“What is it?” I ask.
“Vodka with a splash of cranberry,” he says and pushes the tray toward me. Shots are better than foamy beer. I grab two shots off the tray. Harper holds out her hand to take one from me but I down them one right after the other. The vodka burns my throat and waters my eyes. Once my vision clears, I see Harper’s mouth come unhinged. I rarely drink, let alone double fist shots.
“Holy shit,” Harper yells over the music and smiles. “You’re in rare form tonight. What happened to Mama Reagan?”
“I left her at home,” I yell into Harper’s ear. “Your turn to play mom.”
“Okay by me,” Harper says with a smile, putting her shot back on the tray. “I’ll take it easy. So how was your day with Luke?”
Just hearing his name pulls me out of my numbed state. My muscles tighten and my stomach twists until it’s pretzeled and heavy beneath my skin.
“Fine,” I say quickly and turn away. I don’t know what’s written in my eyes but I don’t want Harper to see. I look out the large window over the farmhouse sink. The light in the room and the darkness outside has turned the window into an imperfect mirror. My reflection stares back at me, but my silhouette is hazy, my features hollow.
“Everything okay?” Harper asks, pulling at my arm.
“Everything’s great,” I lie and give her a sweet smile that turns my stomach even more than the vodka sloshing around inside.
“Harper!” Malika yells as she takes four giant steps across the kitchen, grabbing Harper by both of her hands. “Come on. Peter Paras brought a bunch of his super-hot Australian teammates and I’ve been telling one of them all about you.”
Before Harper can even agree to play wingwoman, Malika is grabbing her by the arm while running down the list of his hot-guy stats: Tall. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Six-pack. Harper grabs me by the hand and pulls me past the flip cup tournament and into the crowded great room. The field hockey girls are bouncing around, dancing and lip-synching to a Taylor Swift song while frat boys in training sit on the deep leather sectional and cheer them on. I can think of about a thousand other places I’d rather be than here. But I have to stay. I have to do this tonight.
My eyes scan the room, looking for a target. Sitting with the group of Australian soccer boys is a dark-haired guy I don’t recognize. But he’s looking straight at me. His lips crack into a lazy smile as soon as our eyes lock. Perfect.
As I walk toward him, a wave of claustrophobia hits me hard. I take deep breaths through my nose to try to center myself, use my training to stay sane. But it’s hot and loud in here and I feel the party encircling me like a snake, waiting to strike. A few more steps, a few more breaths, and I’m at his side. I swallow the panic crawling up my throat and flood my blood with one more breath of oxygen. The numbness returns. It’s go time.
“Hi, I’m Reagan,” I say, taking a seat and extending my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Reagan,” he says with an Australian accent. “I’m Oliver.”
“Love that accent,” I say, touching his arm and turning on the charm.
“Not as much as I love a gorgeous American girl,” Oliver replies, the right side of his lips turned up. Tall with sculpted features, a smooth-as-a-statue complexion, and athletic body, a compliment like that from a guy like Oliver would make every girl in this room lose their minds or consciousness or both. But his words prick at my skin, threatening to shatter my numbed state. My muscles begin to twitch; my brain pleads with me to run. To stop this. But I can’t.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, nodding toward a glass tumbler filled with dark liquid.
“Spiced rum. Want a sip?” Oliver says, offering me his glass. I take it and gulp. It’s smokier and smoother than the vodka but still burns my throat.
“Not bad,” I say and take another gulp. I need more alcohol before I lose my nerve.
“A gorgeous American girl who can drink,” Oliver says, leaning in, his breath in the hollow of my ear. “Double bonus.”
Oliver puts his hand on the top of my knee and I let his fingers linger. His touch is strong. Respectful, but not soft and gentle like Luke’s. After today, I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands on me. I look down at the dark hardwood floors as the heavy weight of guilt settles at the bottom of my already-sore stomach. When I look up, Harper is staring at me from four soccer players away. She cocks her head to the side, What are you doing? written in her narrowed eyes.
I turn away from Harper’s questioning gaze and lean into Oliver. “So what do you think about Ohio so far?” I yell in his ear over the music.