15. Liam
15
LIAM
God, I hate parties. The noise, the chaos, the people packed in like commuters on a rush-hour train. Touching me when I don’t want to be touched. Looking at me when I’d rather not be perceived. It’s all just a mess of sounds and smells, everyone yelling over the music that’s way too loud.
But I’ve been dragged to enough of these things at Dayton to know when it’s worth putting up a fight—and when it’s better to go along for the ride, which, admittedly, happens more often than I’d like.
There was that neon rager during Welcome Week. The infamous foam party freshman year. Last Halloween, James, Hayes, and his girlfriend made me dress up as one of Bo Peep’s sheep, and yeah, I’ve still got photos of that one. Now, here I am, getting dragged along by Chase to yet another soccer party.
It makes him happy, and it’s easier for me just to play along than to explain why I’d rather be anywhere else. Sometimes, I have to let Chase’s enthusiasm carry me along instead of resisting the tide.
“Come on, man. Loosen up,” Chase says, nudging my shoulder as we make our way up to the porch. “It’s Halloween. You’re dressed like a vampire, for God’s sake. Embrace it.”
I adjust the plastic fangs that are digging into my gums and wipe a bit of fake blood from my lip. “It’s quite literally a Monday night in the middle of the semester. Pardon me for not feeling so festive.”
Chase just grins, eager to head inside to find some unsuspecting girl. He’s all in, a gladiator in a getup that’s one size too small. “Look, just have a drink, relax. You might actually have fun tonight.”
The noise is already bleeding out—someone’s cranked up “Thriller,” and there’s a burst of laughter that sounds like it’s coming from at least half a dozen people. I roll my eyes as Chase disappears inside. Instead of following, I hang back alone, posting up by the door.
I asked Birdie to meet me here on a whim. It was a last-minute invite that I honestly didn’t think she’d accept. But she did, and with her by my side, this party might actually be bearable. Maybe even enjoyable.
She texted that she’d be here soon, so I’m waiting.
Five minutes later, she’s walking up the lawn, her wings catching the porch light as she adjusts them. She’s dressed as a woodland fairy, all soft greens and browns, with her hair braided.
She looks so pretty, delicate, perfect. A version of Birdie that makes it hard to remember why I ever thought I didn’t want to be here.
“So, are you just going to stare, or are you going to say hi?” she asks.
“Did you walk here?” The house is a decent trek from her apartment, and the thought of her walking it alone in the dark tugs at me.
She shrugs, brushing it off. “The wings make me faster.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, unimpressed. “So, are you here to sprinkle magic dust, or are you more of the mischievous type?”
She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Depends. Are you here to drink people’s blood or just to look menacing?”
“Mostly the latter.” I flash the plastic fangs in an exaggerated grin. “Though these fuckers are killing me. Couldn’t find a set that didn’t feel like they were made for toddlers.”
She laughs. “Yeah, you’ve got a little blood just there.” She swipes her thumb across my lip to clean off the fake splatters. The casual touch throws me, and for a second, I’m too focused on the warmth of her hand to come up with a witty response.
“Thanks,” I manage, clearing my throat. “You look . . . really good, by the way. Like you could actually live in a forest somewhere and talk to squirrels or something.”
Her eyes light up, amused. “Squirrels, huh? I was hoping for something cooler.”
“Like . . . a wood nymph?” I suggest.
“Or Edward Cullen, maybe. You know, hop on, Spider-Monkey .”
I wink. “I can be him. I’m halfway there already.”
“Not sparkly enough,” she quips, grinning.
I chuckle, finally gesturing toward the door. “Ready to head in? My roommate’s probably in there plotting his next conquest.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head, and we step inside together. The moment we do, we’re hit with the usual wall of noise. People dressed in mismatched costumes—cowboys, superheroes, random togas—are crammed into every corner. The faint smell of stale beer lingers in the air, mixed with sweat and way too much cheap cologne.
“Welcome to the circus,” I mutter under my breath.
Birdie wrinkles her nose as she scans the crowd. “I should’ve guessed. You’re not a big fan of parties, are you?”
I give her a sideways look. “Not really.”
“So, why are we here, then?” she asks, all low and playful.
“Just felt like it, I guess.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to be good.”
“ Good ?” she repeats, tilting her head.
I sigh, running a hand over the back of my neck before diving in. “Before, if I wasn’t up for something, I’d just say no straightaway. No question about it. But . . . the last couple of years, I figured I should make more of an effort. If it makes my friends happy, then why not, even if it’s uncomfortable for me? It’s not that hard to pretend for a little while.”
She looks at me, head tilted, lips pursed in thought. Finally, she says, “That sounds exhausting. Actually, I know it’s exhausting. I used to be such a people pleaser, too, but somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t have to say yes to everything. Learned the hard way what can happen when you’re not taking care of yourself.”
People pleaser . That’s not something I’d generally call myself. In fact, I’ve always seen myself as someone who doesn’t really care what others think. But she’s right. Sometimes, even without meaning to, I compromise more than I realize. Little sacrifices here and there, just to avoid rocking the boat.
Once again, Birdie manages to put words to something I didn’t know I was feeling. She understands what it’s like to go against what feels natural—to mask, to bend yourself into what other people want. There’s a flicker of curiosity in me, wondering what happened to shift things for her. What moment taught her to stop saying yes when she didn’t mean it.
But I let it go, for now.
“If I’m really feeling burnt out,” I say, “I won’t force it.”
She raises an eyebrow, like she’s debating whether to press for more, but in the end, she decides against it. Instead, she grabs my hand, tugging me through the crowd toward the kitchen.
