Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Laughter I Can’t Join
When we get home, I head upstairs to change—light-wash jeans and a soft blush-pink tank trimmed with lace. There’s a chill in the air tonight, so I add a cropped cream cardigan and slip on a pair of white ballet flats.
In the bathroom, I brush out my curls, pin the sides, add a touch of shimmer to my eyelids, and swipe on a gloss the color of rosewater.
Rushing back down the stairs, I settle on the sofa in front of the wide window overlooking the street, checking my phone every few minutes.
I don’t go to many parties; I usually prefer to stay in and read.
Hannah’s the same way. Clara, though, is a self-proclaimed party girl—and she had insisted her two lovable introverts couldn’t possibly spend tonight at home.
My mum appears in the doorway, a gentle smile lighting her face. I brace for the usual lecture—no drinking, no drugs, home by midnight—but instead she leans against the frame and says simply, “Have fun tonight. Just… not too much fun,” she adds with a wink.
Warmth blooms in my chest. “Love you,” I call as she turns back toward the kitchen.
Headlights sweep across the window as they pull up in Hannah’s silver sedan. I call a quick goodbye to my parents and dart out the door, cool air brushing my face as I run to the car. Clara leans over the seat the moment I slide into the back, eyes bright.
“You look so cute!” she exclaims.
I smile, taking her in. Clara’s makeup is flawless—perfect skin, winged liner, a shimmer of glitter catching the light. Her lips are glossed in the perfect nude-pink, her hair curled into effortless waves that probably took an hour.
“So do you,” I say honestly. “You always look like you stepped out of a magazine.”
She grins, clearly pleased. “Well, I am going to beauty college in the autumn,” she says, tossing her hair with mock pride.
From the driver’s seat, Hannah laughs. “Her makeup always looks so good. I don’t even bother trying anymore.”
That’s Hannah—never one for fuss when it comes to how she looks.
Her face is bare except for a swipe of lip balm, her hair twisted low at the nape of her neck.
She’s off to Cambridge this autumn to study environmental science.
She’s the sort who actually recycles properly and remembers to bring reusable bags to the supermarket.
We talk about summer plans for most of the drive—Clara’s back-to-back beach holidays, Hannah’s research internship, the little freedoms waiting for all of us beyond this night. I listen, chiming in when I can, laughing at the right moments. But beneath it all, there’s a hollow tug in my chest.
They’re both so sure of what comes next, so eager to step forward into the world. And me?
I’m still standing at the edge, caught somewhere between who I was and whoever I’m supposed to become—unwilling to take that final step into adulthood.
When we arrive, I can’t help but gape at the house.
It’s enormous, more mansion than home. Three stories of pale stone and glass, its tall windows spilling golden light across a manicured lawn.
String lights loop between trees and railings, glimmering like captured stars, while music thumps from somewhere inside, the bass vibrating through the night air.
Laughter carries on the breeze, bright and careless.
Cars line the crescent drive—polished, expensive things gleaming under the streetlamps. The rest spill down the road, parked half on curbs. Hannah squeezes into a spot two blocks away, and we walk the rest of the distance together, Clara’s heels clicking against the pavement.
My pulse quickens as the music grows louder. Clara links her arm through mine and Hannah’s, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is going to be amazing,” she says, already swaying to the beat.
Hannah smiles, a little hesitant, tugging at the hem of her blouse. “You sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” Clara tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Graduation only happens once.”
“Well…” I say with a smile.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she laughs, elbowing me.
We’re halfway to the house when something makes me falter, my steps hitching on the pavement. Clara’s grip on my arm keeps me moving, tugging me forward with a laugh—but something in the air has shifted.
It’s subtle at first, like static building beneath my skin, but then it deepens into an electric hum crawling up my spine.
I’m being watched.
I glance around, scanning the dimly lit street, the quiet houses, the trimmed hedges rustling in the summer breeze. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Still, the feeling lingers, heavy just beneath my skin.
“You okay?” Clara asks, glancing at me.
I force a smile. “Yeah. I just thought I saw something.”
She snorts. “Babe, with how often you get spooked by shadows, are you sure you’re not some kind of ghost whisperer?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Clara.”
