Chapter 2: Tequila Truths and Sleeping Arrangements
The wind on the balcony was a physical thing, a cold, wet hand shoving against her chest. Emily gripped the splintered railing, the wood rough and damp under her palms. Below, the ocean was a black maw chewing the shore, spitting white foam that glowed under a sliver of moon. The roar was constant, a vibration in her teeth.
The glass door behind her slid open with a rasp, spilling out a rectangle of warm, noisy light and the smell of burnt popcorn. Jay appeared, holding two small glasses of clear liquid. The wind immediately tried to steal his hair.
“Found the good stuff,” he yelled over the gale. He handed her a glass. Their fingers brushed, cold against cold. “Leo’s dad’s secret stash. For courage.”
“Courage for what?” she yelled back, but took the glass.
“For this!” He knocked his shot against hers and threw it back, his face scrunching for a second before smoothing into a grin. She followed, the tequila a hot, industrial line down her throat, settling like a lit match in her stomach. It fought back the chill, just a little.
He leaned on the railing next to her, looking out, not at her. The neon from the distant city skyline painted his profile in brief flashes of blue and pink. “Better than the van,” he said.
“Anything is.”
They stood in silence for a minute, the booze and the shared view creating a pocket of quiet between them, separate from the party inside. She could hear Chloe’s laugh, bright and sharp, cutting through the music.
The tequila loosened the knot in her tongue. “So,” she said, her voice almost normal volume now that she was facing him. “Are you and Chloe sharing a room or…?” She let the question hang, aiming for casual teasing. It came out a bit too pointed.
Jay glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. The bored expression in his eyes flickered with something else—amusement, maybe. “What, you writing a campus newsletter?”
“Just assessing the sleeping arrangements. I’m on a couch that smells like cat. I’m looking for an upgrade.”
“Couch is all yours, killer. Chloe’s with Sarah. Chris and I’ve got the floor in Leo’s room.” He took a deep breath of the salt air, then looked back at her. “Why? You offering to swap?”
The question, tossed back so effortlessly, made her blink. She had no answer. The wind whipped her hair across her face. “Depends. Does the floor smell less like cat?”
“It smells more like boy,” he said, deadpan. “So, worse.”
She laughed, and the tension—the strange, new tension that had nothing to do with Ren—dissipated. For now.
Inside was a controlled chaos. The living room was all low ceilings and worn plaid furniture. Someone had strung up a string of LED lights that pulsed a slow, sickly green. Music thumped from a Bluetooth speaker balanced on the mantel. Leo was attempting to light a fire in the gritty fireplace, cursing as newspaper ash floated up. Sarah was dancing by herself, eyes closed. Chris from chem lab was already passed out in an armchair, a bag of chips spilled on his chest.
Chloe materialized beside Jay as soon as they re-entered, holding out a red plastic cup. “I made you a real drink. That tequila is paint thinner.”
“You’re a scholar,” Jay said, taking the cup. He didn’t move away from Emily’s side.
“Emily, you need one?” Chloe’s smile was wide, professional.
“I’m good for now,” Emily said, holding up her empty shot glass.
The night unfolded in a blur of cheap beer, louder music, and the dense smell of someone’s clove cigarette. Emily found herself folded into a corner of the smelly couch, talking to Sarah about a mutual hatred for their sociology TA. But her attention kept fracturing, pulled to wherever Jay was.
He was always in motion, but in a lazy orbit. He’d be by the fire, poking it with a stick, laughing at something Leo said. Then he’d be in the tiny kitchen, cracking a beer on the counter edge. Then he’d be leaning against the wall near the balcony door, watching the room. And Chloe was often there, a step behind, a step beside. She’d touch his arm to make a point. She’d refill his drink when it was half empty. She knew the rhythms of his disengagement, how to pull his focus back.
It was efficient. It was practiced. Emily watched it like an anthropologist, the tequila and beer making her observations feel clinical, detached. He didn’t lean into the touches, but he didn’t shrug them off either. He was like a mountain, passive and there, and Chloe was the weather around him.
