Page 282 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

He shoves me into a circle of sweaty, loud seniors who are way too into this. Someone hands me a cup as everyone is yelling around us. Mason stands behind me, chest to my back, chin on my shoulder.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he whispers playfully.

“I’m about to,” I mutter.

The game starts, and I chug whatever is in the cup without thinking. It tastes like fruit punch, alcohol, and forgetting, making the world tilt pleasantly.

I slam the cup down and attempt to flip it. It misses, and the group groans.

“Come on, Edwards,” Mason laughs, squeezing my waist. “You’ve got it.”

I try again, and it flips.

The circle explodes in cheers as Mason spins me around and kisses me hard like I just won the damn college version of the Olympics.

“There she is,” he says again, eyes glazed over but still bright.

He wouldn’t be able to stop shining, no matter how dull he tried to make things inside his head.

For a while, we’re just stupid college kids. We dance in the living room when someone switches the music to early 2000s throwbacks, and Mason lifts me off the ground at one point, making me scream-laugh, gripping his shoulders while he spins us.

He shouts the lyrics badly in my ear. He pulls me into random conversations. He’s all over me—hands on my waist, fingers laced through mine, lips finding my cheek, then my temple, then my mouth.

People start to make comments, and it doesn’t even freak me out.

“Y’all are disgusting.”

“Just date already.”

We both just smile and laugh and keep going.

And I keep drinking.

One more.

Then another.

Because if I stop, I might feel it all again. Because if I’m sober, I’ll see the way his smile tightens between drinks. Because if I’m sober, I’ll feel how fragile this thing really is.

The alcohol doesn’t make me forget. It just makes the edges softer. It makes me brave enough to laugh. It makes me reckless enough to pretend.

But eventually that all shifts.

He gets louder. Looser. His words slur slightly when he tries to tell a story about something that happened in footballpractice. He forgets the punchline halfway through and laughs anyway.

I’m watching him again instead of beingwithhim. That’s when I know it’s gotten too far.

He grabs another cup from the counter before I can stop him.

“Mason,” I say, reaching for his wrist gently. “You’ve had enough.”

He looks down at my hand like it’s foreign.

“I’m fine,” he says immediately.

“You’re not.”