The house has descended into complete anarchy.
For a few moments, I can only stand there and take the scene in, my mouth agape with horror. Someone’s pouring liquor into one of my mom’s favorite porcelain vases and using it as a giant wineglass, the citrus scent of alcohol wafting into the air so strong I can almost taste it. Three couples are making out on the couch in one row, as if they’re in a competition to see
who can make the most disturbing sounds or flash the most skin. The dining table has been pushed back to make room for a noisy game of beer pong; all the chairs are stacked up, the fruit bowl set down on the floor. Every now and then, a yell of frustration or delight is followed by a chorus of cheers.
There are wrappers everywhere, half-empty plastic cups, glitter from god knows where. Even worse, I’m now noticing that people are wearing their outdoor shoes indoors, leaving muddy marks all over the beige carpet.
I try to take a deep breath, but I end up choking on it. This is a nightmare.
And this is entirely my fault.
I’ve never felt so foolish, so helpless. I shouldn’t have hosted this party. Ben was right about me. I’m not the kind of girl who can chill out, the kind of person who invites the whole year level to their house and sits back to let the destruction happen. I need to get everything under control. “Can you
please set those down?” I ask the boy closest to me. He’s on the baseball team, and he’s currently juggling five apples at once.
But the music has been turned up to full volume, the heavy bass shaking the walls. My voice is all but drowned out.
“Hello?” I try again, louder, straining my vocal cords. When that doesn’t work, I tap his shoulder.
“What?” The boy glances at me without pausing. “What do you want?” “The apples—you’re going to hit something—”
The words have barely left my mouth when his hand slips and one of
the apples goes flying. It knocks over the potted plant on the bookshelf. The clay shatters at once, all the dirt spilling out onto the floor.
“Oops,” he says faintly. “Maybe I can—”
“No—no, it’s okay.” I eye the remaining apples, terrified they’re going to end up hurtling across the room too. “You just . . . stay there. I can handle this myself.”
I push past the sweaty dancing bodies and giggling clusters of friends and head straight for the cleaning cabinet in the laundry room, but one of the football team stars comes staggering out. Jonathan Sok: tall, tan,
handsome, and famously terrible at holding down his liquor. He’s swinging an empty beer bottle and straddling our only broom like it’s a horse.
“Look at my horse,” he calls out with glee, galloping around the cramped space in a circle. He’s so drunk that his words are barely coherent.
But he keeps talking. “Look at my horse—look at my horse—look at my horse—”
“Yes, I can see,” I say, to humor him. Mostly, I just want my broom back. “If you could please give it back to me—”
“It’s a horse,” he protests, pouting. “Her name is Wendy.”
I’m too tired to sit around and debate the name of an inanimate object. “Sure, whatever. I really need to clean this mess up . . .”
He prances out of the way. Up until this very moment, I didn’t think people could actually prance. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he says.
“No, this isn’t a game—” I reach for the broom at the same moment he twirls around on the spot, promptly smacking me in the face with the handle.
It doesn’t hurt that much. Not enough to leave a bruise. But the sheer physical shock of it sends me reeling backward, clutching my cheek. It feels like it’s knocked something askew inside me. Or maybe I’m already off- balance; maybe I have been since I grabbed Julius and kissed him, or since I
kicked him outside. Maybe this is one of those Jenga block scenarios,
where the whole structure is shaking, unsteady, and all it takes is a single wrong move—or in this case, an unfortunate collision with the end of a broomstick—for everything to come crashing down.
“Okay, you know what?” I drop my hand from my sore face. Jonathan Sok gapes up at me with bleary eyes, too dazed to be fully apologetic. “This party’s over.”
“Huh?”
“I said, it’s over.” My voice comes out louder and harsher than I meant, and the conversations around me die down. The air seems to congeal. “I need to clean everything up and there are way too many people so if you could please all just . . . I don’t know.”
There’s a terrible pause. The music’s turned off, and the immediate silence is deafening by contrast. I can hear my own ears ringing.
“Well, fine. Jesus,” somebody mutters. They toss their bottle into a bin, grab their jacket, and turn to go. It’s not long before the others follow in a staggered line, collecting their bags and fumbling around for their phones,
the sober ones jangling their car keys. A few stop by to thank me for hosting the party, or apologize for making a mess, but most of them don’t even look at me.
