It wasn’t like I had a claim over him.

But there was something inside me, something ugly and possessive, something I didn’t want to name.

I didn’t want to spend the whole night watching other girls watch him. I didn’t want to see the way their eyes dragged over him when he walked into a room, their voices going just a little higher, their laughter a little sweeter, the subtle way they angled their bodies toward him.

And most of all, I didn’t want to sit there and pretend I wasn’t doing the exact same thing.

It was pathetic, really, but I couldn’t help it. He always looked so good in those baggy jeans and his oversized flannels, his messy hair falling just right.

I told myself I’d come here to have fun. To dance, to drink something fruity and too sweet, to forget about the way Blake had hovered over me in that piercing studio like I was made of glass. Like he cared. Like it meant something. But as I moved through the party, smiling at familiar faces, accepting a drink from someone whose name I didn’t bother remembering, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to him.

Blake, with his stupidly sharp jawline and his green, unreadable eyes. Blake, who had paid for my piercing without a second thought. Blake, who had looked like he wanted to throw the piercer through a wall for making me wince.

Blake, who I told myself I didn’t want.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

The party was already in full swing; the backyard was alive with laughter and dancing. Are You That Somebody by Aaliyah blasted from the speakers that someone had dragged outside.

A string of lights hung over the patio, casting a dim glow over the scene, and the smell of cheap beer and vanilla-scented body spray hung thick in the air. Half of the school was here—some in the pool, splashing around, others lounging on deck chairs, legs stretched out, drinks in hand. Someone had already jumped off the roof into the deep end, and judging by the way Evan was shouting at him, that was definitely not allowed.

Tiffany grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward a group of girls by the lounge chairs. She wore a short black leather skirt, a baby tee that said Whatever, Loser in glittery letters, and knee-high platform boots. Her lips were lined red, glossed to perfection.

“Tell me my hair still looks good,” she said, running her fingers through it.

“You look perfect,” I told her, clutching a solo cup full of something bright blue and suspiciously strong.