Chapter 14
Cassandra
The decrepit, broken-down staircase shakes with our weight as we ascend toward the thumping music of the house party above.
It’s been a while since Sophia and I last visited the local phenomenon of Twickham House, and all I really remember from the previous party was the searing beat in my eardrums and stumbling down these familiar, chipped steps with my best friend in hand.
Good to know they’re still not interested in home improvements.
As we slip behind a slobbering couple and make our way inside, an overwhelming, thick heat attacks my senses. Not the kind that comes from a radiator in the wall, but the sweaty, choking type mixed with body odor and various perfumes flowing through the gaps between exposed breasts and damp limbs.
“You want to get drinks first? Then we can try to meet up with my lab buddies,” Sophia shouts against the curve of my ear. Still, I can barely make out her words through the cacophony of sounds vibrating alongside the beat.
“Sounds good,” I shout back, before she wraps her icy fingers around mine and pulls, weaving us through the bodies in the crowd.
I don’t really like these types of parties, mainly because college kids love to penetrate personal space—a thing I value more than pretty much anything else.
When crowds close in around me, I can feel the start of one of my signature freakouts emerge: the thinning of air, a racing in my chest. Thankfully, Sophia is excellent at finding the fastest path to the most open space possible, and she never fails to make sure I’m somewhere I feel comfortable.
I look toward my thoughtful friend, who’s already gotten us free from the crowd and is currently managing her next task: procuring drinks.
When I had first opened up to her about my various issues, I had been expecting to scare her off.
Sure, I thought she might express some discomforting sympathy toward me, but I was sure she would never want to deal with the complications of hanging out with me or going out together.
Instead, she’s been my first line of defense, always pushing me out of my comfort zone and opening me up to new experiences.
So much of my progress this year has been thanks to Sophia.
I watch her lean close to the scrawny nineteen-year-old playing bartender for the evening, and I laugh to myself as the poor kid shoots heart eyes back at her, practically tripping over his own legs to make her what she asks for. He never even had a chance.
Walking over to the drink cart, I wrap my arm around Soph’s waist, settling my palm on the curve of her ass. She turns her head to kiss my cheek, playing along with our well-rehearsed escape route.
“Who’s she?” the kid asks, confusion lacing his face.
“My girlfriend,” Soph responds with an innocent smile, taking both drinks from his hand and pulling me away. We laugh as we make off with our loot and head toward the kitchen in the back, where her friends said they would be.
Sure enough, Sophia’s lab friends are all clumped together as always, passing a joint around the kitchen table while deeply invested in a game of Go Fish. I remember a lot of them from various run-ins, but their names are kind of fuzzy in my mind.
“Hey guys!” Sophia pulls the girl closest to us into a tight hug. “You remember my friend, Cass?”
“Cassy!” The nearest girl shouts before moving to throw her arms around me, too.
Fuck. Rebecca? Renee?
“Hey... you! So great to see you again,” I say, hugging her back. When I pull away, I catch a glimpse of her pink cheeks and wide eyes, pupils stretched like round saucers.
“Looks like we have some catching up to do!” Soph laughs, pulling the joint from a nearby hand and taking a hit.
I go to take a sip of my drink, but for some reason, my stomach sinks when my eyes catch on the rim of the cup, and I just settle for holding it by my side like a feral animal I’m learning to trust. The people at the table scoot down to make room for us to slide into the bench.
“Deal me in, deal me in!” Soph shouts, shaking the arm of the guy shuffling cards.
“I’ll just watch this round,” I say, sitting back against the wall.
“Ah, Cass is just trying to take notes on us all so she can pull a sneak attack in the next round.” Soph sticks out her tongue at me. I flash mine back at her.
“So, your name’s Cassy?” the rumble of a guy’s voice asks on my other side. I look over, processing his looming form and dark brown eyes. He’s one of those tall, skinny guys who reminds me a bit of a Tim Burton character, complete with the pale skin and dark circles.
“Cassandra,” I correct, extending my hand. Mom’s the only one who calls me Cassy. He wraps his large, clammy hand around mine.
“Adam,” he supplies, a smile pulling at his lips. “What’s your major?”
“Business,” I respond, glancing down at my drink again. Was it always this color? I feel like it got redder. I sneak a glance at Sophia’s, comparing the two hues with meticulous consideration.
