On Wicker Hill, the mansions are prim and immaculate, untarnished by the sins and secrets of the upper-class. Middle school parties were my first introduction—big Georgian and colonial homes on rambling lawns green as the summer sea. Robin's enormous, neutral-brick home was nestled on a quiet shoulder, the shaded street lined with foreign cars.

It had been a while since I had been at one of Robin's parties, so long that I almost rang the bell before remembering that this was a party, and I was invited. I glanced down, adjusting the black t-shirt I had knotted over a black, sequined skirt. My ankle boots tapped across familiar, marble floors as I followed my ears to the party. It had spilled from the living room and the kitchen into hallways. I glanced up a sweeping staircase, hand skimming the ornate handrail as I passed. As I recalled, the upper rooms were... reserved.

The usual crowd had arrived, a mix of juniors and seniors from rival schools, and underclassmen playing pretend for the night. Everyone was too invested in their red plastic cups to bother dancing to the music.

I spotted a familiar couple on the way to the way to the kitchen. Heedless of those who passed, they took advantage of the intimacy in the narrow, darkened hallway. Robin leaned against the wall, smiling coyly as Eric traced the outline of her tattoo choker. Ruby lip between her teeth, she smiled as I passed. "Make sure you stay for the fireworks, Aaliyah. It's a real good show."

Eric couldn't look me in the eye.

In the bright, airy kitchen of the Easton family mansion, I tapped Declan on the shoulder.

"Aaliyah! Congratulations on the talent show!" Beer in one hand, he gave my shoulder a playful shove with the other. "You and Quinn are definitely gonna win—unless Robin poisons you first."

I offered Declan a tight smile. "Y'know, we should celebrate by drinking properly. The Eastons hide the good stuff up there." I pointed at the white cabinet in the corner. Declan grabbed a chair and raided the liquor stash, brandishing several bottles of name-brand tequila amidst whistles and applause.

I left the kitchen dunking a cherry in a cup with sprite and tequila, smiling at the knowledge that Robin's parents would flip.

***

Outside, I took selfies with Quinn, gossiping by the neon-lighted pool surrounded by Robin's lush, brightly lit garden. The Red Oaks dotting the backyard, and the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property were strung with fairy lights reflected in the water. Some kids were lounging in the hot tub a few yards away, laughing and smoking weed.

Quinn and I shared a cigarette on a garden bench, admiring a moonlit view from the hilltop mansion. Town lights were blanketed by cobalt skies with stars bright as solitaires. The only pollution in Harbor Village are the secrets we keep.

"Speaking of rumors..." I gave Quinn a knowing sideways glance. "Tyler said Declan was in the car when those basketball players dumped him in the middle of nowhere."

Quinn flicked her ashes. "So? He could have done a lot worse."

"Maybe he will."

"You don't know him."

"And you don't know Tyler."

Quinn turned away, exhaling a plume of smoke. "There are pictures online of Tyler doing coke. The whole world knows him."

"Is that right?"

The cigarette was ripped from my hand. Tyler's narrow gaze was as icy as the platinum watch on his wrist.

"What's your problem, Billie Joe?"

"You." Tyler ground the cigarette beneath one Valentino sneaker. "You're my problem, Quinn. Aaliyah's a dancer, she needs her fucking lungs. You're a shitty friend."

"And you're a hypocrite." Quinn jumped from her seat. I scrambled from the bench and grabbed her arm, knowing it was too late to stop the train wreck. "You think you're so much better than everyone, Tyler, but you'll never be good enough for Aaliyah. Trust." Quinn dumped her beer on Tyler's shoes and squeezed past us, stalking towards the mansion.

I watched her leave, speechless with embarrassment. Everyone was staring. Some had their phones out, others were whispering.

"Are you okay?" Tyler touched my arm; I snapped to, springing back to his warm green gaze. "When you're with me that means you're in the spotlight too. It's not easy."

"I'm a dancer." I lifted my chin as a camera flashed in the background. "I'm used to the spotlight."

