“And you are a very cute five feet,” he says, wrapping me in a hug and lifting me off my toes for another quick kiss. “But I am a much less cute six-three and I’ve spent my entire night getting completely wrecked. I think my body’s at its limit for stretching in unnatural directions.” He waggles his eyebrows. “At least for another ten minutes or so.”

“Subtle. Do you want me to drive?”

“Nah, by the time you adjust the seat to your height the party will probably be over.” I whack him on the arm, and he laughs. “Come on—faster we get there, faster we find a more comfortable place to get back to what we were doing.”

I open my mouth to point out we can always skip the party, but we really can’t. Chase is the star of the night, and at some point, Hunter Ferris’s makeup party for the one Jasmine snatched away has definitely turned into a party in his honor. No one would forgive me if he didn’t show. I’ll probably have to get used to this—all the stuff that comes with being a star player’s girlfriend—and while it used to seem cool in my head, now it makes me feel … impatient. Exhausted.

Inevitably, my mind wanders.

THEN

I’m quickly running out of outfits to wear to parties in the Outer Banks, hoping people won’t notice how frequently I’m wearing the same shorts or jeans with different tank tops from the sales rack at Urban Outfitters. Jasmine sports something I’ve never seen every single night—sequined dresses or brightly colored capris or pleather leggings she wears as comfortably as a second skin. Even after getting closer, or maybe because of it, I haven’t had the nerve to ask her to borrow anything.

There is a dress I haven’t worn yet—it’s a gorgeous turquoise with cool beaded embroidery winding down from the single strap—that I packed in case my mom made me go to something fancy as her date. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, though I have no idea what occasion that might be. Almost everything we go to is messy with sand and beer and ash, and we come away reeking of smoke and weed that I keep promising my mom is not the result of my own consumption.