“Are you sure you have the right address?” Jimmy asks as we wind through the buildings of University Park, the largest and most sprawling section of upperclassmen housing.

“Positive,” I snap.

I never intended to come back to these cookie-cutter buildings—let alone the interior of one—but it’s a bit late for that now. I didn’t realize Dahlia’s directions would lead me here.

Jimmy releases an irritated huff. “Then where is it?”

I pause and examine our surroundings. My gaze lands on the lettering beside the nearest apartment doorway, 4B, and I nod in that direction. “Just over here.”

We turn the corner and follow the heavy beat.

Inside the apartment, the living room is nearly vacant—it is only 10:30, and according to Jimmy and Xander, Bradford parties don’t really start till eleven. Even still, the bass reverberates off the walls.

Jimmy steers me toward the breakfast bar, where the hosts have set up the liquor and mixers, but I hesitate.
Of course, he chooses the only area with another person.

The guy in the kitchen is dressed as a pirate captain, complete with a flowing white shirt, black vest, and an eyepatch. He grins a toothy grin through his ruddy-brown beard—drunk enough to throw himself fully into character—and Jimmy plops down on one of two barstools and requests a drink. He’s done this a lot because he pours out Jimmy’s rum and Coke with precision, then turns his one eye on me.

“What can I get you?” He flashes me an overpowering smile and grabs a red Solo cup, ready to fill it.

“I’m not having anything, thanks.” I glance at Jimmy, who takes a sip of his drink and smiles at the cup appreciatively.

“What?” The bartender gleefully raises an eyebrow. “You’re not drinking? Party foul!”

I frown at his over-the-top reaction and step closer to Jimmy.

Even in the dark atmosphere, the setup of this apartment is too familiar. My stomach drops at the memories as I lean against the stool—it looks like the exact same stool—but Jimmy smiles and nods toward the bar.

I glance at the bartender, uncertain. “Half a shot.”

“You got it.” He fills the plastic cup with Mountain Dew and a small pour of Absolut vodka, and I hold the cup by the rim as he passes it to me.

I stir the liquid with my pinky finger and take a sip. Vodka is disgusting, but I swallow it down.

Beside me, Jimmy examines the room. “You talked to Prudence, right?” I internally roll my eyes before he voices his actual question. “Do you think she and Cynthia will show up?”

“I don’t know.” The room is already filling with people. “You don’t have to keep me company. You should go have fun.”

He turns his worried brown eyes on me. “And leave you here alone?” In the low light, he looks like Robin Hood more than the Hero of Hyrule—part of that has to do with his unmanageable brown hair. I’m just glad I convinced him to leave his recorder at home. “Billie, I’m not going to abandon you.”

When I assess the living room again, the number of party-goers has tripled since our arrival. The room isn’t full in the least, but it’s well on its way. I shudder to think how nerve-wracking this will be when everyone is here and drunk.

Although, the terrible dancing and the couple groping each other on an armchair indicates some people did a little pre-gaming.

“I think I’ll manage.”

Jimmy’s bushy eyebrows draw together under his thick-rimmed glasses, and he lowers his voice. “Are you going to sit here and wait for Xander? He could be at work for another hour if they’re busy.”

“Seriously, go.” The last thing I want to do is work the room with him. “I need time to adjust.”

He stands, cup in hand, but the frown on his face says he does not approve. “Fine, but I’ll be back soon.”

He disappears into the crowd, and I sip my drink while people-watching.

The group on the makeshift dance floor is growing, even if many of them are grinding instead of actually dancing. The Bradford standard-issue coffee table and entertainment center are missing—probably shoved in someone’s bedroom to make space. University Park apartments were designed with utility in mind. Not costume parties.

Behind me, the kitchen has its own special alcove and is separated from the living room by a narrow walkway and the peninsula I’m sitting at. The bedrooms and bathrooms, though, are located at the ends of two symmetrical hallways on either side of the apartment entrance, two beds and one bath attached to each.

From one of these hallways stumbles a guy in a white toga. He was too drunk to notice blacklight doesn’t reflect off whatever sheet he used. His tighty-whiteys, on the other hand…

He grips the wall, and another guy catches him by the shoulders before he falls. “No, Darius, this toga party isn’t going to happen!”

I move on.

Near the front door, Jimmy has found David Wright, our RA from Lincoln Hall last year. They have a vocals class together this semester—apparently, David’s voice is “divine,” though I haven’t heard it yet. David pauses to chat and offers Jimmy a Blue Moon from his six pack.

“We’re not all terrible people, you know.”

I jump, nearly falling off the stool.

The bartender is on my left—too close for comfort. My amber hands tighten around the cup, knuckles turning white, and I force down the panic. This position is far too familiar.

“Unless you’re into terrible people.” He quirks a smile, flashing white teeth that glow in the blacklight, but I shift away.

