72 Hours of You

Chapter One

One

LIAM JOHNSON IS GOING TO DIE TONIGHT, but I’m determined not to let that ruin my game of beer pong. Especially since I’m winning.

I ignore the glowing pink light over Liam’s head and let the dented ball fly out of my hand. It arches over Noah’s parents’ fold-up table and plonks into Ethan’s last cup.

“Holy shit, Sydney!” Noah throws his arm over my shoulder. “You’re, like, the BPC!”

Noah is obsessed with acronyms. And beer.

“Thanks,” I say, patting the muscled arm coiled around me.

“Beer Pong Champion!” he shouts, pointing at my head with his free arm. He squeezes me tighter and a little bit of warm beer sloshes onto my favorite flannel button-down. “BPC!”

The rest of the party cheers. “BPC! BPC!”

I slide out from under Noah’s arm, do a little curtsy, and blow a couple kisses. The crowd cheers even louder. People are so predictable.

“You should really come to more parties,” Noah not-so-quietly whispers, his breath hot in my ear.

“No she shouldn’t,” Ethan says from across the table, chugging the last cup of his beer pyramid.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser,” I say.

“Another round?” Ethan asks, holding up the pitcher.

Noah rubs my shoulders like I’m a boxer getting ready to go back into the ring. “Forget it, man. She’s my partner for cornhole next.”

I shake my head. “I said I’d play one game.”

“Come on, Hoffman,” Noah coos. “You never come out.”

God, why do boys think that if they call you by your last name you’re contractually obligated to swoon? Oooh, are we teammates? Do you think I’m cool? One of the guys?

“I’m not going to—”

A deep rolling laugh rises over the pulsing music. Against my will, my eyes flit to Liam. He’s leaning over Cameron in the corner. Cameron’s got her head tilted toward him, touching his arm and laughing at whatever he just said. I don’t blame her. Liam can be really funny.

Cameron reaches up and tousles Liam’s hair right as the pink neon light over his head drops below an hour.

00:59:59. His cheeks are just the tiniest bit flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the beer, or the heat, or Cameron.

He brushes his messy black curls out of his eyes and leans down to whisper something in her ear. He looks cute. And happy. And alive.

Damn it. I shouldn’t have looked at him. I shouldn’t have come at all.

“Where’s Jules?” I ask. She’s the only reason I agreed to show up to this godforsaken party in the first place. I scan the living room full of people smushing up against each other and calling it dancing, but I don’t see my sister’s fire-red hair anywhere.

“She went to the 7-Eleven,” Noah says.

“When?” I ask. “Like exactly when?” She’s my ride, and suddenly the inescapability of this party swells up around me. I can’t be here anymore.

“About fifteen minutes ago? Are you good? I can drive you if you need to …”

“No,” I say. Noah’s actually pretty sweet and he’s probably fine to drive, but I never get in the car with someone who’s been drinking. Not even a sip. Not after the shit I’ve seen.

The pink glow across the room gets brighter.

Don’t look at Liam. There is nothing you can do. Do. Not. Look. At. Liam.

I look at Liam.

Cameron tugs on another one of Liam’s curls, oblivious to the pink death sentence glowing over his head. 00:57:17.

I really need to get out of here. I pull out my phone and send my sister a text.

ME:I need to go

JULES:Be back in 10!!!!

ME:I mean it. I need to go. Don’t spend 20 mins picking out a candy bar. Just get the ducking Butterfinger

ME:Ducking

ME:Ducking

ME:FUCKING

JULES:10 mins I swear!! Checking out now. I picked a butterfinger how did you know?????

ME:COME BACK!!!

Ten minutes, which could mean twenty for Jules. That’s cutting it close to Zero Hour. Way closer than I ever let myself get. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see the glow of the pink light behind my eyelids. There’s no escape.

I need a drink. Actually, I need several. “I changed my mind,” I say, tugging on Noah’s thick lacrosse-player arm. “Let’s play a game.”

“Yes!” he whoops.

“Not cornhole,” I say, pulling him with me to the kitchen. The tile is sticky with spilled drinks and the counter is cluttered with overturned cups and wounded soldiers.

“I’m down to play whatever,” Noah says, barely hiding his excitement.

“Good,” I say. “Because this game is very complicated. It’s called Let’s Get Shitfaced.”

His golden eyes light up. “How do you play?”

I grab two cups of lukewarm jungle juice from the counter and push one into his hand. “Here. Let’s get shitfaced.”

