Alcohol is the answer to life’s problems.

At least, it was the answer to life’s problems tonight. Portia sneaked a flask into the bar with her and we closed ourselves in one of the bathroom stalls. It was gone in minutes. You know what’s better than dancing? Dancing with a buzz.

Okay, it was more than a buzz. I was drunk. I’m still drunk. But the heat of the alcohol melted away the tension in my gut and made me forget that my uncle is being a stubborn asshole. Why is it such a big deal to protect me by sending me to Europe? Tons of bad shit can happen in Europe, too. It’s not some magical bubble-wrapped place where I’ll never get so much as a paper cut.

Portia throws her arms around my neck when the Uber pulls up to the curb in front of my uncle’s house. “I love you, girl.” Her voice is sloppy against my neck, but still genuine. “Fight the good fight. When you get up in the morning take a Tylenol and try again. I swear to God, I’ll get us an apartment this weekend. No problem. So easy.”

“I will.” My heart stirs at the thought of standing up to my uncle and striking out on my own. Protect me? I’m nineteen years old. I don’t need any man’s protection. I’m totally fucking fine. “I’ll do it. Look for a place. I’ll move in with you.” My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. It’s going to be so nice to go to sleep, but my veins buzz with the possibilities. If Portia got a place by campus, we could go to all kinds of parties. I’d never have to worry about being too far from class. I’d never have to worry about someone watching me, always watching and worrying. I’d be free. Plus, Portia notices everything. She’d see trouble coming a mile away.

God, they’re all so paranoid. I can still picture my mother’s eyes, two days before she died, gripping my hand so tightly her knuckles were white. “Sia Andrews,” she repeated. “You go by that name. Promise me. Promise me.”

I’m not interested in grief crashing my high, so I shove the memory back. She was scared for no reason. She’s been dead for ten years and nothing has happened.

I get out of the car into the warm spring air, blow Portia a kiss, and head for the door.

The house is dark and silent. My uncle is asleep, and even though I’m pissed at him, I’m not a bitch. I open the door and tiptoe inside, locking it behind me.

Home.

For another couple of days, anyway. It’s been a good place to grow up, but Jesus, it’s starting to suffocate me. I’m not a princess. I’m not so precious that I need to be locked away in a tower, hidden from the world, until I’m an old woman. Still, I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of turning my back on my uncle. There’s got to be a better way to do this.

I’ll figure it out in the morning. Or the day after that. I’ve got time, unless Uncle David is going to drag me kicking and screaming through the airport and onto the plane himself. Not that I’d make a scene like that. I wouldn’t kick. I wouldn’t scream. But I would dig my heels into the carpet and make every step agony.

I laugh softly at the thought, and kick off my heels. Making a big scene is not the Andrews way. It’s not what my mother preferred, either, but she never went without a fight. There are ways.

The door to my bedroom swings open under my touch and my shoulders relax. I’ve always loved this bedroom. After my mother took us into hiding, we lived in shady-ass rental homes all around Chicago, never staying for longer than six months. Compared to that, Uncle David’s house is paradise. But you know what they say—any paradise can become a prison. I drop my little clutch purse to the floor. It connects with a gentle pfft.

“So dramatic,” I tell myself aloud, stretching my arms over my head.

In the corner, a shadow detaches from the wall.

I drop my arms to my side and freeze, blinking.

Am I fucking seeing things?

No.

I’m drunk, but I’m not so drunk that I don’t recognize the shadow for what it is—a man.

My pulse pounds in my ears, as loud as the echo of the club music. My lungs strain for breath. Holy fuck. An intruder? In my bedroom? As long as I’ve lived here, there’s never been a robbery in the neighborhood. There’s never been a crime at all, unless you count a fight between the Hollister’s that got out of hand three years ago. This place is safe.

There is a man in my bedroom.

I will my legs to move. Run, I think, but my body does nothing. My feet might as well be part of the off-white carpet, speckled with pink and blue that Uncle David installed before we moved in.

“I—” My voice is breathless, an ineffectual wheeze, and I raise my trembling hands in front of me like that’s all it’ll take to ward off a man who’s climbed into my bedroom through my window. It’s open. It’s open. Did I forget to lock it? Can you forget to do something you never need to do in the first place? His face is hidden by a shadow.

It’s hidden by a shadow until he steps forward, into the light.

Relief is a flood of sparkling warmth through every inch of me. I know this face. I know this person. I haven’t seen him since—God, what is it, middle school? It’s the same face that used to laugh with me under the bleachers, doing our homework like a couple of straight-edge kids who wanted to hang A's from their report cards like Christmas decorations. I know him, and the fear goes out of me like a ghost, the pleasant buzzed-drunk feeling taking over.

“Jesus,” I say, keeping my voice low. Now that I know who it is, I really don’t want to wake up Uncle David. “You scared the shit out of me.” A giggle escapes me. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?”