I clench my eyes shut, breathe, and open them again.

“I’m Brent.” He shoves a pink calloused hand in my direction, inches from my chest, too drunk to notice my discomfort. “You are?”

“Billie Dixon.” I offer my hand in return.

His grip is firm, but instead of shaking, he presses his lips to my knuckles in a wet kiss. I jerk away, but he doesn’t notice. “This is your first party, right? You a freshman?”

“Sophomore. And yes, mostly. I don’t imagine you’d count picking up my drunk friends as attending a party.”

His laughter booms in my ears, and he grabs his drink from the counter behind us. “Then you don’t know any of these people, do you?”

I shake my head and look around. Jimmy and David are the only ones I recognize.

“Well, I live here, along with Darius, the one who’s about to pass out in the hallway in his underwear, and Seymour—he’s the guy making out with his girlfriend—and Kai’s dancing with all those women.” Brent laughs and leans against the counter, his thick arm brushing mine. “He gets away with it because he’s in a six-year relationship with a girl in Sweden—at least that’s his story.”

I force a smile and sip my drink.

“And this—” his face lights up “—this is Dahlia.”

Dressed in a skimpy dark violet fairy costume, Dahlia Finnick looks ready to grant more than a few wishes tonight. Her long, honey-brown hair is pulled up into a tight ballerina bun, with a few curled strands framing her peach, heart-shaped face. Her makeup is pristine, her skin lacks blemishes, and her white and purple fairy wings glow. She’s perfect.

She stretches up to wrap her thin arms around Brent’s robust torso. “Why aren’t you dancing?” Giggling, she clutches his hand and drags him toward the dance floor, but he stays in place.

“Lia.” He tugs her, and she stumbles into his side. “Have you met Billie? This is her first party.”

She turns her attention to me and slips from his embrace to throw her arms around me. “You came!” My drink splashes on my black pants, but she doesn’t notice, even after pulling away to examine my costume. “Who’re you dressed as?” She cocks her head to the side, her hands digging into my shoulders.

I finish my drink to prevent further spills and drop the cup on the counter. “Have you seen Fullmetal Alchemist?”

Her frown persists, but after a moment it abates. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“Riza Hawkeye. The final battle.” I reach for my belt to withdraw the pistol—the closest I could find to her Enfield No. 2 snub nose.

Then, I think better of it.

They’re drunk—probably drunk enough to think it’s real. Thankfully, the overshirt hides it well.

A smile spreads across her petite face. “It’s so unique.”

I scoot backward on the stool and take a steadying breath.

It’s no surprise, but her tone is a dead giveaway. No other girl here is dressed as an anime character. They’re fairies or cats or Catholic schoolgirls or the female lead in the latest superhero flick—whoever they need to be to show as much skin as possible.

Brent chuckles. “It’s refreshing to see a girl wear something other than underwear and tights.”

I snort, but they don’t notice.

Dahlia is already moving on. “Come on, Brent.” She grabs him by the hand again and tugs him toward the dance floor. “I need a partner.”

He sends me an apologetic smile and allows her to drag him away.

When they’re gone, I can breathe again. I hold my hands close to my chest and shut my eyes. I’d prefer not to talk to Dahlia and Brent for long, but that’s true for most of my interactions. Being alone in the middle of a party, however, is much worse.

I don’t know why Dahlia invited me. I don’t do well in crowds, and she should know that. We are suitemates, after all. Even if we rarely spend time together.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

I lock on to deep cerulean eyes, and a smile spreads across my lips. “Well, this is kind of new. I don’t usually go inside the party.”

Xander snorts as he takes the seat beside me. When he peruses my costume, a smirk lights up his tawny face, and he leans closer to tug at the neckline of my black turtleneck. “How in-depth did you go with this, Lieutenant?” His hot breath tickles my neck. “Do you hold the secrets to Flame Alchemy on your back? Can I study them?”

I smack his hand away, laughing. “My gun might be fake, Xander, but I can still hit you.”

He releases a low laugh. “And I’m sure I’ll deserve it.” When he leans back, he continues examining my appearance. “You know, you did a good job putting this together. You even got all the blood.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be a bitch to clean.”

He scoots closer, and I stiffen under his sharp scrutiny. Is he staring at my tits?

His mouth twists in concentration. “Is that my shirt?”

I toy with the hem of the white overshirt affectionately. The material is stiff but soft. “I might have snuck into your closet. I’ll buy you a new one—I’m not sure how well I can get this fake blood out.”

Xander pulls back, nodding, and heads for the empty kitchen. His face has a hardened expression, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

Is he upset about the shirt?

“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is clipped. “You look good in my clothes.”

Behind the bar, he yanks open the bottle of vodka and pours several shots into a new cup, then reaches for one of the mixers. “Do you want some?” I nudge my cup closer to him, and he fills it—with decidedly less alcohol than his.