So much for fixing things.
My face and eyes burn. Slowly the house empties out, leaving me with the dirt on the floor, the overturned vases and chairs. It feels like someone’s scraped my insides raw. It’s a feeling worse than crying, because there’s no escape, nowhere for the disappointment and shame to go.
At what point, I wonder, staring at the front door as it swings shut one last time, does something become unfixable? At what point is a tapestry riddled with so many holes and loose threads that it’s impossible to patch it up again? That it deserves to be thrown away instead?
“Wow. This place is a mess.”
I jump at the voice, my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
I’d thought that everyone had left, but when I spin around, Julius is there. He’s stayed. There’s an unfamiliar expression on his face, something conflicted, something almost soft, like there’s an ache in him. In the orange glow of the living room lights, he looks far more vulnerable than he had outside, against the shadows and sky.
I wonder if he’s going to make me apologize for kicking him. I’m not sure I’d be able to, even if I do feel a faint pinch of guilt.
But he doesn’t say anything else. He simply rolls up his sleeves and starts smoothing out the cushions on the couch.
I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t glance back up. “What does it look like?”
“I . . .” No words come out. I half expect it to be a trick, but then he
crouches down to clean up the confetti on the floor, his eyes dark and clear, his face serious.
Tentatively, I join him. Neither of us speaks, but the silence no longer feels like a death blow. If anything, it feels peaceful. I focus on the
repetitive motions, the easy rhythm of the task, the hushed swish of the broom. Maybe it’s because we’ve already worked together before on the bike shed, but we seem to understand each other. He grabs the trash can without me even having to ask; I pass him the water when I notice him reaching up.
In one psychology class, the teacher had explained to us how memories are formed. What kind of memories stick with us over the years. It’s not
always the ones you think matter the most, the typical milestones. Like, I can’t really remember what we did for my thirteenth birthday, or the Spring Festival that year we flew to China, or the day I received the prestigious All Rounder Award.
But I do remember coming home from school one afternoon and smelling lemon cake in the kitchen and sharing it with my mother on these new pretty porcelain plates she’d bought on discount. I remember a random Saturday from nine years ago, when Max and I tried to lure the ducks home with little bites of bread. I remember the face of an old woman I’d passed
on the street, the precise floral patterns of her shirt, the dandelion sewn into her handbag, even though we never spoke and I never saw her again.
And I know, even as the present is unfolding, that I’ll always remember this. The gleam of confetti on the hardwood floor. The night falling around us. The dark strand of hair falling over Julius’s eyes. The quiet that feels
like a truce, a reprieve from the war, something more.
“So,” Julius says as he carefully removes a party hat from one of Mom’s wood statues. “I think it’s safe to say you won’t be throwing another party
anytime soon?”
I manage a snort, as if the idea itself doesn’t make me nauseous. “No.
No, I probably shouldn’t have thrown this one. I just wanted . . . I just thought . . .”
“You thought it’d make up for the emails.”
It’s so embarrassing to hear it spoken aloud, by Julius no less. It sounds so pathetic.
“But why?” he presses.
I sweep the remaining confetti up into a small pile. “What do you mean, why? I didn’t have many other choices. It’s not like I could have afforded to send each person a personalized apology letter and expensive gift box for emotional damage.”
“I mean, why do you think you have to make everyone forgive you?
What is there to forgive? Not saying that you were right to write those
emails,” he adds hastily, catching the look on my face. “But I read the one you sent Rosie. She stole your science fair idea. If we’re really talking about forgiveness, shouldn’t she also be asking you to forgive her?”
I don’t know what to make of this. I haven’t given any thought to what others might owe me, only what I owe them. “That’s . . . different,” I say eventually. “She’s more upset.”
“You’re upset too.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t seem to care, and I do. I really—” My breath catches in my throat. I bow my head, dump the confetti into a plastic bag,
watching the artificial colors catch the light as they swirl through the air. “I
really can’t stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be
simple for others, but I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t just forget about it and go on with my own life. It’s like there’s something hard wedged
inside my chest. I’ll always feel guilty. I’ll always want to make amends.” He doesn’t reply, and I realize I’ve said way too much.
“Forget it,” I mumble. “You won’t understand.” “I’m trying to.”
