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I look around for anyone other than Lucy. Jayden and Chloe are cuddling in a corner. Zac is… dancing? Or having a stroke. It’s hard to tell. And there’s Sara, who strolled in an hour ago dressed as Storm from X-Men, in thunderbolt earrings and an iridescent silver hijab. Sara and I talking at a party? That’s not happening unless Lucy’s involved.

The house is so congested. It’s as if all of Dunwoody decided to simultaneously descend on the Cowen’s. In the heart of it all, Brook is leading a conga line. I spot Ian, shimmying with the other swim team guys.

Our eyes meet. Something in his expression relaxes, as though it’s just for me. I’m probably imagining that. But a tingle races from my arms to my toes. I watch his dimple, then his eyes. I watch until the conga line disappears into the kitchen. And then I exhale.

“Well, this situation just got real gay.”

It’s Sara, next to me. A row of gleaming gold bracelets jingles as she drinks from a red plastic cup. She’s wearing opaque contacts, and it’s kind of scary, but truly epic too.

“Every good situation is gay. Real gay,” I say.

“True that.”

We laugh, low and to ourselves, then Sara freezes. I do too. As if she’s just realized what came out of her mouth. I pretend it didn’t happen. For her sake, not mine.

“I need more gin,” she mumbles.

“I need to pee.”

We don’t exchange goodbyes. Hell, we don’t look each other in the eye. Sara shoves her way to the kitchen, and I trip on my shaky feet trying to locate a bathroom—or a time machine to erase the last thirty seconds.

The line to use oneof the upstairs bathrooms is much shorter than the one downstairs. It’s a small victory. But it means I’m forced to stand between two girls, who alternate between texting and making out, and a sophomore soccer player. Kip? Keaton? I can’t remember. He obviously recognizes me, judging by the way he won’t make eye contact for more than five seconds without flinching. The curse of Dimi’s ex-boyfriend strikes again. Luckily, I have my phone out, watching oldSteven Universeepisodes on YouTube.

I think about texting Rio. She wouldn’t approve of me attending Andrew’s party. Also, she’s enjoying her own Halloween tradition—laughing her ass off at campy ’80s horror movies. I’m chickenshit when it comes to Michael Meyers and Jason Voorhees. But Rio? She’s a brave little toaster.

“Quick. Pretend you were holding my spot in line.”

I startle, nearly dropping my phone. To my right is this guy, grinning lazily, his shoulder pressed to mine.

“What?”

“I can’t stand all the way in the back. My bladder will malfunction.”

A quick look over my shoulder tells me the line is much longer than it was five minutes ago. It stretches down the hall, onto the stairway.

I glance back at the guy. Thick, wavy hair is pulled off his face by a hair-tie. It’s the same color as his eyes—maple brown. He has a square jaw with a rose-hue to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s taller than me, older than me too, I think. Cute.

Correction: This guy’s hot.

Functional words float in the ether rather than out of my mouth. “Uh…”

“It’s cool.”

“It is?”

“We’ll just do the buddy system,” he says as we inch forward. His cologne smells like cedarwood. His breath smells like beer and lime.

“Like, go in together?”

“Promise I won’t look at yours unless you want me to.”

I sputter. He pats my back, then his hand lingers between my shoulder blades. I don’t know how to react. His palm is hot, and his eyes have that glassiness that comes from drinking too much.

“We can’t—”

He cuts me off. “Whoa, nice eyes.” He leans closer. I draw back, right into the wall. He chuckles, then says, “I mean—dude,nice eyes.”

He says it in this straightforward way. His lips curve up enough to show his white teeth; his eyes run over me. Definitely not straight.