3. When The Cat’s Away, The Mice Will Play
WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY, THE MICE WILL PLAY
Stella
The night begins the way a good story should—sweaty, disorienting, just a little bit dangerous.
By ten, the mansion is unrecognizable: all those cold, curated lines of architectural intent have vanished beneath the onslaught of heat, bodies, and music, the raw nerve of it vibrating up through the imported marble floors.
The great room is a single, undulating mass of movement, the pulse of the speakers so deep and relentless it rattles the glass shades of the sconce lights.
The air is thick with the tang of alcohol and the oily, expensive resin of burning candles, the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to unbutton your shirt before you’ve even made it past the foyer.
Kayleigh and Mary Kate are early, and so are Chloe and her entire Nicolette coterie, plus a few boys from the St. Thomas business school and a pair of local influencers who show up with a camera and a ring light, like this is a planned PR event and not just a get-drunk-and-ruin-the-upstairs bathroom affair.
There are more people than I remember inviting, and by eleven, there’s a line at the kitchen island for cocktails and someone has already filled the powder room sink with ice and half a handle of Tito’s.
I glide through the crowd on bare feet, my stilettos slung rakishly from two fingers, dress clinging to my ribs like a second skin.
Each step is accompanied by the hiss and fizz of my own breath, punctuated by the staccato sound of glass on glass: champagne bottles opening, shots lined up, the hiss of a shaken shaker.
Every time I pass through a cluster of people, I catch someone’s gaze—always lingering, always curious—and I meet it, head-on.
My hair is a wild, blonde halo tonight; my lips are a little redder than I’d planned.
I feel more visible than I have in months, and I drink it in like oxygen.
Somewhere near the fireplace, Mary Kate is perched on a velvet ottoman, her legs crossed and her new ring glinting in the light.
She’s surrounded by a phalanx of girls, all overflowing with questions about her engagement, and she’s loving every second of it.
Chloe’s crew has colonized the formal dining room, playing King’s Cup with antique Waterford crystal and shouting rules so loud that the next room over vibrates with it.
Kayleigh materializes at my elbow, already tipsy, her hair in a glossy, artfully messy bun. “This is insane, Stell,” she says, voice thick with pride and tequila. “How does it feel to be the queen of the castle?”
I clink my glass to hers, which is sloshing pink liquid everywhere. “Like I’m one gust of wind away from a total collapse.”
She grins, then pulls me close, so her words are just for me: “I hope you’re planning to make out with at least one of the hockey boys tonight. You deserve it.”
I tip my head back and let out a laugh, high and bright.
“I’ll consider it,” I say, “if I can figure out which one is actually legal.” She howls and whirls away, leaving me at the center of the room, the music hitting a new high.
It’s true though because my actual tastes run towards older, magnetic alpha males.
But still, beggars can’t be choosers and at least the hockey boys are here.
The crowd changes shape every few seconds.
New faces appear, old ones disappear, and every so often, someone in a designer coat cuts across the room and deposits a chilled bottle on the marble.
The windows are all steamed up, and outside, Minneapolis is reduced to a glittering, black-smeared void beyond the heavy velvet drapes.
Someone’s turned the study into a makeshift coat check, and the kitchen has become a low-stakes casino, with a couple boys playing poker with a wad of bills in front of them.
The whole scene hums with the energy of a house just past the point of no return.
I love it, but I don’t. I’m restless, almost buzzing.
For every moment I throw my head back and laugh, there’s a counter-moment—a flash of unease, the feeling of a phantom limb, like something (someone) should be here but isn’t.
I pour another drink, the action practiced and precise, then slip onto the patio for a gulp of cold air.
The contrast hits me instantly: inside, bodies and heat; out here, the icy slap of the wind.
I draw a slow breath, then lean back against the railing, scanning the dark.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Andie—she’s already posted a boomerang of her and my father on the plane, the caption a dozen hearts and “Missing my girl!!” I tap out a quick, affectionate response, then pocket the phone and press my bare feet to the flagstones.
“Hey.”
I turn. I squint a little. What was his name again?
Oh right, Brad. The jock’s standing half in shadow, a longneck dangling between two fingers, his other hand tucked in his jeans.
