Never Getting Back Together

ONE

It's been exactly three years since the last time I saw Ty Rossi, and let me tell you, it hasn't been long enough.

I snap the pool house door shut behind me and hustle across my aunt's backyard. We haven't gotten around to cutting the grass this week, and the long blades swish against the leather of my vintage boots. The sound of familiar voices and splashing drowns out the chirping of crickets. The party is already in full swing, which means I am so screwed.

Craning my neck, I scan the line of cars parked out front, but I don't see Ty's old, red pickup anywhere. That does little to untangle the knot of nerves, which has been lodged in my gut since I heard he was back in town.

I shake out my arms like a fighter about to enter the ring. I can handle this.

I'm less than thrilled about throwing this little shindig since it almost certainly means coming face-to-face with my ex. But my cousin, Liv, just got home from a semester at Brown University, and she's been so excited to host this mini-reunion. I didn't want to crap all over her fun.

And I do have to admit, it looks pretty great back here. Between the twinkly lights and the citrusy-sweet scent of Aunt Betty's honeysuckle vines, it's like a proper country garden party. If you overlook the massive jug of jungle juice and guest list comprised of my barely legal, former classmates, that is.

Liv has an old Taylor Swift bop blaring through a pair of speakers next to the pool. The bass rattles the concrete as I hustle behind the table of snacks she's set up. I open a bag of chips and dump it into an empty bowl as though I've totally been here, playing hostess all night like I was supposed to be.

Liv's going to be beyond angry with me. Not that I can blame her. I mean, what kind of jerk shows up late to a party at their own house?

Oh, yeah. That would be me.

Glancing around, I try to spot her in the crowd. It's like being sucked into a time warp. The faces are the same but also different somehow. Like someone's put an Instagram filter over the pages of my old yearbook. The haircuts have changed, and the Rosedale High liger that used to be plastered across everyone's T-shirts has been replaced with various university logos.

I'm not sad to see Larry the Liger fade into memory. Because let's be real, having a liger for a mascot is cheesy even by Rosedale standards. It's like the student body couldn't choose between a lion and a tiger and somehow decided a liger was a solid compromise. All the college paraphernalia is a little overkill, though. In a town of three thousand people, even Old Man Jenkins remembers which schools everyone got into.

"Kallie, I just watched you take two shots of tequila. So if you haven't done a back handspring in three years, then maybe don't." I hear Liv's irritated voice from the other side of the yard, where some of our former cheerleaders are attempting tumbling passes.

"Every party has a pooper," Kallie singsongs. She's exceptionally tan in her white cutoffs, considering it's only the first of June. She's taking full advantage of the fact that her mom owns the town's only beauty salon and tanning bed.

"I swear to God. If I have to get an ambulance to scrape your drunk butt off my lawn again, I will call your mother," Liv says.

Wonderful. She's already in a mood, and the odds that she hasn't noticed my tardiness are currently sitting around zero. Liv might be my best friend/cousin, but she takes crap from nobody, including me.

I'm astonished Kallie can feel anything through her alcohol-induced stupor, but miraculously, she must sense my gaze on them. She looks over at me and loudly shout-slurs, "Quinn's here! Hiiii, Quinn!"

Based on her unprecedented levels of enthusiasm, you'd think we'd been besties forever. In reality, we barely say hi when we cross paths in town. Which is unfortunate since, unlike most of our graduating class, neither of us went away to college. Kallie, because she's training to take over her mom's salon. Me, because...well, reasons.