Page 52

Chapter Fifty-Two

Maggie

" W hat do you mean Xavier's on the other side of the swamp?" I yell. "What the hell even is 'the swamp'?"

The bass vibrates through my ribcage as I stand just in front of the arched entry to the Smoking Room. It’s loud. The kind of loud that makes the air feel charged, like static before a storm. And the smell—weed, expensive perfume, and something sickly sweet—permeates the air.

The noise and the sea of unfamiliar faces draped across velvet couches, spilling out into the hallways send me straight back to my first few weeks in this house. Back when walking into one of Xavier Rockwell’s parties made me feel like an intruder. Like a side character in someone else’s wild, chaotic, too-rich-for-reality life. But this one is worse—because this party means Xavier lied to me. It exposes the fact that I was right, and he’s been slowly slipping through my fingers. That he’s done with me. With us.

Earlier this week, I asked if he would come to my place and watch movies tonight, just the two of us, since I had a couple of extra days off banked. And it feels like forever since we've had real time together.

But Xave gave me some vague excuse, insinuating he had band stuff going on. When clearly, what he really had going on was a swamp-themed rager. Which he wanted to enjoy without me. Even though he knows I’d understand if he just wanted some time to hang out with his friends. But then, why lie to me and not just say that? Also, most of these people aren't his friends. They're the people he used to surround himself with to help fill in the cracks .

"Xave's on the far side of the swamp with Beck," a girl with glitter-streaked cheeks shouts over the music.

Her friend, swaying in sparkly platforms, points toward the hallway in the direction of the Drawing Room and the spiral staircase that leads up to the opposite side of the second floor where the boys' rooms are. "They filled the alcove with, like, actual pond stuff."

"Pond stuff?" My voice cracks.

These parties are ridiculous. And I thought we were done with them. Or at least, these out-of-control ones where the house gets crammed with strangers, practically trashed, only to be cleaned in the wee hours of the morning by staff.

"Yeah, like plants and moss and molasses and stuff. And socks and—" Platform Girl stumbles, grabbing her friend's arm. "Anyway, they're doing readings. Like, of your future."

I press my fingers to my temples. "Molasses and… socks? What the—" I shake my head. "Never mind. Thanks, I'll go find him."

"Hope your future looks bright!" one of them calls to me as I head down the hall in the opposite direction.

My future does not look bright.

I head upstairs to relieve Rita of her shift after my day off. God knows she's probably beyond ready to leave.

She is up in the sitting room by the boys' rooms. "I thought we were through with this nonsense," Rita says, her mouth pinched with disapproval as she gathers her things.

"You and me both." I sink into the couch. At least Finn's fast asleep—I checked on him the moment I got up here. If Xavier had Finn up and hanging around at this party, I swear I would've drowned him in his own stupid swamp water. I still might.

"Thanks for staying late, Rita." I sigh.

"That boy…" She shakes her head, shouldering her enormous purse. "Sometimes I think he's come around, and then…" She waves her hand at the throbbing bass filtering up t hrough the floor.

After she leaves, I clip the monitor to my jeans and head back down the hall. The hurt sits heavy in my chest.

I don't get it.

It's like Xave's deliberately pulling away, piece by piece. Like he's consciously reverting to his old detached, party-boy ways. And if he was totally overwhelmed or stressed about all the changes, I'd get it. But for the most part, he's been happy lately—at least when it comes to the band. His whole face lights up when he talks about their recording sessions in New York. The tracks they laid down are incredible. Raw and honest andreal. I got chills listening to them.

The first two days after he got back, Xave walked around with this perma-grin plastered on his face. Like he couldn't quite believe it was all happening. And now Salt Vein's less than two months away from playing on the main stage at their first festival outside Boston. After that, they'll be opening for one of the biggest bands in the country all summer long.

Their album is set to drop in the fall, right before their own headlining tour kicks off.

Everything's falling into place for Xavier. For all of them. The music, the touring, the future spreading out bright and endless before them.

So why is he acting this way?

It's obviously me.

I exhale a long, shaky breath.

The bass drops, making the floor shake beneath my feet. Somewhere in this chaos, Xavier's playing fortune teller in a fake swamp. Meanwhile, I'm standing here trying to figure out when exactly things started turning to swamp water.

I head back downstairs, push past the growing crowd, dodging a guy with a handle of vodka and three girls taking selfies on the stairs. The bass vibrates through my ribcage as I follow the sounds of laughter and cheering to a rounded dimly lit alcove under the ornate curved marble and gold staircase at the other end of the West Wing.

