Inside the massive house—which was really more a mansion—Clay circled around in wide-eyed wonder at the opulent entryway with its antique bronze chandelier and the curving staircase that wrapped around half the room. With everyone so packed in, the air conditioning could barely keep the temperature tolerable, combating the throngs of people inside and the suffocating heat outside. The windows (along with my eardrums) rattled from the throbbing bass in the basic electro-pop dance song that auto-tuned the voices so badly the singer was unrecognizable. If I didn't already know, I never would've guessed her identity. Or even that she was a woman with the way they pitched her voice too low or too high half the time. I loved a good pop song, but I'd had my fill of DJ remixes. If I never heard another over-synthesized, manufactured hit with inane lyrics, I'd be content.

My breath hitched when I looked up at the huge banner hanging from the second floor landing. Pink glitter spelled out, "Happy 18th Birthday, Whitley!" I did not know this was her house, or that it was her birthday.

Clay rushed over and clung to my arm. "You can't just wander off and leave me like that. This is your turf, remember?"

"Hardly."

Clay hung his arm around my neck, giving me a good whiff of his cologne. He smelled so good I wanted to lick his neck. Such a lovely neck. It wasn't too thick nor too gangly. His Adam's apple was prominent, but not huge like Alfie's. Above that was his strong chin, which had a small indention in the center, not pronounced enough to call it a cleft. The perfect sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. And his rosy lips. The sharp peaks of his upper lip, and the soft swoop of his thicker bottom lip that I just wanted to suck on.

You can't think like that, I scolded myself, pinching my leg as a bit of negative reinforcement.

A few people cheered as Whitley swept down the staircase, throwing harsh sneers at anyone who blocked her graceful descent. She wore an eye-catching off-the-shoulder red dress. The hem fell to her calf with a slit up the side all the way to her thigh, which was as rail thin as the rest of her. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into an elaborate twist in the back. She looked more like she belonged at the Golden Globes than a birthday party. No one else was even close to being as dressed up as she was, except for the four girls trailing behind her, all of them wearing dark colors so they didn't steal focus.

At the bottom of the stairs, Whitley paused, noticing me. She was no more than three feet away. Her ruby lips parted, her blue eyes rolling back, annoyed. She turned her head to the side, keeping her eyes locked on me. "I really should've hired a bouncer to keep out the undesirables and the freaks." She made sure her voice was loud enough that the entire room could hear.

I guess she was still sore at me for getting her brother arrested for a hate crime. Even after three years. Not that he served a single day for it. But he got expelled, which was better than nothing.

Her friends laughed, scrutinizing me as they passed, heading through the living room and out the back doors.

Clay pulled me closer and said, "I know it's terrible, but I kinda want to go key her car."

I smiled at him, his face once again so close. All I'd have to do is lift my chin a bit to kiss him. But I restrained myself. "She has that effect on people."

Clay and I headed into the cavernous living room that had three separate sitting areas and a fireplace on both sides of the room for some godforsaken rich people reason.

"Emmie!" Carrie squealed from across the crowded living room, garnering a few stares. Her curls were out in full force tonight—not that she had much of a choice with the humidity. Her cleavage also made a guest appearance thanks to a plunging halter top that looked like liquid gold every time she moved.

Carrie pushed her way toward us, unaware of the wave of irritated stares she received behind her back. Jackson trailed in her wake, rushing through before the gap closed around him.

Clay released me as Carrie approached. She threw her arms around my neck, even though we just saw each other a few hours ago.

"I'm so glad you're here, Emmie!" She took a sip of the red concoction from the clear plastic cup in her hand. The whiff I caught nearly singed my nose hairs. I didn't know how she drank that without choking. I also wondered how many of those she'd had because her words were a bit slurred. "I hate all these people." She didn't bother lowering her voice at all. If she wasn't so beautiful, she'd probably be a pariah for the way she treated our classmates.

It just made me smile and love her all the more. She had a very no-fucks-given attitude about our snobby peers.

Jackson greeted Clay with their stupid straight boy handshake. They slid their palms together all the way to their fingertips, using each other's fingers to snap, finishing up with an obligatory fist bump. Clay tried to teach it to me once. I just couldn't get the snapping down.

"Did you know this is Whitley's house?" I asked Carrie.

She shook her head, rubbing my arm. "Not till I saw that stupid banner. I tried to call, but you didn't answer." She knew exactly why I wouldn't want to be in this house.

I didn't answer because we were almost here when she called. "Dear Society" by Madison Beer had just come up on my playlist, and I didn't want to interrupt the song, because Clay had never heard of her and he said he really liked the song.

Carrie leaned into my side, and lowered her voice—though it was probably at normal speaking volume—to say, "You'll never believe who's here."

I looked around at the sea of faces, searching for someone who seemed out of place. I noticed Makenzie on the couch making out with our friend Dan, his fingers twisted up in her red hair. Makenzie dating Clay's friend Brandon for those ten days really gave Dan the push he needed to put himself out there with her. Finally. They'd harbored mutual crushes for years, and frankly their constant weepy-eyed, longing stares at each other when the other wasn't looking really pissed me off sometimes. Unlike me, they could pursue the person they wanted without fear of reprisal. The worst that could happen for them was to be told no.

