I clam up like the mollusk itself. “No idea. I need a drink.” I push past them both to the cabinet where we keep the liquor. I take more time assembling a drink than I usually would, feeling Cressida and Emma’s eyes on my back the whole time. I’m certain they didn’t buy my fake uncertainty, but I’m equally sure they won’t keep pressing me on it. I’m stubborn. And private. And they both know it. If there’s something I don’t want to talk about, I won’t. I’ve lived with them both since sophomore year, and neither of them knows anything about my life pre-Lancaster. About my mom leaving. About my dad getting remarried.

I gulp my drink in a shorter amount of time than it took to make it. And then I concoct another one. I’m well on my way to being drunk. Waking-up-on-a-lawn-with-minimal-clothing-and-no-memory-of-how-I-got-there drunk.

Two shots and a game of beer pong later, I’m dragging Drew upstairs. We stumble into my bedroom, and I slip on a stray sock. I laugh like I’m watching a Rose family catastrophe as I pretend to ice skate the rest of the way to my bed, flopping atop it as though I’ve just successfully landed a triple axel. Drew watches me with a bemused expression and then follows, draping his muscular frame over mine. He kisses me, and it’s pleasant. Familiar. So is the way his hand wanders under my shirt to unfasten my lacy bra. He groans as his calloused palm slips back around to caress my bare breasts.

“Fuck, Saylor. I missed this… you.” He grinds his erection against my center as his right hand slides up my leg, dipping beneath the hem of my skirt. My nerves light up with pleasure, but not the blinding, all-encompassing kind I unknowingly became accustomed to. My mind keeps spinning like the inside of a washing machine, the thoughts an endless tangle.

There’s no desperation. No urgency. He’s not taking every ounce of my attention, not like… Beck. The thought of his name is a bucket of ice-cold water, and any pleasure dissipates.

I pull back just as his fingers find the edge of my thong. “I’m going to throw up.”

Yeah, subtlety? Still not my strong suit.

I push Drew aside and run down the hall to the bathroom, banging the door shut behind me. I hover over the toilet, waiting for my churning stomach to expel something, but nothing comes. So, I lie down on the cool tile floor, grateful Anne cleaned it yesterday.

“Saylor? You okay?” Drew’s voice comes from the hallway. I guess I should be flattered the prospect of vomit didn’t send him running.

“Yeah,” I call back.