Paige giggles, and I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s not being charming or chivalrous; he’s probably about to Snapchat a picture of our asses to lord knows who.

Whatever. My ass looks really fucking good in these white jeans.

Snap your heart out, Bare Minimum Boy.

I’m regretting my choice of footwear by the time we reach the long-ass driveway that leads to the main house. Four-inch wedges may look good, but they are not meant for long-distance treks. Truth be told, I only wore them because they make me a solid inch taller than Travis. I’m five foot seven on flat feet. And although I’ve heard Travis say he’s six feet tall on more than one occasion, the guy’s pushing five-ten on tiptoes.

Not that I have anything against short guys. I just don’t particularly care for a little man with an overcompensating ego. If you’re average, own it.

We don’t bother knocking when we reach the front door. Instead, we walk into the house and are instantly hit with booming bass and the stink of weed. We pass a formal living room that’s been taped off with yellow caution tape—clever, really—and head for the commotion in the kitchen.

There are two separate beer pong games going, one on the eat-in kitchen table, the other on the kitchen island. I make a beeline for the drinks lined up near the sink and pour myself a vodka lemonade before the others even make their way over.

“That’s my girl!” Travis praises as I glare at him over the rim of my upturned glass. “Let’s get this party started!”

I lean against the counter as I watch my friends make their own drinks. Kyle’s already got an arm slung around Paige, and he’s just said something that has her giggling.

Good. At least this night won’t be in vain.

I glance around, surveying the crowd to see how many of these people I actually know. There are a few familiar faces from high school, but most of the people in the kitchen are strangers.

They’re strangers. And yet they’re all so familiar and predictable.

Any combination of these types of people in this type of setting would turn me off right now. It’s not them—it’s me.

I don’t know when parties like this stopped being fun and started to feel like a chore. But as I glance around the crowded kitchen, the smell of weed mingling with expensive aftershave and the sticky sweetness of spiked punch, I can’t fathom anywhere on planet earth I’d rather be less.

Travis perches next to me and takes a long sip from his cup before speaking. “You want to go check out what’s happening in the barn?”