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“You’ve played this before! I know you have!” Steph accuses me with a hand on her hip.
“No, I’m just skilled.” I laugh.
“?‘Skilled’?”
“Don’t be jealous of my killer peer dong skills,” I say, and everyone within a five-foot radius bursts into laughter.
“Oh Lord! Please do not say ‘skills’ again!” Steph says, and I hold my stomach while I try to stop laughing. This game was a better idea than I thought. The large amount of alcohol I’ve consumed helps, and I feel carefree. Young and carefree.
“If you make this, we’ll win,” I say to encourage Zed. The more cups he drinks, the more comfortable he seems to be around me.
“Oh, I’ll make it,” he boasts with a smile. The small ball cuts through the air and lands directly into Steph and Tristan’s last remaining cup.
I squeal and jump up and down like an idiot, but I could care less. Zed claps his hands once, and without thinking, I wrap my arms around his neck in excitement. He stumbles back a little, but his arms reach my waist before we both pull away. It’s a harmless hug—we’ve just won, and I’m excited. Harmless. Steph’s eyes are wide when I glance over at her, making me look around the room for Hardin.
He’s nowhere to be found, but so what if he was? He’s the one who left me alone at this party. I can’t even call or text him, because he has my phone in his pocket.
“I want a rematch!” Steph yells.
I look at Zed with wide eyes. “Want to play again?”
He looks around the room before answering. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . let’s do another.” He smiles.
Zed and I win for the second time, which causes Steph and Tristan both to playfully accuse us of cheating.
“You okay?” Zed asks as the four of us leave the table.
Two games of beer pong are enough for me; I’m sort of intoxicated. Okay, more than sort of, but I feel amazing. Tristan disappears with Steph into the kitchen.
“Yeah, I’m good. Really good. I’m having a great time,” I tell him, and he laughs. The way his tongue rests behind his teeth when he smiles is so charming.
“That’s good! If you excuse me, though, I’m going to go get some air,” he says.
Air. I would love to breathe in air that isn’t thick with cigarette smoke or the smell of sweat. It’s hot in this house, too hot. “Can I come?” I ask.
“Um . . . I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he replies, looking away from me.
“Oh . . . okay.” My cheeks flame in embarrassment.
I turn to walk away, but he gently grabs my arm. “You can come. I just don’t want to start any trouble between you and Hardin.”
“Hardin isn’t here and I can be friends with whoever I want,” I slur. My voice sounds funny, and I can’t help but giggle at how weird it sounds.
“You’re quite drunk, aren’t you?” he asks and opens the door for me.
“A smittle—a small . . . a little.” I laugh.
The crisp winter air feels amazing and refreshing. Zed and I walk through the yard and end up sitting on the broken stone wall that used to be my favorite spot during these parties. There are only a few people outside because of the cold. One of them is throwing up in the bushes a few yards away.
“Lovely,” I groan.
Zed chuckles but doesn’t say anything. The stone is cold against my thighs, but I have a jacket in Hardin’s car if I need it. Not that I have any idea where he is. I can see his car is still here, but he’s been gone for over . . . well, two beer-pongs-plus.
When I look over at Zed, he’s staring off into the darkness. Why is this so awkward? His hand moves to his stomach, and he appears to be scratching the skin. When he lifts his shirt up slightly, I see a white bandage.
“What’s that?” I ask nosily.
“A tattoo. I just got it done before I came here.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yeah . . .” He shrugs his jacket off and sets it down next to him, then pulls back the tape and bandage.
“It’s dark over here,” he says, pulling out his phone to use the screen as a light.
“Clockwork?” I ask him.
Without thinking, I run my index finger across the ink. He flinches but doesn’t move away. The tattoo is large, covering most of the skin on his stomach. The rest of his skin is covered by smaller, seemingly random tattoos. The new tattoo is a cluster of gears; they appear to be moving, but I’m going to say that’s just the vodka.
My finger is still tracing his warm skin when I suddenly realize what I’m doing. “Sorry . . .” I squeak and jerk my hand away.
“It’s fine . . . but, yeah, it’s sort of like clockwork. See how the skin appears to be torn right here?” He points to the edges of the tattoo, and I nod.
He shrugs. “It’s like when the skin is pulled back, what is underneath is mechanical. Like I’m a robot or something.”
“Whose robot?” I don’t know why I asked that.
“Society’s, I guess.”
“Oh . . .” is all I say. That’s a much more complex answer than I expected. “That’s actually really cool; I get it.” I smile, my head swimming from the alcohol.
“I don’t know if people will get the whole concept. You’re the only person so far that gets it.”
“How many more tattoos do you want?” I ask.
“I don’t know, I don’t have any more room on my arms, and now my stomach, so I guess I’ll stop when there isn’t any room.” He laughs.