“No,” Clara insists, grinning. “Ghosts are real! They like Wendy because she looks like she’d join their ghostly book club.”
I laugh, shaking my head, pretending it’s nothing—pretending the prickle on the back of my neck doesn’t still burn.
I’ve felt watched before, over the years.
At first, it had excited me. Each time that strange awareness brushed against my skin, I’d scan the shadows, searching for him, hoping that Peter was near. That he couldn’t quite let me go.
But as the years went on and he never appeared, the feeling changed. What had once been thrilling became hollow. Unsettling. I began to wonder if I was imagining it, if boredom could twist itself into a presence, if loneliness could take shape in the dark. So I learned to ignore the watching eyes.
We slip through the front doors into a wall of sound.
Music pounds through the floorboards, through the walls, through me.
The bass thrums under my skin, syncing with my heartbeat.
Lights strobe across the room, white and blue and gold, blinding for a moment before plunging everything into shadow again.
The house is stunning, almost too polished. Marble floors gleam beneath our shoes, and a sweeping staircase curls upward like something out of a movie. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, scattering light across the crowded room. Even the chaos looks expensive.
People are everywhere—dancing, shouting, laughing. Some press together on the floor, bodies moving to the rhythm, while others lounge in clusters across velvet couches or spill out onto the terrace where fairy lights glitter against the dark.
“I’ll get us drinks!” Clara yells, already swallowed by the crowd before we can answer.
“No alcohol for me!” Hannah shouts after her, but the words are lost to the music.
I loop my arm through hers, both of us instinctively huddling together—two quiet girls in a sea of noise.
We weave through the rooms, smiling, waving, stopping to chat with classmates we haven’t seen since exams. Most of what anyone says is lost in the thrum of the bass, but it doesn’t matter.
Everyone’s too busy being young and free.
Clara finds us a few minutes later, triumphant, balancing three plastic cups. “Drink up, darling,” she says, handing one to me with a grin far too innocent.
I take a sip and nearly choke. “What is this?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She waves a hand. “It’s just vodka and cranberry juice.”
I cough again, wiping my mouth. “It tastes like vodka with a splash of cranberry.”
Clara only grins wider, eyes glinting with mischief. “Exactly.”
It doesn’t take long for her concoction to hit me.
A pleasant warmth unfurls in my chest, spreading to my cheeks, softening the world at its edges.
The music seeps into my bloodstream, the bass syncing with my pulse until I can’t tell which is which.
My limbs feel loose, light, as though gravity has finally loosened its grip.
Unfamiliar laughter slips from my lips easier than it should.
For a fleeting moment, I almost believe this is what freedom feels like.
But it isn’t.
The warmth is false, a borrowed illusion that blurs the ache beneath.
Because the truth is, I’ve been living under a haze for years now—something heavy and grey that settled over me the day I left Neverland.
It dulled the colors of the world, turned wonder into routine, and joy into something I could only mimic.
No drink could dissolve it; no laughter could chase it away.
Still, tonight, the vodka pretends to succeed. For a little while, the ache in my chest eases, and I can almost forget that once, I knew what it was to fly.
I’m standing with a few classmates, half listening to their chatter, swaying absently to the beat, when I feel a warm hand sliding down my back, settling at the small of it.
“Hello, darling.”
The voice is low, close—too close. I startle and turn, finding Preston grinning down at me, his hand still resting where it doesn’t belong.
He’s handsome in the kind of way that feels hollow—tanned skin, a square jaw, hair artfully tousled like he spends more time on it than any girl I know.
His eyes gleam with the confidence of someone who expects you to laugh at his jokes, even though you both are aware they aren’t funny.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, his grin easy, cocky. “Guess I lucked out.”
I offer him a polite smile. “I go to parties… sometimes.”
He arches a brow. “Sometimes as in twice a year, maybe?”
My smile widens, brittle. “Exactly.”
I take a small step forward, trying to shake off his hand, but it stays planted against my back—possessive, wrong.
“You look hot tonight,” he murmurs.
“Thanks,” I say through my teeth. I try again to move, but his hand slides sideways, catching at my hip and tugging me back toward him.
“Preston, let go,” I say, sharper now, glaring. “Aren’t you worried about the Darling Curse? You teased me about it enough.”