My head jerks up, and when I meet his eyes, I experience a roaring rush of heat. “Why?” I fling the question back at him.
He holds my gaze for a second. Two. Three. I count each one as it passes, the way I count my own staggered breaths. The silence stretches out like a string—then he sets down the half-filled plastic bag in his hand, the crushed cans and containers rattling inside, and the silence snaps. “I don’t
know.” He clears his throat. Motions toward the sitting room. “I’ll . . . I should go clean up in there. I believe someone was trying to re‑create the Eiffel Tower with your textbooks.”
I nod, once. Like I couldn’t care less where he goes. “Okay. Thanks.”
I make a conscious effort not to stare after him as he leaves. An even more concentrated effort to stay in the living room, to keep the distance between us, to not dwell too hard on our conversation. But thanks to him, there’s not much left for me to clean. Once I’ve mopped and vacuumed up
the last of the dirt and pushed the couches back to their original positions, I pause at the doorway.
Everything has already been tidied. He’s standing at my desk, his gaze drawn down to the photo in his hand. He’s so focused that he doesn’t hear me walk over until I’m right behind him.
“I didn’t mean to—” He spins around. Flushes. “I swear I wasn’t snooping. Someone pulled out this album from the cabinet and a few of the photos fell out and . . .”
My eyes find the photo too, and my heart twists.
It’s an old family photo, taken ten years ago. We’re at a hot pot restaurant, the four of us squeezed around the round table, the plates spread
out in front of us. Max is little more than a kid, his hair spiky and his cheeks round. He’s wearing that basketball jersey he loved so much he’d refuse to
take it off even to wash the toothpaste stains on the front. My mom’s dressed up in her favorite cardigan and turtleneck, her raven hair curled and styled in a way it hasn’t been since that night. And my dad’s gazing over at me with such pride that it hurts to inhale. We look . . . happy. It must be the world’s greatest magic show; it’s so convincing, even if it’s false. Made up. Make-believe. Because less than a month after the photo was taken, he had left.
“I’ve never seen your father before.” He says it carefully, because I’m sure he knows by now. They all know, to some extent, no matter how hard we’ve tried to hide it, to smooth out the visible lump in the carpet. When your dad doesn’t show up to a single Father’s Day breakfast ten years in a row, people are bound to suspect something’s off.
“He probably doesn’t look like that anymore,” I say, taking the photo from him. I resist the urge to rip it into shreds. To hug it to my chest. “I mean, I wouldn’t really know. Maybe he’s grown a beard.” It was one of
those things we always laughed about. I prefer clean-shaven men, my mom had insisted whenever he raised the idea. The day you get a beard will be
the day we get a divorce. It used to be a running joke in the family.
Julius peers over at me, still in that careful, attentive way, like the floor is made of glass. You won’t understand. I’m trying to. “Is it hard? Not having him around?”
“No,” I say instinctively. Force of habit. I’ve repeated it so many times to myself that most days I believe it. I slide the photo back into the faded album, snap it closed, but for some reason, I keep talking. “I mean, I
don’t . . . Maybe it’s not that I miss him. But there are times when—when I wonder what it’d be like if he were still here. Like when my mom and I got into a fight last summer over who had lost the phone charger and, as she
was yelling at me, I just found myself wishing . . . he was there to step in. To tell me it was okay. To comfort me and take my mom outside until we’d both calmed down.
“Or, as ridiculous as it sounds, when we go to my favorite restaurant. My mom and my brother both have the same tastes, you know—they hate spicy and sour foods. But my dad and I would always get this sour stir-fried chicken dish. They only make it in servings of two, so now . . . now I never order it. Because I don’t have anyone to share it with.”
Because having one parent is enough. Until it isn’t.
“So where was your brother in all of this?” he asks. I blink, confused. “My brother?”
He nods toward the album, seemingly confused by my confusion. “He’s the eldest in the family, right? Shouldn’t he have . . . I don’t know, stepped in?”
“No. No, but it’s not his fault,” I add quickly, catching the faint furrow between his brows. Of course not. It’s all your fault, a cool, familiar voice whispers in my head. You were the one who ruined everything. “He took it harder than I did. I remember that he used to be pretty well-behaved, but after our dad left, he kind of just . . . gave up. He started ditching his classes and handing in his homework late and getting into trouble at school.