“Woah, not a lot of women in business, I hear,” he says. “I’m in my third year of bio.”
“Not a lot of women in STEM either, I heard,” I parrot back, glancing mockingly toward the large group of nerdy women sitting at the table.
“Touché,” he laughs, taking another swig of his drink. Awkward. I take one more glance at mine before sliding it away and standing from the table.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, patting Soph’s arm so she knows I’ll return. She shoots me a nod before focusing on the game.
I make my way out of the kitchen and find a back door that someone must’ve propped open to let in some cool outside air.
Don’t ask me why, but I find myself opening my text chain with Mikhail for about the tenth time today, scanning over the last three texts he sent a few days ago. I haven’t gotten myself to respond yet, for some reason, becoming incredibly nervous every time I try.
I don’t even know what he is to me. A friend?
Is that what you call it when you send a guy to the hospital, steal his gun, and sleep over in his bed?
I know he’s older, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties.
I don’t want to be the love-sick college girl who clings to his obvious wealth and success.
Cassandra:
Hey.
I push out a shaky breath as I hit send, leaning back against the frame of the back door.
The chilled air cools my clammy skin, offering a calm reprieve from the waves of body heat wafting out of the house.
I look down when my phone buzzes, but then it doesn’t stop.
It takes my dumb ass way too long to realize I’m being called, Mikhail’s contact flashing across the screen.
Worried it will stop before I can react, I slide my shaky finger across the screen with a harsh flick and lift the device to my ear.
“Hey,” his soft voice rumbles across the line, immediately relaxing my nerves. “It sounds loud over there. Are you out somewhere?” His voice hardens at the end of his question.
“Yeah, I went to a house party with my friend, Sophia.” I pick nervously at my nail. “I think I’ll probably leave soon, though.”
“Why? Not having a good time?” he questions. I pause for a second, debating how much I want to share, until my filter—clearly obliterated by his pretty voice—crumbles to pieces.
“I couldn’t drink my drink.” I push the phone closer to my face and drop my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “I can’t stop thinking that somebody put something in it, which is crazy because I literally watched the guy make it and it never left my goddamn sight.”
“That sounds like a perfectly rational response for your body to have,” he coaxes in a comforting voice that rolls over my nerves like a soft blanket and a cup of tea.
“But I have too many things already, Mikhail. The last thing I need is another thing.”
“Things?” he presses.
“Issues. I have too many issues, and I don’t need to be scared of something as silly as a freshman pouring me a drink.”
He makes a low, noncommittal noise when hearing the word “freshman.”
“Not really making me feel better about this party, Little Menace, but I promise, you don’t have too many things. Your mind’s natural responses from past trauma are just these intelligent, beautiful shields that can sometimes accidentally misfire in safe situations.”
I absorb his words carefully, spinning them over in my head like a line of poetry. He says stuff so simply. It’s like he peels off all the layers of my bias coating the concepts and presents them to me again once they’re raw and bare and clean.
“Why do you call me a menace?” I deflect, asking in a lighter tone. “You know, most people think I’m really fucking nice.”
“Nah, nice is so boring. You are anything but boring, Cassandra.”
My cheeks flushed against the chilling wind.
“That night that we met?” he probes, voice crackling through the phone.
“When you were bleeding all over that alley on 5th street?” I finish for him. A raspy chuckle fills the speaker before he replies.
“Yes, exactly. There I was, ready to give up on it all, face my reckoning... but then you showed up. Such a force of fight with so many demands. Not a useless angel, but a bossy little spitfire who took my gun and sent me an ambulance.”
He relates his version of events so wistfully, as though looking back on a beautiful moment rather than a painful memory. It causes a heavy, peaceful sensation to fall over me like a weighted blanket, settling the nerves in my stomach that I didn’t even realize were still fluttering with anxiety.
“Mikhail?”
“Yes?”
“Can we be friends?” I ask earnestly, the words feeling so infantile and naive as they fall from my mouth.
The pause stretches into an unbearable eternity before I get my answer.
“Okay, Menace. We can be friends tonight. But I might want to submit my title for reevaluation if you ever allow me a better designation than friend.”
So much for my settled, calm nerves, because my stomach does a flip of excitement when I hear his rumbly response.
“Deal,” I say, smiling ear to ear.
And that’s how Sophia finds me minutes after we end the call: grinning widely and staring at the floor, replaying it all in my head over and over again.