He laughs, unbothered. “Maybe. Or maybe I thought it was an easy way to scare other guys off.”
I stare at him, unimpressed. “You know bad things really have happened to guys who get too close to me.”
He laughs again, louder this time. “Come on, Wendy, you don’t actually believe that superstitious bullshit, do you?”
I purse my lips, letting silence answer for me. And then it hits me—cold and electric. A shiver rolls through me, full-body, crawling up my spine. The presence is back. Watching. Unmistakably menacing.
The room suddenly feels smaller. The lights too bright, the air too thick. My pulse skitters. I peel Preston’s hand from me and take a step back.
“Trust me,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”
Then I slip away, vanishing into the crush of bodies before he can touch me again. I don’t look back. I don’t need his blood on my conscience.
Did I believe in the “Darling Curse?”
It was hard not to, when the evidence was written in boys’ blood and broken bones. Each coincidence had stacked upon the last until it no longer felt like coincidence at all. Still, a part of me knew how irrational it sounded—how childish. Curses were for stories, not the real world.
I find Hannah and Clara in the kitchen, hovering over a stack of pizzas someone ordered. The space is sprawling and modern, all polished marble counters and gleaming appliances. Grease-stained boxes litter the island, the scent of melted cheese thick in the air.
“Ready to head out soon?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.
Hannah nods, relief flickering across her face. Clara, on the other hand, looks between us with a pout. Her eyeliner’s smudged, her eyes glassy—she’s definitely drunk.
“All right, all right,” she sighs dramatically, waving a slice at us. “One more slice and then we’ll go.”
I grin in triumph and grab a slice for myself, sinking my teeth into it. The warmth, the gooey cheese, the salt of it—it’s divine. Almost enough to make me forget the prickling of unease at the base of my neck.
After two slices each, Hannah and I finally manage to herd Clara out of the house.
She’s giggling, her weight slung between us as we loop our arms through hers.
The air outside is delightfully cool after the humid press of the party.
We laugh, trading jokes, as we make the trek back to Hannah’s car.
The hair on the back of my neck rises again. I glance behind us, eyes sweeping the dark street, the trees whispering in the wind. Everything looks perfectly ordinary.
I look toward the mansion. Golden light spills through the windows, the thrum of music faint but steady. Moonlight gleams off the roof tiles—
And then movement. A shadow flashes across the roof, quick and fluid, almost human. My breath catches. I blink once—and it’s gone.
A shiver ripples through me, equal parts fear and something dangerously close to excitement. My pulse stutters, the world sharpening around me.
You’re being absurd, I tell myself. It’s the alcohol. The lights are playing tricks on me. But a part of me, the part I’ve always tried to silence, whispers otherwise.
Maybe it’s him.
Maybe it’s Peter Pan, checking up on me.
* * *
When I get home, the house is dark. I slip upstairs quietly and move through the motions of undressing, washing, brushing, as if sleep will come easily tonight.
It won’t.
I pull on a soft white nightgown and braid my hair, my fingers threading through the silken strands as my gaze drifts to the window.
I debate giving in to the strangest urge—to call out for Peter into the moonlit night. It feels like my last chance. As though once I fall asleep, the door will close on him forever.
With a deep breath, I step to the window and throw it open. The curtains billow in the gentle breeze, the cool air ghosting across my face. Tentatively, I lean out, scanning the shadows for a mischievous boy who never grew up.
A breath shivers out of me as I whisper into the night. “Peter… if you’re there. I know I’ve grown up, but I’d give anything for one last visit to Neverland.”
I wait a heartbeat. Two. My plea meets only silence. Disappointment floods my chest. Foolish. I haven’t called his name in years—not since I stopped believing he’d ever answer.
I dare a glance at the stars glimmering faintly overhead.
I don’t like looking at them anymore. They’ve betrayed me too many times, never answering my wishes.
Still, my gaze finds the second star to the right.
I consider making one last wish. Then decide against it. It feels childish. Utterly pointless.
I shut the window with a loud thump and climb into bed, forcing myself to accept what I’ve known all along: I’ve grown up.
I told Peter Pan this is what I wanted.
What a dreadful mistake that had been.