“You like her?” I glance over to the couch where she and Andrew are sitting. Of course he does.

“It’s too late now,” he says, following my gaze. “I blew it.”

“Ryder blew it,” I say. “You’re right—she can’t fault you for telling somebody. You’re not the one who told the whole school. Why didn’t you say something to him?”

“To Ryder? We’re in the final sprint of high school. Just ride it out, Collins.” He clinks his tequila bottle against my cup. “After next week, we’ll never have to see any of these people ever again.” Then he smiles and walk away, slinging his arm around Cecilia, who’s just come into the room and is scowling in the direction of the couch. It strikes me that even though I’ve seen him naked, I don’t really know Chase at all.

I make my way over to Hannah, and I can tell she’s tipsy. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her bangs messy.

“Keely!” she shouts when she sees me, like it’s been three years instead of three hours. “Happy last day of finals!” She’s with Molly Moye, the two of them swaying back and forth to the beat of some old Ariana Grande song.

“What have you been drinking?” I like the feel of her next to me, warm and secure.

“All of it,” she answers, bopping me on the nose.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Molly asks me. She holds her drink out in the direction of mine and I tap my cup against hers and take another long, tangy sip. I start to nod, about to say something about prom and how it’s a moment and all of the other phrases I’ve been forcing through my head for the last week or so, but I realize all of a sudden that no—I’m actually not that excited for tomorrow. When I think of tomorrow night, I don’t think of prom itself, of dancing with my friends, celebrating the end of school, the final few moments we’ll still be together. All I can think about is the hotel room that Dean and I got for afterward, the moment when we’ll both be undressed, right on the edge. The moment that I promised him.

Losing your virginity is supposed to be exciting, right? Tomorrow night is making my stomach swoop, but not like it’s full of butterflies. More like it’s full of gas. But I don’t want to think too much about it right now, so I take another long sip of my margarita and I lie to Molly.

“I can’t wait.”

She lights up like a Christmas tree and loops her arm through Hannah’s so we’re all linked together, like a drunken daisy chain.

“Me too,” she says.

“Me three,” Hannah agrees.