Honestly the only thing he still seemed interested in was basketball— without that, I’m not sure if he’d have gotten into college.”
Julius absorbs this without any outward emotion, but he hasn’t looked away the entire time.
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping past him and shoving the album into the cabinet. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, why I’m suddenly spilling out my guts to Julius.
“What are you apologizing for?” he asks.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say, then catch myself. A snort lurches out of me, and the ice inside my chest thaws slightly. “Okay, no, actually, I take it back—I’m not sorry. At all. About anything.”
“You certainly didn’t seem sorry about kicking me.”
I tense, but when I look up, the corner of his mouth is curved up. Like we’re sharing an inside joke. Before I can relax, he slides one foot closer,
and the air between us suddenly turns molten.
“You also didn’t seem too sorry about . . .” He trails off on purpose, but his eyes flicker down to my lips. Linger there, for a beat too long.
This is something else I know I’ll always remember, no matter how hard I try to scrub it from my memory, to pretend otherwise.
That I had kissed Julius Gong. That I’d kissed him, and wanted it.
The heat in the air spreads through my veins, and I twist away, searching for a distraction. From him. From this whole night. From the stuffy feeling in my chest, the crushing weight of everyone’s disapproval,
the consequences of the party. Easily—almost too easily—I find it. There’s a bottle of beer left on the desk. Unopened. Untouched. My fingers twitch toward it.
Could I?
It’s astonishing that I’m even contemplating it. It would be impulsive, foolish, completely unlike me. But how many impulsive things have I done tonight? Would another really make any difference?
There’s a false assumption people tend to make about me: They believe that all I care about is being the best. That the closer I am to the top, the happier I am. That if it comes down to it, a 30 percent is better than a zero; that being mediocre is at least better than being bad. But I swing between extremes. If I can’t be the best, I would rather be the best at being the worst. If I’m going to fail, I would rather fail at it thoroughly than do a job halfway.
And if I’m going to self-destruct, then why stop at kissing the enemy?
“You don’t want to drink that,” Julius says, his voice slicing through my thoughts. He’s studying me, his head tilted to the side like a bird of prey. He sounds so confident. Like he knows better. Like he always knows better.
It’s infuriating—and it’s exactly what helps me make up my mind.
I uncap the bottle, holding his gaze the whole time in challenge, and
take a long, deliberate swig. The liquid burns my mouth, so much stronger than I’d been prepared for. It tastes like fire. Rushes straight to my head.
I cough, spluttering, but I keep going.
The first few mouthfuls are disgusting. Bitter and biting, like medicine but heavier, with an unpleasant aftertaste. I can’t believe this is what adults make a big fuss about. I can’t believe people pay real money just to endure this. But then my body starts to warm up from within, and my head starts to spin. Normally I would hate it: the loss of control, the disorientation. But tonight it smooths out the sharp edges, dials down the background noise to a lovely hum, numbs the pang in my chest.
The next few mouthfuls are much easier to swallow. It still doesn’t taste very good, but I kind of like the way it scorches my throat.
I drink quickly, encouraged by Julius’s muted surprise. That should shut him up, I think to myself. I’ve almost finished the entire bottle when I twirl it around to check the label, and realize that it isn’t beer after all. It’s bourbon.
“Oh,” I say, setting the bottle down. “Oh. Crap.” No wonder I’m so dizzy.
It occurs to me that I should be more concerned. That this is very, very, very bad. But the panic stays on the sidelines, like a spider in a neighboring room: not so close as to necessitate a response just yet. If anything, I feel perfectly fine.
“This would be a very inconvenient time to find out you’re a lightweight,” Julius mutters.
I squint at him. Search his face. And maybe it’s because of this new warmth, this dreamy sensation—both like falling and like floating—that I find myself marveling at how well-defined his features are. Not handsome, like the princes in fairy tales. But beautiful and cold and deadly, like the
villains we’re taught to fear. “I’m not a lightweight,” I inform him, pronouncing each word loudly and carefully, as proof. “I was kind of worried just now—like, literally, a second ago—that I would be drunk, but now I think . . .” I close my eyes. Scan my body. Open them again. “I’m actually okay. I don’t think it’s made any noticeable difference? Wow, yeah. It’s so wild. I can’t believe I’m just, like, absorbing this alcohol into my
bloodstream. It hasn’t impeded my speech one bit. I could go to school like this. I could take a test like this. Granted that it’s in a subject I’ve studied
before.”