But they couldn't be who she meant. Makenzie and Dan might not act like our stuck up, self-involved peers, but they definitely belonged in this world. Makenzie lived five minutes down the road in a house almost as opulent as this one. Dan's house wasn't too far away, either.

Coming up empty, I asked, "Who?"

Carrie glanced at Clay and Jackson. She grabbed my neck and pulled me down to whisper in my ear: "Alfie."

"My Alfie?" I asked, gripping her shoulders for support. Alfie wasn't mine anymore, I reminded myself, but Carrie would understand my meaning. "What the hell is he doing here?"

She shrugged her shoulders to indicate her cluelessness. "He's out by the pool with that bish Trista."

I pulled back to glare at her. "You really need to stop hating on her. It was two years ago. And it's not like she meant to do it. She was falling down the stairs and you were the only thing she could grab onto."

"Thanks to her, the entire school knows what my ass looks like." She gulped down the rest of her drink and dropped the cup on the floor.

"You're the one who wore a thong to school." I didn't really want to deal with her personal drama right now. Especially not something from so long ago. I had my own past trauma to stew over.

She leaned her shoulders back, glaring at me with a look of betrayal. "Are you victim-blaming me?"

"Sorry."

Carrie crossed her arms in a huff. "I woulda been fine if she hadn't ripped my skirt off. I had to walk bare-assed to the office." That wasn't entirely true. She took my cardigan and tied it around her waist for cover. "They made me wear lost and found gym shorts for the rest of the day. They had a stain on them."

I remembered it well. Carrie burned those shorts on their barbecue the moment she got home. She called it a cleansing ritual.

Jackson slipped his arms around Carrie from behind. "What's this I hear about asses?"

Carrie glared at me, telling me I could not relay that story to Jackson with a single look.

"We were looking around to check out which guy has the best," I said, covering for her.

"Oh." Jackson's expression fell. He nuzzled his face into Carrie's neck, making her giggle. "I better be at the top of that list."

"I offered you as a prospect for first place," Carrie said. "But Emmie thinks Clay's is better. More rounder."

Clay's eyes snapped to me, his lips parting. A blotchy blush crept over his cheeks.

My face flushed. I shook my head. "I did not say that."

Jackson grimaced. "That's only because he does so many fucking squats."

"Can we please stop talking about my ass?" Clay mumbled, staring at the polished hardwood floor. His entire face had gone red. Even his ears turned pink.

"I need a drink," I said, looking around for the nearest source of alcohol.

"Me, too," Clay said.

"Kitchen's thataway." Carrie pointed to a doorway at the back of the room.

"Thanks."

I rushed off through the crowd, being more careful than Carrie as I weaved through the mass of bodies.

In the kitchen, I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone clapped me on the back. It was only Clay. "So, you think I have the best ass here, huh?" He kept his voice low so no one would overhear, but he was wearing a very charming half-smile.

"I swear she made that up. I'm sure she was just trying to get a rise out of Jackson. She likes to poke beehives and get things stirred up. Especially when she's tipsy."

Clay nodded, pressing his lips together with an unreadable expression. Then the corner of his lips quirked up, and he snapped his fingers. "Damn. And here I was thinking I'd get a pretty sash and a tiara."

I forced a laugh, too worried about the implications to actually be amused by the joke. "So, we're good?"

Clay grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Of course."

He narrowed his eyes, looking me over. "Are you okay, Em? You don't seem like yourself."

"Yeah. I'm good." I lied. I didn't want to burden him with all my baggage.

A beautiful girl with copper skin and silky black hair passed by. Clay returned the smile that she offered.

I leaned closer to him to be heard above the music and said, "If you want to go talk to her, you can." I didn't want to hold Clay hostage. I suspected I would not be the best company right now. "I can find someone else to hang out with. There must be someone at this party who'd be interested in me."

Clay rubbed my shoulder. "I'm sure there is." The way Clay said that actually had me believing it.

"Statistically, at least one guy on the lacrosse team has to be in the closet, right?"

I don't know why I made that joke. It wasn't even close to true. Well, the statistical part probably was. But I would never go near one of those meathead fuckboys.

Clay pressed his lips tightly, raising his brows as he nodded.

"Go." I gestured to the girl, sizing Clay up with a flirty gaze over the rim of her cup.

Clay looked hesitant. Probably worried about leaving me alone. "You really want me to?"

No.

But I said, "Definitely. Go! Take a shot."

Clay gave me a once-over before walking away, throwing a look back over his shoulder before turning to greet the girl. She immediately laughed at something he said, laying a hand on his chest in the same spot my head had laid two nights ago while we watched My Neighbor Totoro with his fingers raking through my hair. I felt an intense sense of betrayal that nearly brought me to tears, but it was my own stupid fault for sending him to her. I should've said no when he gave me the chance.

Clay pointed at her cup, probably asking what she was drinking. It was the same red drink that Carrie had. She held it out to him, her eyes locked onto his. Her lips formed the words, "Want some?" I could imagine the sultry tone she used to deliver that line.