"You're talented, Aaliyah. Don't let Quinn fuck that up."

"Y'know what? I'm sick of being in the middle of you two. It's like being a child of divorce."

"Then stop getting in the middle and just mind your own business, Aaliyah." Tyler stepped forward, the heady scent of alcohol in his cup mixing with his cologne. I got a rush just looking in his eyes. Imagine what his hands and lips could do... "You've been looking out for me since we were kids. We're almost eighteen."

"Meaning?"

Sheepish, Tyler shrugged. "We're older now. And when I look at you, I'm only thinking about one thing. I can't get you out of my head. You can't tell me you don't feel the same."

"I don't know what I feel." I snatched Tyler's cup and took a huge drink, flinching at the burn. "Tyler, you're a star—you swallow everything in your path. And that's not your fault, it's what stars were made to do. So, you can have the B Squad, you can judge the talent show, you can rule the school with Robin and take the crown at prom for all I care. But you and me—that's a line we can never un-cross." I pushed the drink back in his hands.

Tyler nodded, scratching the back of his head. "I don't wanna mess things up either. If it's friends or nothing, I choose you. Always."

My stomach jumped. The cool night air was hotter than a sauna in July. Even though I was still annoyed with him about the trophy situation, I couldn't help but imagine him apologizing with his shirt off. Like his songs, Tyler always knew just what to say to make a girl feel special.

"Well, if we're going to be friends, then you should probably get used to me apologizing. I'm sorry I called you a trophy, Tyler. What I said was mean, and stupid. And it's not true." I shrugged my shoulders high. I didn't even try to explain. Context doesn't matter when you hurt the people you care about. "I like when I'm with you. It's like old times."

"Old times," he repeated. Under long, curving lashes, Tyler's piercing green gaze was filled with disappointment. "It feels like we're just standing in our own way. I'm not trying to pressure you. It's just, sometimes, I get this vibe that you want more. Am I wrong?"

"No. We just have bad timing."

Tyler followed my glance, to the mansion. Robin stood in the entrance of the giant patio columns. She crushed the red cup in her hands, casting it away before turning on her Gucci heels and exiting the backyard.

"I told Robin that you and I are just friends. She's not over you."

"Well, I'm over her, Ali. I'm serious—"

"Not when it comes to relationships. The blogs have been devastatingly boring since you left New York."

Tyler stroked his chin, his brow raised comically high. "So, you've read my work."

I snorted. "I have a passing interest. You change girls like you change your clothes."

"Just practicing for the real thing." Tyler stepped closer. His cologne lingered with the natural perfume of Robin's jungle-like backyard. "I wasn't mad because you called me a trophy, by the way. It just really sucked hearing you say it. Maybe cuz you're the only person who never treats me like one."

"As if. I've seen you pick your nose."

"See?" Tyler smiled wide, motioning with his cup. "Everything's normal with you, Preston. And I haven't felt normal in a long fucking time."

"Neither have I." I saw my mom's face and glanced aside, taking an abrupt step back when Tyler stepped forward.

"I miss her too, Aaliyah." Sometimes Tyler said out loud exactly what I was thinking. He set his cup on the garden bench beside him. "We can talk about your mom—"

"No." Some wounds are so deep you can fall inside them forever. When I turned and walked away, Tyler called after me.

"Then dance with me. Or are you scared of that too?"

"Just leave the jazz hands at home," I said over my shoulder. "And try to keep up."

***

On the dance floor, we dusted off an old hip-hop routine from dance class days. Tyler's fans didn't know his edge and technique came from hours of practicing ballet and contemporary. Years later and we were still in sync.

The music carried us from one song to the next. I didn't realize others were inspired to join us until a slow song united couples on the dance floor. Tyler and I stood there like strangers trying not to make eye contact. Slow wasn't a pace we were used to.

Tyler shrugged. "It's just a dance—but we don't have to—"

"We shouldn't. People might get the wrong idea."

"Yeah. Cuz it'd be a real shame if that happened." Tyler brushed past me.

I watched him go, feeling like a coward.

***