Amusement touches his mouth. “Right,” he says. “Of course.”
“Do you want some?” I ask him, offering up the little remaining liquor to him, since it’s only polite. “It doesn’t taste that disgusting once you get used to it.”
He gently pushes the bottle back down. “No, thanks.” “What do you want, then? I can give it to you.”
This should be a simple enough question. Multiple choice at most. But he falters as if he’s received a three-thousand-word essay prompt.
Swallows. Looks away. “Nothing,” he says at last. “I don’t—want anything.”
“Are you sure? You’re, like, turning red.” Maybe I shouldn’t be pointing this out. A small voice in the back of my head tells me that I’m not supposed to. But why? Why not? It’s not like I’m lying. I shift forward, just to get a closer look. And I’m right. His neck is flushed, the color seeping through his cheeks. “It’s really obvious here,” I say, tracing out the line of
his collarbone with one fingertip. Even his skin is unnaturally hot.
Something flashes over his face. He wets his lower lip and steps back. “Is it sunburn? Oh wait, that makes no sense.” I laugh at myself, laugh
like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Everything strikes me as hilarious now. “You can’t get sunburnt at night. Or . . . no. Can you? Is that, like, a
possibility? Is this something that could come up in our next science quiz?” I have the overwhelming urge to find out, right this second. I must know. I hate not knowing things. “Alex?” I call.
No response.
“Alex?” I call again, louder, spinning around. “Hello? Are you there?”
Julius stares at me. “Is there a random man named Alex hiding inside your house? Or did you mean Alexa?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” I demand, annoyed. “Alexis? Alexis, can you hear me? Answer me. I really, really need to know if you can get
sunburnt after dark. This is incredibly important.” “Again, it’s Alexa,” Julius says.
“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.”
He makes a faint, incredulous sound that’s muffled by my palm, his breath tickling my skin. His expression doesn’t change much, but I can
sense his surprise, how it flickers beneath the surface. “Did you just call me pretty?”
“When you don’t talk,” I emphasize. “Which you’re doing at present.” “So you admit it.”
“What?” I’ve already lost track of our conversation. Maybe I am drunk. Or maybe my memory is declining. That’s a terrifying thought. But then my attention shifts to the stray strand of hair tumbling over his forehead. I want to reach for him, brush it back. Don’t do it, that same voice whispers, but it sounds more and more distant by the second. Inconsequential. So I give in to the impulse and lean forward, smoothing his hair. “It’s so soft. Even softer than it looks,” I murmur, playing with a dark lock of it between two fingers. He’s gone very still before me, his pupils black and dilated. I can feel the air ripple with his next expelled breath, almost a pained sigh. “I
always did like your hair.”
“I thought you hated it,” he says. His voice is scratchy, like he’s swallowed sand.
I frown. Tug absently at the strand. “Did I say that?”
“You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites, “From the bottom of my heart, I really
hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair
products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all.”
They’re my words, but on his lips they sound different. Intimate.
Confessional. “How do you . . . remember all that?” I ask.
“I have all your emails memorized word for word,” he says, then instantly looks like he regrets having spoken.
“You do?” My mouth falls open.
“No.” He scowls. “No, forget I said—”
“You do,” I say, an accusation this time. “Oh my god, you totally do.” I start laughing again, laughing so hard I stumble back and land on the floor and clutch at my stomach. I laugh until I’m breathless, until I can’t feel any pain in my chest, until nothing else matters except this. When my mirth finally dies down, I grin up at him. “Well, Julius Gong. It sounds like you’re the one obsessed with me.”
He rolls his eyes, but the skin of his neck turns a deeper shade of crimson.
“Can I ask you a question, then?” I say. He regards me warily. “Depends.”
“Sit down first,” I command, patting the floor next to me. “I would prefer not to—”
“Sit,” I say, grabbing his wrist and tugging him down.
“The floor’s cold,” he protests, though he remains sitting, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his hands supporting his weight.
“Not as cold as you,” I say. My head swims, and it feels like I’m moving in slow motion when I shuffle around to face him. “So. Tell me. Why is it always me?”