A heavy wave of loneliness hit her then, colder than the balcony wind. This was his world. These were his people. She was the visitor, the plus-one. Ren’s world had been different—football sweaters, date functions, a specific kind of performative status—but the principle was the same. She was always the accessory, learning the rules, trying to fit the mold.
She got up to use the bathroom, needing a minute away from the green pulse of the lights. The hallway was dark, lined with closed doors. As she fumbled for the handle, she heard a muffled sound from behind one—a gasp, a giggle, the creak of a bed. She froze, her face hot. It wasn’t Jay’s room. She knew that. But the sound was a door slammed on the fantasy of the weekend, a reminder of what people came to these places to do.
When she returned, the vibe had shifted. Leo had given up on the fire. The music was lower, more conversational. People were pairing off, or slumping into sleep. Jay was sitting on the floor by the couch, his back against it, scrolling through his phone. Chloe was next to him, her head tilted back, eyes closed, a soft smile on her face. She was closer than friends usually sat.
Sarah grabbed Emily’s hand. “We’re going down to the water. Final mission of the night. You in?”
Emily looked at Jay. He glanced up from his phone, caught her eye, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A warning. It’s cold. It’s a bad idea.
“Yeah,” Emily said to Sarah, defiance flaring. “I’m in.”
A group of them stumbled down the unstable wooden stairs to the beach. The wind was fiercer here, raw and unimpeded, screaming off the black water. The air was thick with spray. Sarah and Leo ran ahead, whooping, kicking up sand. Emily hung back, the bravado leaching away. The ocean at night was a different beast. It was immense, impersonal, and loud.
She stood at the edge where the damp, packed sand met the dry, her canvas shoes getting soaked. The others were silhouettes now, darker shapes against the dark. A profound sense of being untethered washed over her, more frightening than the sea.
Footsteps crunched behind her. She didn’t need to turn.
“You’re gonna freeze,” Jay said. He stood beside her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. He was barefoot, his jeans rolled up haphazardly.
“I’m already frozen.”
“Then let’s go back up.”
“In a minute.”
They watched the waves roll and crash. The noise was so immense it became a kind of silence.
“Chloe asleep?” Emily asked, the words ripped away by the wind.
“On the floor next to me, yeah. Snoring like a chainsaw.”
She laughed a little. “So you escaped.”
“Something like that.” He was quiet for a long moment. “You’ve been quiet. I mean, quieter than usual.”
“Just thinking.”
“About portfolio diversification?”
The old hurt, mentioned so casually, didn’t sting. It just felt distant. “No,” she said. “Not about that.” She turned to look at him. The moon caught the planes of his face. He looked older out here, stripped of the party’s lazy grins. “Do you ever feel like you’re just… watching? Like you’re at the wrong window, looking in at a party you weren’t actually invited to?”
He considered this, his eyes on the endless water. “Yeah,” he said simply. “All the time.” He scuffed his foot in the sand. “The trick is not to give a shit. Or to find someone else at the wrong window.”
“Have you?” she asked. “Found someone?”
He looked at her then, really looked, and the perpetual boredom in his eyes was gone, replaced by something more searching, more present. The wind whipped between them. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
A wave rushed in further than the others, a cold, shocking splash that soaked her shoes and the bottom of her jeans. She yelped, jumping back. He grabbed her arm to steady her, his grip firm.
“Told you,” he said, but he didn’t let go. His hand was warm through her sleeve.
Another wave came. She didn’t jump back this time. The water swirled, icy and shocking, around their ankles. He didn’t move either. They were standing in the surf, held in place by his hand on her arm and a question hanging in the roaring dark.
“Christ, it’s cold,” he shouted, a laugh breaking through.
“You’re the one barefoot!” she shouted back.
“Then I’m already committed!” With a sudden, decisive pull, he yanked her forward, deeper into the retreating foam. The water surged to their calves, a breathtaking, numbing cold. She shrieked, but it was lost in the wind and the ocean’s roar. He was laughing, a raw, open sound she’d never heard from him before, and she was laughing too, the absurdity and the cold and the sudden thrill of it breaking something open inside her.
They stood there, anchored together in the freezing, pulling sea, while the party lights of the house blinked far above them, small and insignificant against the night.