13 drywall
By Friday night, I already know I shouldn't be going out.
Not because I don't want to, but because the entire week has felt too full somehow, classes and studying and Jackson and Logan all stacking on top of each other until my brain feels permanently busy, like I haven't had a single quiet thought in days.
Which is probably exactly why Nola refuses to let me stay in.
"You need human interaction outside of psychology majors and emotionally unavailable football players," she says while digging through her closet. "It's becoming a health concern."
I'm sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching her throw clothes over her shoulder dramatically. "I interact with people."
"You insult people academically," she corrects.
"That's still interaction."
"It's psychological warfare."
I shrug slightly. "Depends on the person."
Nola turns toward me holding up two tops. "Black or black?"
"The black one."
"Perfect. I was leaning toward black."
I snort quietly, shaking my head as she disappears toward the mirror again, still talking while fixing her eyeliner.
"You're wearing that," she says, pointing at me through the mirror.
I glance down at my oversized sweatshirt. "I absolutely am not."
"Yes, you are."
"No."
"You own cute clothes, Everly. I've seen them."
"That was invasive."
"That was me helping you unpack."
"That's still invasive."
Nola just grins. "Wear the black top."
Twenty minutes later, I'm wearing the black top.
I hate that she's always right.
-
The party is already loud by the time we get there, music shaking the walls hard enough that I feel it in my chest before we even step fully inside, bodies packed everywhere, heat and voices and alcohol blending together into the exact kind of environment I usually avoid unless forced.
Nola, unfortunately, thrives instantly.
Within five minutes she somehow knows three girls from another dorm, a guy named Marcus who apparently shares an extracurricular with her, and the entire life story of someone crying in the bathroom.
Meanwhile, I stand beside her holding a drink like it personally offended me.
"You look scared," Nola says.
"I look observant."
"You look like you're profiling people for the FBI."
"I absolutely could."
"That is not comforting."
I take another sip instead of answering.
The first drink barely hits.
The second one does.
By the third, the room feels softer around the edges, less overwhelming, less sharp, and suddenly talking doesn't feel like work anymore.
That's probably where things start going downhill.
Or uphill.
Honestly, it's hard to tell.
At some point, Nola and I end up in a bathroom surrounded by girls I've never met while one of them cries because her situationship liked another girl's Instagram post from 2024.
"That's emotional terrorism," I tell her very seriously.
"THANK YOU," she says immediately.
Nola bends over laughing so hard she almost drops her phone.
Then there's another girl complimenting my jeans while I aggressively compliment her eyeliner back like we're at war.
"You're literally gorgeous," I tell her.
"No, you're gorgeous."
"No, your bone structure could win awards."
Nola's laughing harder now, wiping tears from under her eyes. "Oh my God, you're drunk."
"I'm emotionally honest," I correct.
"You're terrifying."
"Same thing."
Later, we somehow end up outside with a group of frat guys who are trying way too hard to sound interesting.
One of them keeps talking over everyone else, loudly explaining cryptocurrency to a girl who clearly wants to die.
I stare at him for a full five seconds. Then, "You have the emotional capabilities of a drywall."
The entire group goes silent.
Nola actually chokes on her drink.
"What?" the guy says, looking genuinely offended.
"I said what I said."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It makes perfect sense," I reply. "You talk like a podcast nobody asked for."
Nola doubles over laughing against my shoulder while the guy stares at me like I personally ruined his night.
"You're mean," he mutters.
"You started talking about crypto at a party," I shoot back. "You did this to yourself."
After that, things blur together a little.
Music.
Laughing.
Nola dragging me away before I can insult another finance major.
At some point she decides I'm drunk enough to become her responsibility again, which is apparently a full-time job now.
"You're walking crooked," she informs me while we head back toward campus.
"The sidewalk is moving."
"The sidewalk is stationary."
"That sounds fake."
"You sound fake."
I gasp dramatically. "That was hurtful."
"You told a guy he had drywall emotions."
"He did."
Nola starts laughing again.
-
By the time we get back to the dorm, my legs feel disconnected from the rest of my body and the hallway lights are offensively bright.
"I'm alive," I announce to absolutely nobody while trying to unlock the door.
"You're drunk," Nola says.
"Allegedly."
"You tried opening the wrong room five seconds ago."
"That room looked emotionally available."
Nola snorts.
Eventually, the correct door opens.
Jackson's sitting on his bed.
He looks up immediately the second we walk in, and I watch his eyebrows lift slightly before he leans back against the wall.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he mutters.
"Hi, Bennett," Nola says cheerfully.
Jackson looks between us once. "How drunk is she?"
"I'm right here," I inform him.
"She told someone they had the emotional range of construction material," Nola replies.
"I stand by that."
Jackson huffs out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head once before standing up.
Nola points at him. "She's your problem now."
"That feels illegal."
"It's temporary," she says. "Good luck."
Then she leaves before either of us can argue.
The door shuts behind her.
Silence.
I blink at Jackson slowly.
He stares back. "You look rough, Coleman."
"That's rude," I tell him immediately. "You have judgmental eyebrows."
His mouth twitches. "My eyebrows are normal."
"They're mean."
"They're eyebrows."
I point at him accusingly. "Exactly."
He actually laughs at that, quieter this time, then walks closer when I nearly trip trying to kick my shoes off.
"Whoa," he says, grabbing my elbow before I fall sideways. "Easy."
"I'm perfectly balanced."
"You're leaning into the wall."
"The wall supports me emotionally."
"Yeah," he mutters. "Clearly."
I laugh at that for way too long.
Jackson shakes his head slightly before taking the water bottle from my hand. "You finished this already."
I squint at it. "That explains why nothing's coming out."
"Shocking discovery."
He grabs another bottle from his desk and hands it to me instead. "Drink."
"You sound bossy."
"You sound drunk."
"That's because I am."
"Yeah," he says dryly. "I noticed."
I take a sip anyway while he crouches slightly to help untangle the straps of my heels from around my ankles because apparently at some point I stopped understanding how shoes work.
"This is humiliating," I mumble.
"You're doing great."
"That sounded sarcastic."
"It was sarcastic."
"Mean."
"You told someone they were emotionally construction material."
"He deserved it."
Jackson laughs again, head dropping slightly for a second like he's trying not to.
The sound catches me off guard a little.
Not the laugh itself.
Just how genuine it sounds.
He helps me sit down on the bed before I accidentally walk into my desk, and I let myself fall backward dramatically with a groan.
"Nola would survive an apocalypse," I inform the ceiling.
"I don't doubt that."
"She'd immediately become president."
"Of the apocalypse?"
"Yes."
"Seems fair."
I look over at him. "Logan's emotionally exhausting."
Jackson snorts quietly while grabbing the blanket from the end of the bed. "You're really exposing everyone tonight, huh?"
"I expose the truth."
"You expose chaos."
"Same thing."
He pulls the blanket over me before I can argue further, movements surprisingly careful for someone who usually acts like emotions are contagious.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then his hand brushes a piece of hair away from my face.
Gentle.
Quick enough that I almost think I imagined it.
"Go to sleep, Coleman," he says quietly.
And maybe it's the alcohol or the exhaustion or the way his voice sounds softer than usual, but something warm settles in my chest before everything finally fades out.