He returns my drink as he sits down again, and we knock our cups together.

“Thanks.” When I look over, it’s my turn to study him. “You don’t have a costume.”

Xander’s dressed in his work clothes: a black t-shirt tucked into black slacks and black slip-resistant shoes. The shirt has a rearing stallion in the middle of an intricate crest, and the words ‘Draft Horse’ arch above the design. No part of him glows in the blacklight.

He takes a long drink before answering. “I knew I wouldn’t have much time after work, so I decided not to bother.” He casts a sidelong glance my way. “Although, now that I see you, I wish I had.”

A big smile spreads across my face. “Who would you have dressed as? Roy Mustang?” When he chuckles, I add, “That makes way too much sense. Egotistical womanizer working his way up the ladder.”

Xander leans close and nudges me with his elbow. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me. He got to strip Hawkeye naked and study her for hours.”

Heat rises to my cheeks.

The way his eyes wander my costume says he wouldn’t mind stripping and studying me. I’m not opposed to the idea, but those ideas are better reserved for my dreams. Dreams I wish were lucid.

But Xander moves on like this is a totally normal conversation—although, for us it is. “This place is pretty calm compared to where I just came from.”

While he examines the scene around us, I take full advantage of his distraction. Even in his dirty, sweaty work clothes, he is the picture of confidence, completely at ease in his own skin.

“How was work?”

He flashes me a smile, and I avert my eyes. He doesn’t need to catch me ogling him. “Work is work,” he says, “but I have to say, the old men at the bar could drink all of us under the table.”

Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pants pocket, and I lean back to retrieve it.

The text is from Imogene, and I heave a sigh before opening it. Why haven’t you called Mom back yet? I picture her lips pursed in irritation. She needs to talk to you about the wedding.

I turn off the screen and shove the phone back in my pocket, not bothering with a response. Imogene has spent the past two months berating me for not helping enough, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do from halfway across the country. I never wanted to be a bridesmaid in my mother’s wedding ceremony anyway.

Xander nudges my arm. “More wedding shit?”

“Mo’s texting me two or three times a day with reminders that I’m supposed to participate.”

He snorts. “How much can you do from Vermont?”

“Exactly.” I lift my hands into the air—a reminder of my forgotten drink. “It’s not my wedding. I’m not the one who needs to study ballroom dance or whatever else my mom’s doing now. I mean, I understand she wants it to be the perfect night, but she’s going to extremes.”

“I could teach you.”

I pause as he extends a hand. “What?”

“Ballroom dance.” His eyes hold me steady. “Or we can just dance.”

It takes another short moment to gather myself together. “Right now? It took me months to work up to attending a party, and you’re not going to let me hide on the sidelines for the first one?”

His lips curl to form a grin. He finishes his drink, then offers me his hand again. “This is me you’re talking to. I don’t let you get away with anything.”

I take another sip.

On the dance floor, everyone—women, plus a few men on the sidelines—are grinding on each other. That’s not a move Xander and I should mimic.

“I can’t dance.” I also can’t look at him. “Definitely not in front of people.”

He chuckles. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Dixon. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He pauses for effect. “Unless you’re not wearing any.”

I shove him, and he struggles to stay atop the stool. “Whether or not I’m wearing underwear is no business of yours, perv.”

He laughs and gives me a playful nudge in return. “You know I’m joking.”

“You’re very lucky I do know that.” But I kick back the rest of my drink and drop my empty cup inside his. “When are you going to stop making those idiotic comments?”

Xander doesn’t wait for my acquiescence. He slips his hand into mine and threads our fingers together. “When you actually tell me to stop. Now, come on.” He tugs, but I stay put. “You don’t have to worry about anything. Just hold on to me; I’ll take care of the rest.”

He will not be swayed, and I wordlessly rise and follow him to the edge of the dance floor.

Without preamble or hesitation, he pulls me into his arms, and when I lean against his chest, he tucks my head under his chin. We sway.

The music isn’t slow, but the steady beat pumps through my veins. I don’t recognize the song—not that I know much pop music—but there’s a woman rapping and another singing. The words elude me.

Xander holds me by the waist, and his fingers find the thin line of skin where my turtleneck has ridden up. His skin is hot against mine. I press closer.

Like he said, he leads, even as the song transitions to the next. His movements don’t change with the music. The beat is a little faster, but his grip is the same. Firm but gentle. Sensual but reassuring.

I pull back slightly to study the room. We’re the only couple slow-dancing. Does he realize that?

“See?” He smiles at me. “Not so bad.”

I don’t know what to say, but a reply stumbles out. “Right. Not so bad.” I bury my face in his chest, and he rests his head atop mine again.

“Stay right here, Dixon. I’ve got you.”

And he does.

All I have to do is follow his lead. In his arms, I’m stable and secure, even if I don’t know how to stand on my own.