I envied her ability to flirt with a guy she liked so openly, publicly. The one time I tried being bold with a guy at school ended with disastrous consequences. Namely, a black eye, a busted lip, and a cracked rib, courtesy of Whitley's brother, Patrick. Although that was a setup from the moment Patrick approached me, pretending to like me.

It suddenly occurred to me that happened not far from here. If Patrick was telling the truth about his house being backed up to the ninth hole of the golf course, then I could probably walk into the backyard and see the spot.

My chest tightened thinking about that.

Clay took the girl's cup and took a sip as easily as he did when I had a drink. He nodded and smiled, handing it back. The girl ticced her head to the side and took Clay's hand as they walked toward me. Her gaze stayed straight ahead, but Clay's eyes met mine. His face was indecipherable as he stared until he passed by.

I never should have come to this fucking party.

I gnashed my teeth together. A searing fire burned deep in my chest. I felt the stinging threat of oncoming tears. I couldn't be sure if it was because I was very close to the place I got beat up, or because of everything with Clay. It could be either. Or both. Whatever the cause, I needed to get out of this room.

I couldn't go the way Clay went, so I slipped through the door to the living room where I'd entered. I ran into Makenzie and Dan, both of them giggling and cute and acting like a couple, and I just wanted to scream in their faces, because I was miserable, and it felt like everyone else should be too.

Obviously, I didn't scream at two of my best friends. But when they tried to speak to me, I just shook my head and backed away, returning to the kitchen.

I still needed to get away. To hide. To not have forty witnesses to my emotional breakdown. I was already the gay kid. I didn't need to be labeled the psychotically emotional kid as well. I considered going out the back door, but the thought of running into Whitley out there made me want to vomit.

Looking around, I spotted a dark hallway tucked behind the wall with the refrigerator built into it. I made a beeline for it, ready to elbow my way to freedom if need be.

Safely tucked away in the dark hall, I let out a shuddering breath. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I knocked my head against the wall to punctuate each word.

"Emmett?"

The deep voice startled me. I blinked a few times and rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes to clear the teardrops forming at the corners. I'd know that voice anywhere. "Alfie," I said, even before I turned to see my ex-boyfriend standing in the door at the end of the hall, next to the mudroom and what must be their garage door. Before he turned out the light, I noticed the room behind him had a sink and vanity mirror. A bathroom.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, eyeing the room as a potential safe space for my meltdown. If only I could get past Alfie.

"I dated Whitley a while back." Of course he did. Wasn't that just fan-fucking-tastic? "It was a couple months after me and you—"

"Broke up?" I didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with his closet case euphemisms right now.

Alfie glanced past me, probably checking for eavesdroppers, and nodded. "Yeah. She and I stayed friends." There was more he didn't say. He and I were not friends. Before that day at the ATV track, he hadn't even spoken to me in nearly a year.

Alfie leaned against the wall opposite me, tucking his arms behind his back. Despite all the noise just on the other side of the wall, this felt incredibly intimate. He chewed on his lip as his eyes scanned me. He used to get that look before sex.

"What?" I asked, feeling self-conscious under his steady gaze.

"What are you doing here, Emmett? You hate parties." His eyes glanced toward the party. "And these people."

I wondered why I wasn't running for the bathroom. Escape was so close. I had a clear shot. But I couldn't get my legs to work.

I shrugged. "My friend begged me to come."

"Carrie." The word came out as a whisper, his eyes dipping to the floor.

"Clay."

Alfie's shoulders tensed—he may have even stopped breathing for a second—as his eyes met mine. "Clay is here."

"He went off with some girl."

I looked at the end of the hall when something crashed in the kitchen. There was a round of applause. Someone shouted, "Nice going, dipshit."

Alfie crossed the hall. He leaned his shoulder on the wall beside me. His chest was so close to my shoulder, I could feel his body heat.

My nerves spiked. As much as I resented him for the way he ended things, he still got to me.

"Good." Alfie brushed his large hand across my chest. "I thought you and him might be a thing. I know he's straight, but I also know how irresistible you are."

It stung to have Clay's heterosexuality thrown in my face like that. Just another reminder that I could never have him the way I wanted.

I shook my head. "We're just friends."

Alfie brought his hand up to cup my face, turning my head toward him, tilting my chin up. Without another word, Alfie kissed me. And I let him.

Alfie grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bathroom, flipping on the light as he locked the door behind us. It was small. Just a powder room with a toilet and sink. But we didn't need much room for what Alfie intended.

Even as he unbuttoned my jeans, pushing his hand into the waistband of my underwear to grab hold of me, the alarm bells were ringing, screeching out, This is a terrible, stupid, destructive mistake.

Ignoring my better judgement, I smashed my lips against Alfie's, tasting the sour tang of beer on his tongue. If I couldn't have Clay, I could at least pretend. I closed my eyes, imagining it was Clay's hands unbuttoning my shirt. It was Clay's lips trailing down my neck. It was Clay that I got down on my knees for.