Even out here, he looks like he could bench-press a small sedan: six foot two, hockey hair perfectly artful, jawline built to feature in cologne ads.
He’s been at three parties I can recall, but I always get the sense he’s not a party guy—not really.
Too watchful, too self-contained. But tonight he’s dialed in, a little drunk, and grinning with a lopsided smile that could probably power the city grid.
“Hey,” I say, letting the word linger.
“Your place is sick.” He nods at the French doors behind me, where a thumping bassline makes the glass shudder. “You could fit my entire apartment in that kitchen.”
I laugh, because it’s true, and also because I want him to think I’m a little above it all. “Technically, it’s not my place. I just live here.” I step closer, so we’re almost shoulder to shoulder, then glance up at him through my lashes. “You’re not one of those dudes who wants a tour, are you?”
He shrugs, his breath curling in the cold. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.”
I’m not sure why, but that answer makes me shiver. He’s so earnest, and I don’t think I’m ready for it. I drain my glass and set it on the balustrade. “You want to come in? Or are you just going to stand here and pretend to smoke?”
He grins, showing perfect teeth, and leans in, lowering his voice. “I don’t smoke.”
“Good,” I say, “because if you did, I’d have to kick you out.”
For a second, neither of us moves. We just watch each other, letting the silence stretch. There’s a gravitational pull, and I feel it: the way his hand could fit around my waist, the way he’s looking at my mouth. It’s not subtle, but then, nothing good ever is.
Inside, the music spikes. We both look up, startled, as Kayleigh bursts through the doors, a blur of energy and shimmery dress.
“Stell, you’re missing the best part!” She grabs my arm and tugs, hard, hauling us both back inside. Brad follows, his fingers brushing my bare shoulder for half a second—just enough to make my skin tingle.
The rest of the night is a series of dissolving moments, each more fluid and unfocused than the last. I work the room, glass in hand, bumping shoulders and swapping barbed compliments with Mary Kate, letting Chloe douse me in glitter spray, posing for a few too many selfies.
I catch Brad’s eye across the room more than once—he’s always just outside the circle, watching, waiting.
At one point, he ducks into the kitchen with a couple of the boys, and I hear him call my name, but it’s lost in the shriek of the crowd.
The party escalates, as parties do. Clothes loosen, shoes are abandoned, and someone has the brilliant idea to start a game of truth-or-dare that spills from the formal dining room into the grand hall.
At midnight, Kayleigh dares me to shotgun a beer in the great room, and when I do, the whole crowd goes wild.
I finish the can and tip it upside down over my head, letting the foam drip onto the rug, and everyone howls.
I’m more buzzed than I want to admit, but not so far gone that I can’t sense the eyes on me—the way Brad is still watching, like he’s waiting for a cue.
It’s after one when the music dips into something low and dangerous, and the first wave of people begins to peel off.
I find myself in a patch of relative quiet by the curved staircase, glass in hand, the hem of my dress riding up my thighs.
My hair is wild, and my lips are numb from the cold outside and the steady stream of vodka cranberries.
Brad finds me there, stepping into my orbit like he’s always belonged in it.
“Still standing,” he says, and there’s a note of admiration in his voice.
I look up at him, letting my head fall back just a bit. “It’ll take more than a little tequila to bring me down.”
He laughs, and it’s a good sound, deep and honest. Then he steps closer, so close I can smell the cedar of his cologne, and puts his hand lightly on my elbow.
“Want to get some air?” he asks. “The real kind, not the kind in the freezer.”
I nod, and let him steer me through the thinning crowd, back onto the patio, where the night is so dark it feels like we’re standing on the edge of the world. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I stare out into the winter black, the far-off city lights winking through the skeletal trees.
He’s the first to break the silence. “You always throw parties like this?”
I shake my head. “Only when I need to prove I’m still alive.”
He considers that, then turns so we’re facing each other, almost close enough to touch. “You seem pretty alive to me.”
I smile, but it’s a small one. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” His thumb traces a slow circle on my arm, just above the bone. “You’re, uh, kind of electric.”
I should say something clever, but I can’t think of anything. So I just look at him, letting the seconds drag out, and then I tilt my face up, almost imperceptibly. He reads the signal, and in one smooth motion, brings his lips to mine.