“All right, Syd!” Noah says, his smile practically breaking his face in two, like he can’t believe his luck. He tips his drink back and starts gulping.

I bring mine to my lips, fully planning to down the entire thing as fast as possible, but the sharp burn of bottom-shelf alcohol in my nose stops me.

I haven’t had a drink in eleven months. Not since …

Well. Not in eleven months. Last time I got hammered, it was like being trapped in one of those Salvador Dalí melting hellscapes—the pink numbers drooping, sliding into eternity, the light nearly blinding my eyes, and the girl’s face so utterly—

“Are you okay?” Noah asks. “You’re breathing kinda weird.”

“Am I?” My heart is racing, the images from last year fighting to break free of the mental cage I hold them in.

In and out, in and out, I remind myself.

Just slow down. But I can’t. The air is coming and going into my lungs so fast that it feels like I’m not breathing at all. Like there is no air. Like I might die.

I put a hand over my heart. My shirt is clammy and damp. The pink light gets brighter. Liam is coming into the kitchen. Shit. Shit shit shit. “Here,” I say, shoving my drink at Noah. “I need some air.”

“Do you want me to come wi—”

I don’t stick around to hear the end of that question. Because the answer is no. The answer is always, always no. And it should’ve been no when Jules asked—demanded—that I come out tonight. God, what was I thinking? I should’ve known better.

I fight my way through my classmates, swimming against a rip current of sweaty bodies, pushing past people dancing and kissing and touching boobs and butts they’re pretending not to touch.

A couple is tangled up in each other on the love seat, their limbs so knotted they look like one being.

I gasp for air, shoving between two girls locked together on the dance floor.

I bump into Ethan, who says something about the beer pong game, but I can’t understand him.

It’s like he’s underwater too. The walls are closing in and it’s so hot, and so humid.

And there’s no air. No air at all. I need to get to the door.

My hand reaches the doorknob. I yank it open and a blast of cool air hits my face. I slam the door shut behind me, the pulsing sound of music and laughter finally muffled.

Outside, in the dark under the broken porch light, I can breathe.

All I have to do is stay out here. Forget what’s going on inside. Forget what’s going to happen in—I check my Apple Watch—fifty-two minutes. Forget it all.

“Why does it have to be Liam?” I mumble to myself.

He’s never done anything wrong. Like, never.

A couple weeks ago, in English, I was talking about the meaning of the word gentle in that famous Dylan Thomas poem and Jordan Reaty cut me off mid-sentence.

Without missing a beat, Liam said, Sorry, what were you saying, Sydney?

And he did it without making a big thing about it or posing as the feminist hero guy or whatever.

He just said it and moved on. Like, an actual nice guy.

There aren’t that many around, and after tonight, there’s going to be one less.

For just a flash of a second, I consider turning around, swimming back upstream through those sticky bodies, and grabbing Liam and hugging him. But I don’t do that. We’re barely friends, and I don’t want to make things weird for him in his last hour. Last minutes. God, where is Jules?

I walk down the stone porch to the bottom step, my eyes scanning for Jules’s vintage Beetle on the dirt road leading up to Noah’s house.

I take another shaky breath in. I glance back at the door.

I have to stop thinking about Liam. I’m never this messed up about seeing a Clocker.

I mean, it’s never good but after twelve years, it’s pretty hard to get me rattled.

Now I’m out here glancing at doors and reminiscing as if I have a choice about any of this.

There is no choice. The only thing I can do is keep my eyes on the road and sit here and wait for Jules to come back and take me as far from this party as possible.

I drop my purse and lean down to sit on the last step of the porch.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, jumping up. There’s someone else out here. On the porch. In the shadows. Like a creepy-ass vampire. My heart starts to pound again.

“Sorry,” the voice says again. The boy attached to the voice steps forward into the moonlight.

He’s like, aggressively tall, and he’s got green eyes that have the nerve to look bright even in the darkness, and he’s holding a book.

An actual physical book. He looks like a damn angel.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just …

I’m pretty sure someone barfed all over that step. ”

I glance down at a brownish smear next to my purse. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, taking a sip from his red cup.

“Are you going to stab me?”

“Am I … What?” His eyebrows crinkle.

“You brought a book. To a party. I assume you’re a serial killer.”

He tucks the book under his arm and a sliver of moonlight glints off the plastic cover. Christ, I think it’s a library book. That’s so much worse.