“You are.”

The boy shrugs, sidles away to offer pills to the group of girls lounging on the couch.

“It’s a thing,” Drew says. “Everyone raids their parents’ cabinets, throws the pills in the bowl. Don’t mess with that, okay? You have no idea what’s in there. Mixing shit—that’s how you end up in the ER, you know? Fucking idiots.”

My mouth turns up. “Well, I don’t need that bowl, since I have my very own private dispensary, anyway.”

He throws me a hooded glance. Maybe he really meant it when he said he wasn’t going to give me more than that last set of ten.

“The boyfriend?” Drew nods toward the phone in my hand as he reaches past me for a cup and the bottle of Maker’s.

I nod. “He’s MIA. Probably screwing some girl from his dorm or the surf club.”

I say this as a joke, but it suddenly occurs to me that it’s possible. Maybe he’s with someone like I’m with Drew and he sees her come down the stairs and he realizes she’s hot. Maybe that’s how it starts.

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.” Drew keeps his eyes on mine as he says it.

“Whatever.”

“Hannah. You’re gorgeous and smart and cool. If he’s fucking someone else, he’s an idiot.”

I don’t like the way his words fill me up. Also: No one has ever called me smart before.

“This isn’t a date,” I say.

My voice trembles a little, and I hate that.

“I know. If this were a date, this would be the last place we’d be.”

“What are you, a moonlit-walk-on-the-beach kinda guy?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

I shake my head. “You’re an enigma.”

Every time I try to put Drew into the dealer/druggie box, he hops out.

“I think I’m okay with that,” he says, with that small half-smile.

I’m starting to get a nice buzz, a warm-all-over kind of feeling. I’m annoyed by the people around me. How loud and dumb they are. How they keep jostling me.

“Drew?”

“Yeah?”

“This party sucks. Let’s go.”

He steps back. “After you.”

We end up going to his house and liberating beer from his dad’s fridge, then stand around the kitchen drinking it, because couches and beds are for dates. And this isn’t a date.

“So, you packing tarot cards tonight or what?” Drew says as he pulls another Sam Adams from the fridge. “Because I distinctly remember being promised a reading.”

I laugh as I grab the Rider-Waite-Smith deck Cyn gave me out of my purse. “I guess having tarot cards is like packing heat, but I never heard anyone say it quite like that.”

His lips turn up a little. “How so?”