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THE FALLOUT FROM CALLUM'S PARTY was underwhelming, to be honest.

Riley was already awake when I woke up, scrolling through her phone. "How are you feeling?" I asked her.

She turned around in her bed, staring happily across the distance between our bunks. "Fine. I stuck to my ciders, didn't even get drunk."

"Good," I told her wryly. "I dealt with too many drunk people last night."

Riley laughed and arched an eyebrow, silently prompting me to tell her everything. So I did. From the first time I left the group to sit on the porch, to when I finally arrived back at Callum's flat after putting Quen to bed. She was completely absorbed in my tale. From her scandalised gasps and laughter, it appeared that she had never heard such eventful gossip about her hometown acquaintances.

When I checked my phone, I had three new message threads in my personal inbox.

The first was from Viv, who informed me first that she remembered nothing after her third game of beer pong and second that she didn't care. The only thing that mattered to her was that I had gotten her, Sophie and Riley home safely.

Vivian: I will live to party another day.

Krista: You're insane.

The second message was from Noah.

Noah: I apologise for the way I said it.

Noah: But not for what I said.

Just reading those curt words, I felt the familiar tendrils of anger climbing up my spine. Part of me was glad to see him bounce back to his usual arrogant self. It was disturbing watching him cry.

No matter how much I disliked him, it was incredibly disconcerting to see Noah so vulnerable and guardless. Like seeing a peeled watermelon or something, all mushy and lacking the hard shell I had become accustomed to.

Krista: Apology accepted. Take care.

Then I blocked his account.

Now that he'd officially shot his chances with me to smithereens, I was one-hundred percent sure he wouldn't even try to message me again. There was a finality about his tone—even through digitised words—that told me I didn't ever have to worry about being approached by him again.

Good riddance, scumbag.

The third message was from Quen.

Quen: Thank you for rescuing me last night.

Quen: Did I do anything weird last night?

Krista: How much do you remember?

Quen: Not much.

I knew firsthand not to take drunk people seriously.

My work experiences at Topaz, and personal experiences with drinking, taught me that being intoxicated didn't just make a person uninhibited—in many cases, they did things they never even usually thought about.

A part of me had hoped that I would get the opportunity to clear the air with Quen, and tell him that his friend was way out of line. And drop him. Perhaps this would be overstepping. But if he ceased being friends with Noah, I wouldn't shed any tears.

Looked like that wouldn't happen now. Noah was blocked already, so I guess the matter was over. I might still have broached the subject if Quen actually remembered what went on last night. But without his own memory and response, it would just feel like driving a wedge between Quen and Noah—his close friend, badminton partner and flatmate all in one—instead of Quen choosing to distance himself on his own.

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