I studied her face as subtly as I could manage. She didn’t go to my school, I was certain of that. I knew the face of almost every student in St Michael’s. But the familiarity was bugging me. I walked toward her, barely even aware of my own movements. I pushed past some girls I recognized from my English class, almost tripping over my shoes in an attempt to reach her before anyone else could. Glancing around, I realized no one else was trying. She caught my eye and smiled.

“Hey,” I said as I sidled up next to her. I watched as her eyes took me in, trailing over me before she landed her gaze back on my face, biting back a smile. “You know, I could swear I know you from somewhere.”

“Julia McMahon. I go to Holy Faith.”

Julia McMahon. While it didn’t help, it did ring a bell. “Julia McMahon…I’m Alex. Alex Ryan.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Your name rings a bell, too…” With a shrug she held out her hand and I grasped it firmly. “I’m Aidan’s cousin.”

I made a show of wincing. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. That’s the only reason I’m here tonight. I’ve avoided coming to his parties for so long, but my dad insisted I come out tonight and ‘mingle’.”

“Don’t like parties?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never actually been to one.”

“You know, it’s really going to bother me if I can’t figure out where I know you from. Do you, I dunno, play any sports or something? I mean—I don’t, but maybe—”

“I’m captain of my school hockey team,” she explained, and it clicked. Julia McMahon. Of course, I had seen her play from time to time, one of those rare players who managed to keep on Connie’s heels. The one who had knocked her over that one time. The one who was—

“Oh! Oh, yeah. I know who you are. I’ve seen you play before, I think! At Connie’s matches. You’re friends with Connie, aren’t you? Connie O’Reilly.”

“Hardly. I mean, we get along. When we play against each other. But we’re not friends. I’d say hi to her if I ran into her and stuff but friends…No way.” And then her own eyes widened. “Oh,” she said in surprise, her smile broadening, “You’re Connie O’Reilly’s lapdog.”

I snorted into my drink, holding back a cough. Connie O’Reilly’s—”I’m what?”

“Sorry—” Julia laughed when my cheeks reddened. “Sorry, sorry—that’s—that’s what I’ve heard some people call you. Aidan, for one—and some girls from school. Just because, I dunno, I guess you follow her around all the time, maybe?”

“Her lapdog? I’m not—” I shook my head and huffed. Desperate to change the conversation I glanced down at her empty hands. “Come on. Do you want to get a drink?” I led her, still laughing, into the packed kitchen, pointing toward the counter where all of the bottles had been laid out.

“I’ve never actually had a drink before,” she confessed. “A full one, anyway. Beer is horrible. Spirits…I’ve never really tried.”