The basketball team leases an old Victorian house on a sleepy, tree-lined street that connects Clement’s campus to the downtown area.
I’ve walked down this street at least a hundred times. Whenever I head into town (which is really only when I need to buy clothes that seem too risky to order online or when I want to spend the afternoon in the romance section at the rambling old bookstore), this is my route. I know it like the back of my hand—all the university flags and decals in the windows, all the folding chairs on the front porches, all the neighborhood cats who technically shouldn’t be kept in student housing.
I know this street. But I’ve never felt the pavement under my feet tremble in time with the bassline of a Post Malone song playing ominously in the distance.
Nina and Harper pass a water bottle filled with lemonade and tequila back and forth while they talk strategy.
“Bar first, beer pong, then—”
“No, no. Bar first, then we find your boys, then beer pong—”
I’m only half listening because I’m more interested in watching students spill out from houses and side streets and double-parked Ubers to join our pilgrimage, the flow of people building and building until, at last, we reach our shared destination.
The house explodes with light and sound and collegiate chaos that spills out onto the dark street below. There are balloons (in Clement’s school colors, naturally) tethered to the railing on the front porch, and all the downstairs windows have been blacked out with what looks suspiciously like black trash bags taped together. Most of the second- and third-floor windows are lit up, and there are people leaning out of them to shout down to friends below on the packed front lawn.
As soon as I see how many people are here, I instinctively hug my arms over my chest.
This bodysuit was a terrible idea. What possessed me to come to a party with my tits halfway out? And who let me wear ankle boots with a three-inch heel? I’m towering over almost all the girls here, and a decent number of the boys. There’s no hiding. There’s no blending in.
I’m one big beacon of red lipstick and cleavage.
It’s only once I push past this initial panic that I realize it’s not just a crowd—it’s a line, winding across the lawn and wrapping up onto the porch. There are two lanky kids (both freshmen; I recognize their faces from the basketball team roster) manning the front door with clipboards under their arms.
“Holy shit,” I croak as we come to a stop on the sidewalk. “There’s a list?”
“It’s fine,” Nina says, looping her arm through one of mine and squeezing tight. “We’re fine. Don’t panic. It’ll move fast, and it’s barely past nine o’clock, so we have plenty of time to do everything—and everyone—we came to do.”
“I am not waiting,” Harper announces.
“But we’re already here!” Nina protests. “And we pregamed, and we look hot—”
“Calm down. I’m not leaving either.”
And then Harper executes what I can only describe as a magic trick.
She whips her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, pulls open her texts, and taps out a one-word-long message before hitting Send.
Not even fifteen seconds later, poof.
Jabari Henderson appears on the porch, his own phone in one hand. The other hand is rubbing over the side of his fade and adjusting the buttons of his (very trendy) short-sleeved shirt like he’s frantically trying to make sure he’s presentable. I watch him preen nervously and realize that Jabari is, without a shadow of a doubt, smitten.
“What the fuck was your opening line on Bumble?” Nina whisper-hisses.
Harper studiously ignores the question and lifts one hand high into the air, gold bracelets glinting in the soft glow of the porch lights. Jabari spots her in the crowd. I catch the split second of childlike joy on his face before he manages to pull it back and play it cool. He tips his chin up, motioning for her to come up to the front of the line.
With a flip of her dark hair over her shoulder, Harper marches across the grass. Nina trots along after her, head held high as she basks in the jealous stares of all the kids who’ve been waiting out here longer than we have to prove that their name is on the list. I follow, biting back the urge to apologize to each and every one of them.
Jabari lets out a low whistle as Harper climbs the porch steps. I scrunch my nose warily, but Harper laughs.
“Behave, boy. Behave.”
Jabari presses his lips together, biting back a smile. “You made it.”
“Me and half the school,” Harper snaps. “You’re just asking for your neighbors to report y’all to DPS at this point. I thought this thing was supposed to be invitation-only since you’re on social probation?”
Jabari shrugs. “We sent out a lot of invites.”
Harper arches an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me that look, girl. You’re my only plus-one.”
Harper . . . giggles.
This is a new development. I’ve never seen Harper smile at a boy like this. Actually, I’ve never seen Harper look at a boy with any emotion other than distrust or outright hostility. So, this? This is a big fucking deal.
I’m still not one hundred percent sold on the guy. Not after Starbucks. But if the way Jabari is staring at Harper like she hung the moon is any indication, he understands what a big deal it is that she’s allowing him the honor of speaking to her.
