The Phi Delt house was big and square, a fairly modern mixture of glass and metal and brick, that was set on a corner. Inside, the walls were worn, the furniture was broken and ripped and ugly, and the décor was prison-era 1950. Not that most of this could be seen through the crowd.

People were packed in like sardines, chugging beer from plastic cups and swaying to the music. “Shout!” blared through the speakers and everyone was singing along, jumping up in time to the music.

A little bit softer now . . .

The crowd crouched, stilled, then raised their hands and rose up again, chanting along.

As always, the minute Tully stepped into a party, she was “on.” Gone was the edge of depression, the hesitant smile, the irritation at losing the job. Kate watched in awe; her friend instantly grabbed everyone’s attention.

“Shout!” Tully yelled out, laughing. Boys moved in close, drawn to her like moths to a flame, but Tully barely seemed to notice. She surged onto the dance floor, dragging Kate along with her.

It was the most fun Kate had had in years.

By the time she’d group danced to “Brick House,” “Twistin’ the Night Away,” and “Louie Louie,” she was hot and sweaty.

“I’ll be right back,” she yelled to Tully, who nodded, and then she went outside, where she sat on the low brick wall that marked the property’s edge. Cool night air breezed across her sweaty face. She closed her eyes and swayed to the music.

“The party’s inside, you know.”

She looked up.

The guy who’d spoken was tall and broad-shouldered, with wheat-colored hair that fell across the bluest eyes. “Can I sit with you?”

“Sure.”

“I’m Brandt Hanover.”

“Kate Mularkey.”

“Is this your first frat party?”

“Does it show?”

He smiled and went from good looking to gorgeous. “Just a little. I remember my first year here. It was like being on Mars. I’m from Moses Lake,” he said, as if that should explain everything.

“Small town?”

“Speck on the map.”

“It is kind of overwhelming.”

The conversation moved easily on from there. He talked about things she could relate to. He’d grown up on a farm, feeding cows before dawn and driving his dad’s hay truck when he was thirteen. He knew about feeling both lost and found in a place as big and sprawling as UW.

Inside, the music changed. Someone turned the volume way up. It was ABBA’s, “Dancing Queen.”

Tully came running out of the house. “Kate!” she yelled, laughing. “There you are.”

Brandt immediately stood.

Tully frowned at him. “Who’s this?”

“Brandt Hanover.”