sounds and smells of Callum's fall break party, I felt like I'd stepped back into freshman year of college.

House parties had totally been my thing before I became too busy and tired to party. Growing up, I had been exposed to parties of various intensity, from downbeat nightcaps to drug-laced ragers. New Year's Eve bashes to effortless drinks with my model and photographer friends in an apartment.

Mom accepted that it was part of the industry, part of how connections and networks were made—though, in my eagerness to be what I thought was mature and experienced, I may have exaggerated their necessity.

But house parties had always been my favourite—the right mix of loud and quiet, new and familiar. Granted, I hadn't had any other options in my earlier college years, before I turned twenty-one.

Anyone who wasn't legal to drink resorted to house parties; closed windows, hushed music and hazes of light. The opportunities to steal away into gardens, bedrooms, or onto balconies for fresh air. Plus, I trusted the bathroom way more than any club.

It wasn't always that I felt comfortable enough to drift away by myself at a house party, but Callum's seemed trustworthy. The host was admittedly drunk out of his mind, but Sophie had pointed out to me a handful of his responsible friends—like Quen—that always looked out for the attendees, the furniture and the authorities. She trusted Callum, and I trusted her.

Besides, Viv was having far too much fun destroying her competitors at strip beer pong, and Riley was engrossed in secretly filming her and sending the videos to Jamie. Jake was an idiot. I was going to be fifty dollars richer by graduation.

I sat alone on the front porch, scrolling through an Instagram feed full of fanart until someone spoke from beside me.

"You looked good last night."

I smirked at Noah, throwing my loose hair over my shoulder. "Good?"

"Did you want me to say radiant, incandescent or magnificent instead?" he retorted as he sat down two feet away from me. "Because it's all true."

I rolled my eyes. I wondered if Noah was born rich, or raised as an only child or something. He had this air of unshakeable surety about him every time I met him. He radiated taciturn confidence, one that was so pronounced in the way he held himself and looked around that it used to piss me off.

But as we'd had more positive interactions than bad ones, I tried to treat him as nicely as I did my fans.

"I'm impressed, Noah," I told him sarcastically. "I didn't know you had it in you." Okay, maybe not as nicely as my fans. Nicer than I had been would be a good start.

"Had what?"

"The ability to compliment a girl with no ulterior motive."

Noah placed both his hands behind him on the porch and leaned back casually. He angled his head towards me and he asked genuinely, "Who said I had no ulterior motive?"

He had a bottle hidden away in a paper bag. From the portion of the colourless bottleneck that I could see sticking above the brown parchment, the glass was thick and the bottle was hefty. It must have been some hard liquor.

"You're drunk," I muttered. "And you know I'm not interested in you, right?"

He narrowed his eyes at me. "How do you know you're not interested when you won't give me a chance? I could be a nice guy and you'd never know it."

His drunken candour made my jaw drop. "I don't need to know how nice you are. I'm not into you, so you're wasting your time."

Noah nodded, then moved further away from me. He was peering at me like my face was a labyrinth and he was trying to solve it.

"I understand that. This is me announcing my surrender, by the way," he chuckled humourlessly into his drink. "But it's a little rich, coming from you."

It was my turn to stare confusedly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you were wasting my time. You could have just told me straight up that you weren't into me. In person. Over the phone. You had so many chances."

"You can take a hint."

"Maybe. But that's not why I'm here. Quen doesn't take hints. Quen is not the type to pick up on your banter and sly looks. You can spend as much time as you want around him, but he's not like us," Noah explained loftily, slurring every second word. His eyes fell on the toes of his sneakers, squinting intently at them. "He's honest, and in turn, he takes things at face value. But, sure, I'm the one wasting my time."

I arched an eyebrow. "There is no us, and you don't know anything about me."

"Really? You've been an overachiever all your life. You keep excellent grades, low maintenance jobs and a huge public profile," Noah listed, taking his own sweet time counting off on his fingers. "Everything just falls into your lap. Even men. You know how to play the game, and Quen doesn't. He isn't confident around girls." His tone grated my nerves. "And you're way out of his league."

At that, I wanted to wring his neck. I couldn't care less about the assumptions Noah made about me. People did that all the time. Being locally famous and attractive, I tended to be judged by my appearances day in, day out. My friends had done that before they were my friends, so I knew it wasn't always malicious—or even conscious.

But Noah was supposed to be Quen's friend. He owed Quen his respect.

"Are you kidding? He can't play the 'game'—whatever the hell that is? He's not confident around women? I'm out of his league? Should I instead go for someone suspiciously identical to you, Noah? You're such a patronising dick."

"Hey, I didn't say Quen was not a nice, smart dude," he justified smugly, like I'd taken the bait. "He's great. You're great. Except you're in totally different leagues. Someone who likes the attention you get, someone with high energy to match yours."

He dropped his voice low, "That's what you need. Maybe that's not me, but it sure isn't fucking Quen. So leave him alone."

"I think he can decide for himself! You're making it sound like he's some sexless nerd who can't handle his own love life."

Quen was part of the marching band. Studying hard Physics. Into Star Wars. I'd seen the stereotyping happen to Asian kids my whole life, devaluing their masculinity, and I wasn't going to take this thinly-veiled barb from Noah.

I barrelled on, the back of my neck flaring with heat. "And how can you talk about your friend like that?" I hissed. "Quentin is one of the most incredible people I've ever met. He's got so many talents, and he's still humble about it."

