The fact that my old friends had started hanging out with my new ones had led to a few interesting developments. Like the fact that everyone now called me “Tommy” more often than not. And, at that precise moment, Sam and Jonas were actually out on a date.

The place was absolutely overflowing. Blake led the way through the crowd, zigzagging around people as she refused to let go of my hand. When we finally got to the kitchen, she poured us some beer from the keg and refused to move until we both had to refill.

“Whose house is this?” I asked her.

“Do you really care?” she asked me back, pouring us another two cups. “Then drink up.”

Before long, we were sitting on a couch next to the dining room/dance floor.

“How are you feeling?” she asked me loudly as I started on my fifth cup of beer.

“I’m not!” I said, grinning.

“Awesome!” She smiled. “Should we dance?”

“I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“But we have to,” she said. “You need to get used to it now that we’ll be college buds.”

“Did I congratulate you yet?”

“A few times,” she yelled, nodding happily.

“Congratulations!” I yelled back, making her beam.

Her phone lit up in her hand, and she quickly started typing away.

“Tyler!” Sara screamed, falling beside me on the couch, drunk out of her mind.

She was with a girl I didn’t know but who thought it freaking hilarious how she’d called me Tyler.

“Are you still gay?” Sara tilted her head.

I laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I sorta wish you weren’t?” she said, reaching out and running her fingers through my hair.

“Still gay,” I said.

“What?” she shouted, an inch away from my fucking ear.

“He said he’s still gay!” Blake yelled, without taking her eyes off her phone.

“Well, Ethan is insane,” Sara said loudly. “I mean, Lucy is my friend, and I love her, but you are so hot. I can’t even—”

“Sara,” Blake said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, sounding nothing like herself.

“Yeah?”

“Bye!” she said, almost angrily.

I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped a bit. I didn’t know Blake got angry. She stood in front of me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up, making me follow her to the very middle of the dance floor.

“Blake, I don’t feel like dancing.”

“I know,” she yelled. “This song sucks.”

“Blake.”

“Which song would you feel like dancing to?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Which song, Tommy?” she said anxiously.

“Anything slower? I dunno.”

“Don’t move.”

“What?”

“Don’t. Move,” she ordered before disappearing into the crowd.

Suddenly, the music stopped, the electro pop beat substituted by Morrissey’s voice singing “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want.” Blake all but ran back to where I was, crashing into me.