Then
Junior year.
We have an after-school routine, the four of us.
We get into Lizzie’s car in the student lot, book it to Starbucks with our music blaring, and order the same drinks every day.
Caramel macchiato for Alexis. White mocha for Lizzie.
Brown sugar latte for Farah. A basic iced coffee for me because my parents are cheap.
And on weekends, we spend our nights texting guys from Alexis’s basement or sneaking out to one of Greg’s “get-togethers.” We steal booze from our parents’ liquor cabinets—never enough that they’ll notice—and obsess over clothes and shoes and boys.
My parents hardly register I’m gone, too concerned with Noah’s insane baseball schedule. It works in my favor.
Mason Bryce. Sophomore at Harrington. Student athlete: hockey.
Went to our rival school, Northland, but she can overlook that since he’s hot.
They start texting incessantly. We don’t wonder why a sophomore in college has interest in a high school girl because everyone’s interested in Alexis Cane.
She’s that girl. Luscious brown hair. Perfect body.
Comes from money. And has a butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck, usually hidden except for hot summer days. Still, it’s cool to know it’s there.
Everything shifts after Mason. We don’t see Alexis for most of the weekends in April.
She devotes every second she can to her boyfriend, and it disrupts our entire routine.
We spend our Friday and Saturday nights in Farah’s basement instead, and being a weekend threesome instead of a foursome takes some getting used to.
At school, I catch Lizzie and Farah eyeing Alexis with envy, as though she has something they covet above everything else.
I’m not sure if it’s her looks, or her status, or the attention of someone older, cooler, and hotter than all the guys at Miller Hill, but our four-way friendship feels suddenly fragile.
It scares me. I don’t want things to change.
“There’s a party in Northland tonight,” Alexis tells us. It’s the last Friday in May, and we’re a few weeks out from the end of junior year. The Miller Hill parties don’t start until next weekend. “We have to go.”
“That’s kind of last minute,” I say, biting my thumbnail between my teeth.
“Yeah, I agree,” says Farah.
Alexis rolls her eyes. “Oh, so you’re just gonna pretend you don’t want to go? Really? Everyone’s going. Mason’s home from college, and he’s going.”
“Just because Mason is going, doesn’t mean everyone’s going,” Lizzie points out.
Alexis sighs like we’re getting on her nerves. “Fine. Text Greg and them. Spread the word.”
“Greg’s not going to want to go to a Northland party,” I argue.
Alexis smiles at me. “Trust me, Ivy. If you ask him, he will. I heard he won’t stop talking about you.”
I blush. I can’t help it. Greg and I hooked up a month ago at one of his “get-togethers,” and when I say “hook up,” I mean second base.
It’s the furthest I’ve gone with a guy, but I lied to Alexis and told her we went all the way.
When she asked if I came, I told her yes.
Apparently, she has multiple orgasms with Mason, and they’ve done everything under the sun.
Well, everything except for anal, which he brings up to her constantly.
I don’t think she should do it if she doesn’t feel comfortable, but it’s not like she’ll listen to anything I say.
But as per usual, Alexis gets her way, and we end up at the Northland party on Friday night. It’s loud and hot, and I don’t recognize most of the people. Some random guy ropes my friends into a game of beer pong on the deck, but I have zero hand-eye coordination, so I stay in the kitchen.
“Hey,” comes a deep voice. I glance up, and my eyes widen.
Mason Bryce is standing in front of me, looking at me like I’m something worth looking at.
And god. He’s even more attractive in person than in the pictures Alexis showed us.
Square jaw. Sandy blonde hair. Tall, broad, and fit.
He’s just so much more than all the high school guys we’re constantly surrounded by, and I swallow against my suddenly dry mouth.
“H-hi.” I wince at the stutter, which makes an appearance sometimes when I’m nervous, but he just keeps staring at me. Heat crawls up my neck, and I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment. “Um, Alexis is outside, if you’re looking for her.”
He nods but makes no move toward the door. Just watches me in a way I can’t decide if I like or hate. “Remind me of your name.”
I clear my throat, so the words don’t get stuck again. “Ivy Combs.”
Mason smirks. I blush, embarrassed I said my full name. “Are you having a good time, Ivy Combs?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “It’s a…fun party.”
His eyes flit to the red cup in my hand. “You’ve barely touched your drink.”
I raise the cocktail mixture Alexis made me to my lips and take a long sip. It takes everything in me not to make a face because she really went heavy on the liquor.
“Oh, come on,” he teases. “You can do better than that.”
I finish off the cup, and my limbs feel looser.
“What are you drinking, anyway?”
“Tequila and orange juice, I think,” I tell him. “Alexis made it for me.”
He makes a face and shakes his head. “Ugh, gross. Here. Let me make you a decent drink, Ivy Combs.”
