I am drinking white wine out of a blue mug. The party is crowded and hot, a success. Some people are dressed as pirates or hobos; I am dressed as myself in a blue t-shirt, a black skirt, neon tights, and a silver tiara. I watch the party alone, leaning against the doorway of the living room. Brooke and Noah are in the kitchen making drinks. I don’t know where Alex and Sasha have gone. Angie and Preppy Dave are snuggling on the couch, drinking Coke and whispering. Jamie is standing on the coffee table, telling a story to his captive audience. He spreads his arms wide and shrugs, and everyone laughs.
“So I went back to the car again,” he says. One laugh stands out this time, and I glance around him to the other side of the room. Sylvie sits cross-legged on the floor next to the couch, a beer in hand and her eyes shining. I know that look. Sylvie has been charmed by Jamie. It happens easily enough and to nearly everyone.
Jamie throws back his head to laugh at his own joke, and Sylvie grins. My mouth eases into its own smile and I watch Jamie jump off the coffee table and take a bow. Sylvie may like him now, even want him maybe, but he is sauntering across the room to me. Jamie lays his hands on my hips and leans close.
“Hey,” he says.
“That was a very entertaining story.”
“I know,” he says. Now that his epic tale is done, the room is beginning to fill again with other voices, a low humming around us. He is so close that all I can see is his laughing, mocking eyes staring into mine.
“I really want—” I say.
“Want what?” he says.
“To be alone with you,” I say. The skin crinkles around his eyes as he grins.
“Let’s go,” he says. I shake my head.
“If everybody sees us go together, they might duck under the rope too,” I say. Before everyone came, I strung a piece of twine across the stairway to keep the party downstairs, the madness and mess contained.
“I’ll go now,” Jamie says, “and you follow in a minute with drinks.”
“Okay,” I say. He kisses me hard, pressing me against the doorframe, the way he never does in front of others usually. He leaves me breathless and flushed; I tip the mug back and finish the wine in one swallow.
I walk over to the couch and sink down next to Angie. I cup my hands around my mouth and lean into Angie’s ear.
“Whisper, whisper, whisper,” I say. She shoves me gently and laughs. “What are you guys plotting over here?” I say.
“We’re gonna get married,” Preppy Dave says.
“In December, maybe,” Angie says. “We’re going to tell our parents soon.”
“Wow,” I say, “that’s really—” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finny enter the room. “Big,” I say. They both nod, and Dave’s arm tightens around her shoulders. I stumble up and stand with one hand on the couch. “I’ll leave you two crazy kids now,” I say. “I have an appointment to keep in my bedroom.”
“Be safe,” Preppy Dave says.
“Yeah,” Angie says. I laugh and take my hand away from the couch as I turn away, and I stumble into Finny’s chest.
“Oh!”
“Sorry,” he says, even though it is clearly my fault. His drink spilled down his front when I ran into him. He wipes at his chest with one hand while I look around for something to blot his shirt with.
“Oh, baby,” Sylvie says. She touches his chest and clucks like a mother hen.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Finny says.
“You’re going to reek of alcohol, baby,” Sylvie says.
“Let’s go in the kitchen and get a towel,” I say. “And you can have a drink from our stash.” He steps around the table with me and we walk to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that,” Finny says.
“It only fair,” I say.
“That’s very nice of you, Autumn,” Sylvie says. Finny and I don’t say anything in reply.
In the kitchen, Brooke and Noah are trying to make a martini shaker by fitting a plastic cup over a glass tumbler. Drops of vodka fly across the room with every shake.
“I don’t think it’s working,” Noah says.
“No,” Brooke says. She lays the makeshift shaker down sadly.
“Hey,” I say, “make something for Finny from our stash.”
“Would you like a custom hand-shaken martini?” Noah says. I open a drawer and take out a tea towel.
“Say no,” I advise.
“Um,” Finny says, “perhaps something that won’t make a mess in Aunt Claire’s kitchen.”
“Who?” Brooke says.
“My mom,” I say. I hand Finny the towel and he blots his chest, but his shirt is only damp now and it doesn’t do much good. While Brooke and Noah make a rum concoction for Finny, I fill my mug and a plastic cup with wine.
“Here you are, my good man,” Noah says.
“Thanks,” Finny says. The three of us—me and Finny and Sylvie—walk back to the living room. The hallway is empty. I duck under the rope and look over my shoulder to make sure no one saw.
Finny is standing at the bottom of the stairs, his drink untouched in his hand. Sylvie is gone. I hear her laughter in the next room.
“Hey?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget what you promised me, okay?”
I try to flip through all of my memories of us, trying to find a promise that hasn’t been broken yet. There were a lot of promises; there isn’t much left.
“Not while you’re drunk,” he says. My grip on the wine tightens, and I feel myself start to nod and then shrug.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Phineas,” I say. “Okay?”
He looks at me, not blinking, not moving. He does not blush. From the next room, Sylvie calls his name. He doesn’t seem to hear. I swallow, trying to push my heart back out of my throat.
“Fine,” I say, “I’m not—we aren’t going to, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, and turns on his heels.
“Finn?” Sylvie calls.
