Page 21 of The Storm

The bench screeches when my weight lifts off it.

The strange spell snaps. The thumping of my own heartbeat in my ears is replaced by all the other sounds flooding in.

My breathing is painfully loud.

Embarrassingly loud.

“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “I have to get back.”

I take a step backward.

Then another one.

My heart refuses to slow down.

I give one final nod, turn, and walk away.

This is stupid.

It was just… proximity. I always, inevitably, feel out of balance when it comes to Nick. It’s nothing new. Just darkness messing with my head.

I’ve never?—

I didn’t?—

Didn’t you, though?

The music grows louder as I walk back toward the clearing and the bonfire.

It’s too bad it doesn’t drown out the dawning realization.

I almost kissed him.

And the worst part?

I wanted to.

FIVE

INDY

18 YEARS OLD

The party is so loudthe walls vibrate. The bass seems to have taken up permanent residence in my eardrums, and loud laughter ricochets from the walls. The house feels full to the limit, like one more body might make it split right down the middle. If this was a bar, instead of our house, having all these people inside would be a fire code violation.

I push through the crowd, holding my drink above my head to keep it from spilling as people stumble into me from every direction. Someone’s elbow slams into my ribs. Someone steps on my foot and doesn’t notice. Glitter sticks to my skin and the front of my shirt. The air is thick with perfume and cologne and the scent of champagne.

I don’t know many people here, but that’s not unusual for my parents’ New Year’s party.

The guest list for this thing is less of a list and more of a suggestion. Family, friends, coworkers, former coworkers, neighbors, tennis partners, the guy who fixed our gutters in November—basically anybody Dad has made eye contact with in the past few months. If you’ve ever laughed at one of his jokes, congratulations, you’re invited.

Clusters of strangers shout over one another like they’ve known each other for years. Our dentist is telling a story and making wild hand gestures, nearly taking out a tray of hors d’oeuvres from the hands of the passing waiter.

Mom is weaving through it all with a bottle of champagne, refilling glasses as she goes.

Near the dining room, a folding table is working overtime, sagging under the weight of at least thirty champagne bottles sweating onto the silk tablecloth. Plastic champagne flutes crowd the edges, precariously stacked, so when somebody bumps into the table glass knocks against glass. Half the bottles roll straight off the edge and hit the floor. One explodes on impact.

Shouts and shrieks drown out the music for a moment.