse—Zoe, Lena, Meredith—I mean, it’s all just so unfair. It never seems to end, and I just don’t get it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to feel so hopeless and out of control that I don’t feel God at all; neither do I feel like looking for Him. So, I decide to close my eyes instead.
The moment I do, I see him.
I should open my eyes. I should look around at my reality instead of allowing myself the indulgence of my fantastic memory—but I don’t. I seal my eyes closed even tighter, my stomach clenching when I remember his smirk and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was definitely older than me, I could tell. There was just something about him. His confidence, maybe? Or perhaps it was the way his face lacked that baby-face smoothness, even though he was clean shaven. Whatever it was, I liked it.
I liked it?
Crap.
I liked it. A lot.
With a groan, I roll over onto my other side, pulling my blankets closer and tucking them under my chin. I will my thoughts to settle so that sleep might drag me under once more. There’s no point in my thinking of Motorcycle Boots. I’ll never see him again. This I know with certainty.
Unless, of course, I see him in my dreams.
“Mmmm, scooch over,” grumbles Brooke, waking me from sleep.
“What?” I mutter, not even bothering to open my eyes as I roll away from her gentle shove.
“God, I’m so hungover. Why are you still in bed? It’s nearly noon.”
“Why aren’t you in your bed?” I ask, feeling the mattress dip as she stretches out beside me.
“Needed something for my head. Saw evidence you hadn’t gone to church. Remembered Coder. Needed to tell you.” She yawns before she asks, “Why are you still in bed? Are you sick?”
I push out a sigh, each word she speaks pulling me further and further away from sleep. Then I open up my eyes to find her staring at me—her pretty blues red-rimmed and puffy. I don’t answer her question, deciding to pose one of my own.
“When did you get in?”
I left the Phi Delt house at midnight, as I told her I would. She insisted that she wanted to stay, so we both looked to Owen, who downed his beer before he tossed his cup, promising to sober up so that he could be her ride when she was ready.
“Three, I think.”
“What’s Coder?”
She chuckles groggily, flashing me a tired smile before she tells me, “Coder is a who. A very hot, hot, hot who.”
“Beer pong guy?” I ask, knitting my eyebrows together in confusion. I watched her with him last night, so I’m not entirely sure why her need to tell me about him now is so urgent that it brought her into my bed.
“Who? Oh—no. Way hotter. God, babe, he’s like…” She pauses, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she works to fight her grin.
“He’s like what?”
“Kenz—he’s like boyfriend material.”
My eyes grow wide in surprise, a small smile curling my lips, and I suddenly don’t mind that she’s totally hogging the covers.
“Go on,” I insist, nudging her with my knee.
“I mean, we didn’t talk much, but I did learn a few things.”
“Like?”
“He’s not a student. He’s twenty-three, and he’s a tattoo artist.”
Whoa. Not what I was expecting her to say. Then her words penetrate through the lifting fog of sleep and I blurt, “Um—if he’s not a student, why was he at a frat party?”
“Matt is a close friend,” She answers, as if such an explanation should make complete sense. I scrunch my brow in confusion, and she reads my face accurately before she goes on to say, “Matt is Will’s older brother. He’s a senior this year, and he’s also a Phi Delt. Anyway, apparently Coder doesn’t come to these sorts of parties often, but he made a special appearance yesterday, which had everyone totally amped up. I guess he’s got a reputation. They love having him around.”
“Okay…go on,” I murmur, still waiting for the punch line.
“That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”
“What? You just said he was boyfriend material. How is he going to be your boyfriend if all you’ve got is his name and occupation?”
“Honey,” she grins, rolling her eyes at me. “Come on.”
“Right,” I mumble, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. Her assessment. Her confidence. Her seemingly low chances and the fact that I don’t have a single doubt that she’ll somehow make a way to get what she wants.
“Oh, by the way, I’m getting my belly button pierced this week. You’re coming with. You know, to hold my hand. I bet it’ll hurt like a bitch.”
“Wait—what?” I cry, her declaration giving me whiplash.
“Well, I sure as fuck am not getting a tattoo!”
“You’ve lost me,” I admit, claiming defeat.
“Kenzie, aren’t you listening? My chances of seeing Coder at a party again are slim to none. But if I show up where he works…”
I stare at her like she’s lost it before I mutter, “So—you’re going to get your belly button pierced? Seriously?”
“Yup. I’m calling first thing in the morning to make my appointment,” she replies as she begins to climb out of my bed.
“Wait—Brooke, do you even know this guy’s last name?” I ask, concerned that this stranger has her making plans to put holes in her body.
She hums a laugh, not bothering to turn back and look at me as she says, “Babe, I’ve seen his smile. I don’t need to know his last name.”