End Game

LAYLA

“Excuse me,” I say, pasting a fake smile on my lips as I bump into a partygoer. My teeth press so hard into one another I can feel the tension in my temples, my jawbones aching from the pressure.

Fighting tears, I scan the penthouse full of people with nothing more on their minds than how much to drink. Jealousy is not something I wrestle with most days, but standing in my too-tight dress in too-high heels and with too much uncertainty wracking my emotions, I’m insanely envious of them all.

The crowds part just enough for me to spot my brother, a good head taller than ninety percent of the attendees, on the far side of the room next to the bar. Again, I go sorting through the faces and will myself to calm down before Finn starts asking questions.