The house is kind-feeling and comfortable, full of flowery cushions and curtains, warm honey-colored oak cupboards and pictures of Aidan and his brothers tacked to the fridge and in frames on tables. On the kitchen table are bottles of liquor and big jugs of soda alongside red cups half filled with swampy concoctions, but underneath is a pretty tablecloth.

By the looks of things, some people will not make it to the game at all. It seems like this has been going for hours. As I walk through the house, I see a couple making out while inside the same enormous jersey, two guys wearing old boxing gloves and drunkenly fighting in the hallway, and some feet sticking out from under a snoring blanket on the couch in the living room. Aidan tells us cheerfully that someone has already puked. He points to a pale-faced guy staring disconsolately from a corner on the kitchen floor, holding a can of soda to his forehead.

A guy I don’t recognize comes through the kitchen with a joint hanging out of his mouth, followed by three girls, a skunky cloud behind them.

“Hey!” Aidan yells, “Smoke outside, bro! My mom can smell it a mile away! I can’t believe people still smoke joints,” Aidan complains to us, pouring some rum into a cup. He shakes his head. “Edibles or nothing for me, man.”

“Right?” I say, and Lottie raises an eyebrow at me, her bullshit detector calling me out for attempts at coolness, but I grab a beer and walk away from her. Paige has already drifted off. She’s looking at some pictures on the mantle. I stroll over and nudge her with my elbow.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” I bob my head awkwardly. “So … what’s up with you and Aidan? Everything okay?”

“Why, did he say something to you?” she says, an edge to her voice.

“What? No—” I start, carefully.

“Oh, whatever, you two have your little friendship thing going there,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.

“Um, no, not really.”

Paige rolls her eyes and looks around the room. “Yeah, well. I dunno what’s going on with us. Maybe we’re done. I don’t even know.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry.” I touch her shoulder, which feels bony and frail, like she’s a little teen dinosaur, which she kind of is. Maybe she’s not as high up on the food chain as Breanne, but she’s got some kind of stomping power. There’s a watchful hunger about her. She looks at me now like she’s assessing me, deciding something.

“Thanks, Stevie,” she says, unsmiling. She looks across the room and says, vaguely, “You’re sweet.”

*   *   *