So—reluctantly—I’ll give him a point.
“Hey, Henderson,” Nina says.
Jabari startles like he’s just noticed that Harper isn’t the only woman in the world. “Nina,” he says with a cordial nod. “Welcome back. I’ll let everybody know that the reigning beer pong champ is in the building.”
Nina blooms at the compliment. “Don’t warn them. I like when they underestimate me.”
Fine. That’s two points for Jabari.
But then he’s turning to me, and I’m suddenly and violently reminded that 1. I’m a real human being who can be perceived by other human beings and 2. three days ago, he and his teammates sat on the other side of a Starbucks and laughed at me. There’s no time to hide. All I can do is stand there like future roadkill in the headlights of a semitruck. Jabari’s whole face lights up with recognition and then—to my horror—a look of utter delight that I’ve only ever seen on Nina’s face when she’s about to do something I absolutely do not want her to do.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, offering me his hand like we’re at a career fair. “I’m Jabari.”
You know damn well who I am, I want to say. Instead, I take his outstretched hand in what I hope is a bone-crushing grip and settle for a monotone: “Kendall.”
“Kendall,” Jabari repeats like he’s never heard the name before in his life. “It is so great to meet you, Kendall.”
I feel the corner of my mouth tug.
But I won’t smile. Not yet.
Not until I know I can trust this guy.
“The three of us live together,” Harper says.
Jabari’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Where’s the birthday boy?” Nina asks.
I cut her a glare that could melt plastic. Nina doesn’t so much as wince. She and Jabari are looking at each other like two people in a crowded lecture hall who’ve wordlessly agreed to partner up on a semester-long project.
I don’t care for this development. Not even a little.
“He should be somewhere around here,” Jabari says, brow knitting thoughtfully. “You guys want something to drink? I’ll take you to the bar, if you’re thirsty.”
“Oh, we’re parched,” Nina replies.
Jabari takes Harper’s hand, Harper takes Nina’s hand, and Nina catches my wrist before I can wriggle out of her reach and sprint off into the night, never to be seen again.
Outside, the house is chaos.
Inside? It’s somehow worse.
Darkness. Neon lights. Bodies packed tight, almost shoulder to shoulder, swaying in time with pounding music or streaming up and down hallways and in between rooms. Red cups in hands. The pungent scent of alcohol.
It’s a cacophonous overload to my senses.
And yet everyone else looks like they’re having the time of their fucking lives. Packs of girls dance in tight circles together, hips swinging as they shout song lyrics into one another’s faces with the uninhibited passion of high school theater kids. Guys erupt in laughter and cheers as they stumble into some other guy that they loudly proclaim to be my guy to everyone within earshot. It seems everyone knows one another—from class, from sports teams, from prior hookups, from friends of friends of friends.
I’ve never wanted to be the center of the room or the girl who has a million acquaintances. I keep a small, tight inner circle. But clearly, Vincent has a much different concept of social life, because these beautiful, rowdy people are Vincent’s friends. This is his tiny universe in which he is the sun and everyone revolves around him.
I feel like a passing asteroid.
We’re not compatible.
I shake off the thought. It doesn’t matter if Vincent and I aren’t endgame. I’m not looking to marry the guy—that’s ridiculous. I just want to climb him like a tree.
I can do this.
I’m going to fucking do this.
Jabari takes us on a quick lap around the dining room, where crowds have gathered around two different beer pong tables, and then doubles back across the hall and into the living room.
“I thought we were getting drinks,” I shout to Nina.
Jabari definitely hears me.
“Bar’s this way,” he calls over his shoulder. “How do y’all feel about jungle juice?”
I don’t think he’s really listening for an answer.
Jabari cranes his neck and scans the living room, huffing a little in frustration. I get the sense that he’s used to being able to see straight over everyone’s heads, but this party is full of student athletes who play basketball and volleyball and football and other sports typically played by large humans. And maybe I’m a little thankful for the abnormally tall crowd, because I don’t feel entirely out of place, but it’s still a clusterfuck of drunk strangers bopping around in the dark while music thumps so loudly I feel the beat rattling around in my bones, and I’m suddenly terrified of having to pretend I’m not on the brink of an anxiety attack when I finally find—
“Knight!”
Jabari’s voice rings out over the pounding music and strikes me square in the chest. Before I have time to mentally or emotionally prepare myself, he slips through an opening in the crowd, dragging the rest of us along after him to the far corner of the living room.
And there’s Vincent.
