"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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Why did I ever worry about the frat party?
It's natural to be wary, after what happened to Caleb. And Mila said it herself: she knew exactly what frat guys were like. Only good can come from looking after yourself.
But good can also come from letting yourself go once in a while.
The Gamma Nu Sigma house is huge, and the music's so loud it makes my ears throb, and for once I don't mind that there are so many people here because I'm with a big group myself. Having the girls here feels like being surrounded by a protective shield; nobody else can touch me. They're fun but level-headed, dancing and laughing together, but pulling in the circle tighter whenever a frat boy gets too friendly. They keep their cups covered and never leave them unattended. They all look out for each other—and tonight that includes me.
If anywhere is a safe place to have a few drinks, it's here.
Now I'm starting to understand the appeal. Like some kind of magic tonic, I feel breezy and carefree, which isn't something a chronic overthinker like me often gets to enjoy. I'm worrying less about what the people around me think. Whether they recognize me. Already have an opinion on me. Are mentioning my name in conversations I'm not part of—because, really, who cares? It doesn't stop me from having a good time, and I've already achieved what I set out to do tonight: stop thinking about David.
I dance, and I sing along to the songs I recognize, and I smile like I'm supposed to when Mila introduces me to various other people. I learn more names than I know I'll be able to recall the next morning. And the alcohol makes me happy, so I accept each time I'm offered a drink, because why wouldn't I want to stay happy?
I'm still in that giddy-drunk phase when I separate from the girls and set off in search of a bathroom. It takes me more than a few clumsy steps and several wrong doors, but I find one eventually. The room is as spacious and beautiful as the rest of the house—with huge marble tiles, a waterfall-style shower, and an array of spotlights over the sink. But it's also clearly wasted on a bunch of boys. Grubby-looking hand towels, toothpaste stains and an irritating number of almost-empty shower gel bottles take away just as much as the décor adds.
Caleb would've lived in a place like this, if he'd made it that far.
No, no, no. I'm having a good night, and if that's going to continue, I can't think about Caleb. Not at all. I shake my head like this will physically expel the thoughts, and at least temporarily it seems to work.
I lock the door and use the toilet. It's while I'm washing my hands—and wondering what else I can dry them on to avoid touching the suspiciously grimy towels—that I'm interrupted by two female voices on the other side of the door.
"You didn't see her?"
"Who?"
"Morgan Cain. You know the one. She was dating that sophomore, Josh Kelley, when he drowned in the lake last year."