The room is packed, a chaotic mess of bodies and noise, but we manage to carve out a small space by the counter. She grabs a couple of plastic cups, filling them from the keg with the precision of someone who’s clearly done this a few times.
“To learning our limits,” she says, raising her cup with a wry smile.
I tap mine against hers. “And to ignoring them every now and then.”
We drink, the sharp taste of cheap beer making me wince, but it’s manageable. As she takes another sip, I glance over her shoulder and spot a familiar face near the back of the room. I do a double take, almost convinced I’m imagining it.
Leaning against the wall with a scowl that could melt stone is Warren—my uncle’s stepson and the absolute last person I expected to see at a party like this.
Birdie catches my expression and follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
“My cousin,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s on the swim team. Don’t know what he’s doing here, though. He hates parties even more than I do.”
She narrows her eyes at him, intrigued. “Looks like he’s plotting someone’s demise. Is he always that . . . intense?”
“Pretty much. Warren’s got one of those resting ‘don’t mess with me’ faces. But he actually does hate everyone, I think. It’s not just an unlucky expression.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh. “You’re telling me he’s the antisocial one in your family?”
“Hey, I’m plenty social when I want to be,” I say, nudging her arm.
Birdie glances back at Warren. “Should we go say hi? Or would that just make him bolt?”
“Definitely bolt,” I mutter. “Let’s spare him the pain. He’s probably already counting the seconds until he can leave. Seeing me would only speed up his exit strategy.”
She grins. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No, I’m not. But I don’t take it personally. Warren just . . . doesn’t like people. Period. But if you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you.”
Before she can argue, I steer her through the crowd, weaving past costumes and clusters of half-shouted conversations. When we reach him, Warren doesn’t so much as blink in surprise. His expression is as stoic as ever, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“Hey, Warren. Why are you here?”
Birdie slaps me on the shoulder, and it’s only then that I realize how blunt that sounded. I quickly revise my tone. “I mean, what brings you to this fine social gathering?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Warren replies, his voice low and grumbly. “Coach said something about ‘team bonding.’ Thought I’d make an appearance and then head out.”
Birdie smiles, her voice light. “Well, you’re doing great so far. Super approachable vibes.”
Warren’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, like he’s debating whether to smile or not. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” Birdie says, clearly amused. “Anyway, don’t let us keep you from your ‘bonding.’ Looks like you’re having a blast.”
Warren raises an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look. “Your friend’s a little too chipper for this crowd.”
I shrug. “She grows on you.”
Birdie rolls her eyes. “Come on, let’s get out of his hair before he starts plotting our demise.”
Warren watches us leave, shaking his head faintly, and I swear there’s the tiniest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
“He doesn’t seem so bad,” Birdie says once we’re out of earshot. “He seems like he can take a joke, at least.”
“That’s because you haven’t been around him long enough.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen Warren sit through family events with the same deadpan expression he wears now. Doesn’t matter if it’s Christmas dinner or someone’s retirement party. The guy’s a statue.”
Birdie quirks an eyebrow. “A Claus denier—sounds like a good time.”
“At my uncle’s wedding, he ditched halfway through the toasts to hide out by the catering truck. Later, I found him by the loading dock, sneaking wedding cake and muttering about how the speeches were all boring and fake.”
That earns a laugh, and she pulls me toward the dance floor. She moves without hesitation, her wings fluttering in time with the music, her whole body alive with this unrestrained energy that’s impossible not to notice.
She turns to me, hips swaying, and I step closer without thinking. The bass thrums between us, and I catch the faint shimmer of sweat along her collarbone. My gaze lingers, tracking the bead as it slides down. My mind flickers to a thought I can’t shake, a thought I shouldn’t have—of leaning down, tasting the salt and warmth of her skin.
Instead, I lean in just enough that her hair brushes my cheek. “You seem happy tonight,” I murmur. “Like you’re really letting go. It’s a good look on you.”
The shift is immediate. Her shoulders stiffen, and the light in her eyes dims, like I’ve said something to ruin the moment. The realization hits me like a gut punch, and I curse myself.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, trying to recover. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, waving me off. “No, it’s not you. Really, it’s me. I don’t usually let myself . . . feel like this. Ever. Not anymore.” Her gaze flickers up to meet mine, hesitant. “But with you, I don’t know. It’s like I forget how not to.”
“And that’s . . . bad?” I ask softly, searching her face for something to latch onto.
She presses her lips together, clearly wrestling with something, and finally shakes her head. “It’s not bad. It’s just . . . complicated.”
I don’t push. Instead, I watch her rub her temples like she’s trying to fend off the weight of her own thoughts. “Do you want to go?” I ask. “We can leave if you want.”
She’s quiet for a beat, her fingers brushing mine absently. Then she shakes her head. “No,” she says, more firmly this time. Her hand slides up to clasp mine, pulling it around her neck. “We should stay. Dance more. Laugh more. Just . . . let ourselves be happy. No overthinking. No second-guessing.”
I don’t question it. I just slide my hand down to the small of her back, settling it gently beneath her wings. Her body softens against mine, and we sway together, barely moving but somehow perfectly in sync.
She looks up, her hazel eyes catching the shifting lights, open and searching. I want to kiss her, to tell her how she makes everything feel right. But I hold back, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing we’ve built in this moment.
We stay like that, lost in the music and each other, her fingers tracing a slow path along my shoulder. It’s not the kind of dancing that fits the chaos around us—it’s quieter, softer, like we’ve found our own little world amid the noise.
And if this is pretending, I think, I don’t want it to end. Because for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like pretending at all.