I stop at the edge of some sort of half-assed Everglades re-creation, taking in the ridiculous scene. Stretched across the huge expanse of marble flooring across the entire entrance to the alcove, is Xavier and Beck's makeshift "swamp". They've unscrewed the legs from a small backyard trampoline, flipped it over so the frame acts as a border, and used the taut black surface as the "swamp" basin. The murky liquid inside looks like a science experiment gone wrong—a soup of everything they could raid from the kitchen and… everywhere else. Through the dim lighting, I spot chunks of cake, a slice of pizza, and Lucky Charms marshmallows. Someone's Nike. Solo cups and crushed beer cans and islands of soggy oats and random socks. Also, floating lily pads cut from foam pool noodles, and fairy lights wrapped around potted plants they've dragged in from somewhere, casting eerie shadows across the alcove ceiling.

"For the love of…" I mutter, wrinkling my nose at the brown sludge. The whole thing reeks of stale beer and something vaguely sweet and rotting. A few Brussels sprouts bob past like tiny green buoys in this sea of terrible decisions. This thing has Beck Travers written all over it.

Sure enough, he sits cross-legged on a giant inflatable frog on the other side of the “swamp”, wearing a flowing purple robe covered in gold stars that has to be from Finn's dress-up bin, and waving his hands over a crystal ball that's definitely an antique globe.

Beside him is my lying boyfriend, looking far less invested than his buddy—no costume or crystal ball—but his willing sidekick, nevertheless. Because that's the thing about Xave; he doesn't go seeking chaos and mischief the way guys like Seb Murdoch and Beckham Travers do. It's not what drives him or fills him up. People assume because he's the perpetual party host—renowned even, for his wild, unhinged ragers—that he enjoys the chaos and socializing and revelry. But he's actually a really chill guy. Possibly even an introvert. The parties and chaos, I suspect, have never been about having fun—they're about filling a void. Filling his house with people instead of loneliness.

Right now, he's lounging languidly across a sideways giant inflatable pool chaise, looking every bit the future Rock God in worn black jeans and black T-shirt, his hair all tousled waves and preppy-meets-grunge. A half-empty Solo cup dangles precariously from his right hand, and his flushed cheeks tell me he's downed more than just the one .

A line of giggling girls and a few guys wait their turn as Beck calls out, "Step right up folks! Fortune telling's free but donations to the swamp fund are always welcome!" He motions to the gloop soup. "Only those brave enough to traverse the swamp barefoot may speak with the Swamp Oracles."

The next girl in line, who has already removed her shoes and socks, wades across the murky depths to the cheers of everyone else in line.

Once she has reached the other side, Beck waves his hands again over his crystal ball. "The spirits are strong tonight," he announces in an awful mystical voice, complete with terrible accent. "They tell me you will meet a tall dark stranger…"

The girl getting her fortune told squeals with delight while her friends film the whole thing on their phones.

Beck glances over at his lethargic sidekick and calls out, "Bro! Hey, Swamp Oracle!" Then he adds, "We've got a lineup here, man. These fortunes aren't just gonna tell themselves."

My stomach twists as Xavier tosses back whatever's in his red cup before beckoning the next girl forward. His eyes are glazed, movements loose and exaggerated. I hate seeing him like this… the hollow version of Xavier Rockwell, going through the motions, playing his part—when he doesn't need to anymore. He's found his part; his passion for music. People who fill him up better than any of this bullshit does.

I know the real Xavier.

And I know that the wild grin he wears when he's just come back from band rehearsal, or playing Hungry Hippos with Finn, laughing until our bellies ache on one of our goofy adventures, or explaining how 'Betelgeuse will explode someday, but probably not tonight'—the smile that means he is genuinely happy—isn’t the same as this one. That's the smile he wears in a world where he feels seen.

This—the neon-soaked, booze-drenched chaos—is something else entirely.

I duck and wrench off my boots. When I straighten, my breath catches in my throat… Then I swallow a silent cry.

My heart feels like it stutters to a stop—because the girl with sparkly blue lashes is sitting in Xavier's lap, arms draped around his shoulders.

My heart lurches back into action.

I forge through the brown murky water. Straight toward Xavier and the unsuspecting girl snuggled in his lap.

Checkmate, Oracle Boy.

Here comes the Swamp Monster.