I shrug because why not. “Okay.”
But instead of a mixed drink, Mason hands me a shot. “Do a shot with me first.”
I glance over my shoulder, wondering where my friends went. But I can’t deny that being the center of attention of a boy like Mason Bryce feels good. Better than good. I think I understand why Alexis is so obsessed with it. “Should we find Alexis?”
“Why do we need to find her?”
I shrug because I guess I don’t know.
We throw back the shots. The liquor burns going down, but I force myself not to cough. Then, he passes me the cup with the concoction he’s made. “Try it,” he urges, and I take a hesitant sip, surprised it tastes halfway decent. “Good, right?”
“Way better. Thank you.” I take another sip and shift on my feet. “Should we find Alexis?”
He leans toward me, so close I can smell his cologne. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“I guess,” I say with a small smile.
“She’s been kind of annoying me lately. Sometimes, she whines like a toddler. It gives me a fucking headache.”
“Oh.” My smile falters. It seems weird that he would tell me these things, but then again, maybe not. The deep, dark part of my mind that sometimes looks at my friend and wonders why her? feels a sick sense of satisfaction. “So…I mean…are you going to break up with her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She’s gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but she’s kinda flat on top. Not like you.”
His eyes roam over me, lingering on my chest. My body burns red hot, and I tug at the strap of my tank top. Alexis convinced me to wear it, but I don’t love how tight it is. How big it makes my chest look. “I think I should find my friends.”
“Sorry,” he tells me, his smile sheepish. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, no. That’s okay.”
“She’s great at sucking dick, though. That’s one reason I keep her around.” I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. His eyebrow quirks, a wicked smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever done that?”
“N-no,” I stutter out. My cheeks burn, and his smile widens.
“Do you want to?” I don’t respond. He takes a sip of his drink, and so I take another sip of mine. The world’s starting to go a little hazy around the edges, and I don’t think I should drink any more. I put down my cup. “You won’t tell her I said any of this, will you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“It’s our secret?”
I nod my head. It’s heavy all of a sudden. Bobble-like.
“I think you might have drank too much, Ivy.”
“I should find my friends,” I say again, but the words come out jumbled, and Mason laughs.
“They’re just outside. Don’t worry, I’ll help you find them in a second, but you really need to lie down. That liquor went straight to your head.”
I nod again, and then he’s guiding me down the hallway and up the stairs and into an empty room. I stumble over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress because the walls around me are off-balance. I realize that he’s right. I drank too much.
“It’ll be okay,” he assures, shutting the door, and then he’s next to me, brushing my hair back over my shoulder. He shouldn’t be this close, and I’m confused as to how he got there. I blink slowly. Heavy-lidded.
I try to stand because something feels wrong, but he catches my hand and tugs me back down. I’m too light-headed to resist, so I sink against him. And then his mouth is on my neck and he’s kissing me and I must be way drunker than I thought because the room’s spinning now.
I try to pull away and get to my feet, but he grabs my wrists and presses me back against the bed. His hands tighten. His grip is too firm, and I’m too drunk, and I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he says.
I want to go home.
His hands roam under my shirt, fingers rough and coarse across my skin. This is nothing like what I did with Greg. This is nothing like how it should be. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but he covers it with his hand, and for a second, I can’t breathe. He removes it, and I gasp for air.
When the room starts to tilt, I shut my eyes, worried I might be sick. I try to speak again because I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home—
His hand is over my mouth again. “It’s okay, Ivy. You said you wanted this.”
And then his hand is replaced by his lips, and he forces his tongue into my mouth the way he forced his hands under my shirt and his body between my legs, and I twist, twist, twist my head away but that’s all I can do. His weight pins me down. He’s so heavy. He crushes me.
I can’t breathe.
And then he’s lifting up my skirt and touching me in ways I don’t want to be.
I try to roll away, but my limbs are made of lead or stone or some other thing I can’t control and I can’t move, can’t speak, still can’t breathe.
I melt into the bedspread, sink beneath the mattress, disintegrate into dust, float far, far away—
Pain draws me back. Pressure and pain. Sharp. Rough. Dry.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mumbles.
Tears leak out of my eyes, and I want to, need to, try to twist away, but I’m just a lifeless mound of skin and tissue and bone, and maybe that’s better because skin and tissue and bone can’t think.
But they can feel pain.
I want to go home.
The world blurs, and I shut my eyes. I try to breathe.
I disappear inside myself, slowly counting backward from ten.
When I finally reach one, the weight falls away, and then he’s zipping up his pants.
“Are you feeling okay?” he’s saying as he adjusts my shirt back over my bra.
My skirt back over my thighs. “You drank way too much. Maybe sleep it off for a while.”
And then he’s gone.
He leaves me there, but I feel no relief.
He took the good parts of me with him.