Zoe wanders away, most likely in search of something else to drink, and I take a seat on a tree stump, watching as more people trail into the clearing.

A tap on my shoulder causes me to jump and whirl around, my heart in my throat. Mason holds his hands up in surrender at my overreaction, and I take a deep breath, immediately relaxing.

“Don’t do that.” I scold him, my cheeks warming.

“My bad. How’s it going?”

“Zoe is freaked. She got into a really intense fight with her dad about the cops questioning her before she came here. She spent most of the ride convincing me she’s innocent.”

I refrain from telling him the part where she tried to pin everything on him.

“Shit,” he says, voice low. “We should give her some space then. Any sign of Damien?”

“Not yet.”

Mason turns back to look at me, studying my features as a gentle breeze toys with his hair. “You good?”

“Am I ever?”

“Sometimes.” He gives me a knowing half smile. The moment hangs in the air, and I let myself imagine what it would be like to be able to step forward and kiss him again.

Mason clears his throat, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, and I refocus on the task at hand. The music reverberates inside of my skull, making a headache form at my temple. I look to my left in time to see Zoe shotgun a beer while the people around her egg her on.

She finishes, letting the can fall to the ground and lifting her hands up in victory. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s always been poised and put together, unwilling to let anyone see the chips in the marble, but tonight she doesn’t appear to care.

“I didn’t know you had it in you, Harris,” the same boy from before shouts, offering her a high five, and she beams, cheeks rosy as she slaps her hand against his.

A cool breeze hits the exposed skin on my neck, and I shiver, turning in the direction of the mouth of the trail as two more people step into the clearing. Damien and James. They’re welcomed by raucous shouts of the other members of the soccer team, and Damien grins, basking in all of the attention.

“The man of the hour has arrived,” Mason says sardonically, watching with an unimpressed look on his face.

I grimace, then walk over to the table and return with another shot. Mason watches me, arms folded in amusement as I swallow it, working to keep the disgust off of my face. After taking care of the empty glass, I shake my hands out and bounce on the balls of my feet, feeling queasy.

“All right.” I breathe, steeling myself. “Let’s do this.”