With a pointed look at Noah and his bottle, I added, "Some people have less, yet think more of themselves than he does. He doesn't need you to bat for him."

"You're right." Noah let out a bitter laugh that sounded rather choked. "He doesn't need me to bat for him. He can reject you on his own."

I shot a glare at Noah, who seemed completely unperturbed by my rising hostility. "You are scum."

Noah raised his bottle to his lips and drank for an inordinate amount of time. His eyelids drooped more and more as he gulped. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I almost thought he would drink until he passed on out the porch. But then he stopped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked away from me.

I heard a soft sniff. Ugh. He was so pathetic.

"You know what? You can say whatever you like, but I've been upfront about my intentions from the start. At least I can say that. At least I know that about myself. At least I'm not faking nice till I make it, and at least I go for the people I care about."

I didn't usually let drunk people get under my skin. They were incoherent and insensible most times, but somehow Noah's words sunk in, letter by letter, syllable by syllable. Perhaps it was because, as he spoke his next words, his usual haughty, clever, reserved mannerisms withered away.

This was the brutal, honest core of him that sat before me. Maybe it was tinged darker by alcohol, but it there and it was deeply sad.

"Do girls appreciate being criticised? Does this really work for you?"

He raised his bottle to his lips again, but the drink ran empty. Noah picked himself up with careful movements, rising unsteadily on his feet. "You've never witnessed the things that work for me."

Then he glanced down at me. I saw straight into his red-veined eyes for a crystal clear moment, before he averted his gaze.

"I'm not trying to win you over anymore, Krista. Who cares what you feel or don't feel? You're so fake. You'll DM and flirt with guys you don't even like and call complete strangers bestie and I'm trying to protect my best friend."

Noah opened the front door and let himself in. For the few seconds that the door was ajar, I heard the raucous inner happenings of Callum's party, then it slammed shut and the world was silent once more.

I let out the shaky breath I'd been holding.

I was angry beyond words. I'd stepped out here to cool down, but talking to Noah had ignited a conflagration in my gut that heated me all over. In all my years—having dealt with the stresses of working in a club, studying Pre-Med, and being a woman under a spotlight—nothing had infuriated me as much as Noah.

I wanted to break something with my bare hands.

Over the next few minutes, I thought back through the conversation and let the worst of my anger simmer away. I pushed myself up from the porch step and started strolling Callum's driveway. I must have looked as drunk as everyone else at the party, walking back and forth with no destination. But I was so full of shock and ire that I had to move around to help myself process it.

Everything just falls into your lap. Even men.

As my fury hardened and condensed, I started thinking more clearly. Noah was the worst of nice guy. He was a 'nice' guy. He thought that being remotely respectful entitled him to whatever he wanted. If he wasn't satisfied, then the manners completely disappeared and out came the vile person within.

I'm trying to protect my best friend.

I didn't know if he was genuinely, in his own deluded fashion, looking out for Quentin or if that was a ploy to get under my skin. If it was the former, did that mean he thought I had the power to hurt Quen? How would I hurt him?

The moment Noah had sat down, I had thought he was going to flirt with me and goad me in that exhausting technique of his and braced myself accordingly. But he ended up doing nothing good for any of us. He backhanded Quen, infuriated me, and shot my opinion of him to pieces.

You've never witnessed the things that work for me.

Damn right I hadn't. Even if he was trying to be my friend before he turned on his supposedly hidden charms, I was glad I'd stonewalled him at every turn. I knew my instincts were right about him, and his ugly personality would have come out sooner or later. It was so ironic that after I decided to be warmer to Noah, he went and took himself out of my life on his own.

I felt, honestly, relieved that he'd had his little tantrum and finally resolved to stop trying with me—even if it only happened because I hurt him. If that was Noah's surrender, I could sleep peacefully despite all his pointed words. It took more than a few minutes of whining from a guy I didn't care for to bruise my feelings. Tough as nails, mentally. Riley had been right after all when she said that.

The pacing was not working to calm me down. I slipped back into the house and wandered upstairs. Thankfully I didn't have to look far for the bathroom. The door for it stood ajar just to my left. I locked it behind me when I entered.

I splashed cold water on my cheeks, which were makeup-free, and took a few deep breaths. The person in the mirror looked shaken. Unsure. I didn't know if the pink on my cheeks was from the blush I'd swept on or from my anger. I stared at myself, not really seeing, for countless moments.

You're so fake.

Was I? Did Quen see what Noah saw? I couldn't imagine him being as horrible as his friend, but they were friends for a reason. Maybe the reason was something I didn't want to consider. I shook myself clear of the paranoia. Quen had been nothing but empathetic and open-minded in all the months I'd known him.

Three sharp knocks came at the bathroom door to jolt me out of my stupor.

"Hello in there!" a familiar voice called politely. "May I please use the bathroom? It's kind of dire. Not extremely dire, but getting there—"

Quen's eyes widened in shock when I pulled the door open.

Then he rushed past me into the bathroom, bent over the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Who had Quen throwing up? Congratulations, you have earned yourself a digital high-five.

There will be no more projectile vomiting in this book! If you would like more, go to Blackout (I'm not kidding, lmao. Viv is a hot mess. Emphasis on hot. Emphasis on mess.)

Aimee x