His brows crease. “What kind of question is that?”
“Why is it me?” The words come out slurred, swollen on my tongue. I wave my hands around with growing frustration. “Why do you . . . Why do you put all your energy into making my life difficult? What did I ever do to you to make you . . . hate me so much? It’s been happening since the day we met each other. With dodgeball. With the spelling quiz in year six. With our history project. With everything. Why do you always single me out?”
“Because,” he says quietly, a curious expression on his face. I’ve never seen him so serious. So sincere. “You’re the only person worth paying attention to.”
And the pain comes crashing back through my chest, but it’s transformed. Warm at the edges, burning hot within. I close my eyes,
swallow, unable to speak. I want him to say it again. I wish he’d never said it.
“Are you satisfied now?” Julius asks. He sounds almost angry about it, spiteful, like he’s been forced to prove a point against himself.
My eyes flutter open, and I’m alarmed by how close he is. Was he that close before? I can see the dark blue shadows under his collarbones, the
flecks of gold in his irises, the soft curve of his lips, the pulse beating at his neck. What if we kissed again? The foolish notion floats to my brain, and I can’t shake it away.
But before the idea can expand into something dangerous, I hear the unmistakable rumble of a car engine. Headlights flash through the windows, briefly bathing the front entrance in bright orange light, the
silhouette of trees outlined against the glass. Then voices drift through the front yard. Max’s voice, loud no matter the hour. “. . . can’t blame me for winning, can you? You’re always telling me to learn from my sister and set higher goals for myself. Shouldn’t you be glad I’m so good at—”
“At mahjong?” comes my mom’s shrill reply. “You think I should be proud of you? Where did you even learn to play, huh? Have you been gambling when you’re supposed to be at school?”
“No! Bro, I swear—”
“I’m not your bro. Ni bu xiang huo le shi ba—”
“Okay, then, dearest mother, maybe it’s just natural talent. Maybe this is my calling— Ow, stop hitting me—”
Oh my god.
They’ve come back early.
“Crap.” I stand up too fast, and for a second the room is nothing but a blur of color. My head pounds harder. “Crap.”
Julius jumps to his feet too. “What—”
“My parents,” I babble. “I mean—my parent. My mom. She’s back. She didn’t— She doesn’t know I was throwing a party. She’s literally going to kill me and throw my corpse into a dumpster when she finds out.”
“I think you’re misusing the word literal—”
I cut him off. “You have to get out of here before she sees you.” “I— Okay.” He steps left, then right again. Hesitates.
“The back door.” I sweep the bottle into the bin—god, I could slap myself, I should never have let myself drink—and push Julius out of the room with both hands. The footsteps outside are drawing closer. The
automatic lights on the front porch switch on. I can feel my heart pounding in my throat. The metaphorical panic-spider is no longer locked in the other room; it’s now scuttling up my leg, and I want to scream.
“Here,” I hiss at Julius, motioning toward the door. But then I see the top of Max’s spiky hair through the bushes. He’s coming in this way. I grab a fistful of Julius’s shirt and yank him back.
“What the hell?” Julius demands.
“Front door,” I amend, shoving him in the other direction. “Use the front door instead.”
No sooner than I’ve spoken, the lights on the front porch flick on as well.
My stomach drops. We’re surrounded on both sides. It’s an ambush.
“Okay, think, Sadie,” I instruct myself out loud, massaging my head. “Stop being drunk and think. Get it together. You don’t have any time left.”
“This is a very fascinating look into your thought process,” Julius remarks.
“Shush,” I snap. “I’m thinking—” And then a solution comes to me. “The window.” It’s the only way.
His eyes widen a fraction. “You’re joking. I’m not climbing out your window, Sadie. It’s undignified.”
“I’ll owe you.”
“You already owe me. How do you plan on returning all these favors?”
I ignore that and start dragging him toward the window in the laundry room. It’s wide enough to fit his whole body, and it drops down to the
narrow side path nobody ever uses. Most of it is concealed by overgrown
shrubbery. “Here,” I say, lifting the window for him. Faintly, through the door, I can hear the rattle of keys. “Hurry.”
He glares at me but complies, swinging his leg over the white-painted frame and landing softly, gracefully on the wild grass below—
Right as the front door creaks open.
