Page 106 of Chaos

“You converted to the golden side?” asks an oily voice too close to my ear.

Duane.

My stomach curls into itself and I lower my pie fork.

I should shake my head or say no. Something. Anything to avoid making an enemy of him. But I don’t.

And he must sense it, because he reaches out to grab my wrist.

I slide it sideways, yanking away before he can snatch it, and jog across the dance floor toward Shane, who’s loping toward me, his backpack over his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Great.” I slide my hand in his. “Let’s go.”

He stills just for a second, his brows rising at the gesture, and then his hand clamps down and we’re walking together, like a real couple—like Monroe and Cyrus, like Frankie and Yorke. Us against the whole world.

We head straight for my closet, without either of us specifying a location, as if we both knew.

When we get there, he holds his hand out for my key, which is in my bra. I have to turn away to tug it out, my cheeks burning when I hand it over, knowing it’s still warm from my skin.

“Give me a few minutes to set up,” he murmurs.

“What are you going to do?”

“Trust me.”

My throat catches. Trust. “Okay. Just … don’t open the basket in there. I have stuff to set up, too.”

He grins and whispers, “I knew you’d get me a present,” and shuts the door in my face.

In the dark of the boutique, doubt settles in so hard my hands start to sweat. What if I’m misunderstanding what’s happening here? What if I got it wrong?

I took his hand.

What if he didn’t want that?

Oh god. My stomach curls up again. What if I misunderstood his signals and now I’m going to embarrass us both?

But I want this, just one nice night where I don’t feel like I’m on the wrong side.

I tug the sweater dress I found in the communal clothing section a little farther down my thighs. I hate dresses, but this one felt like me. And with the lace-up boots, it just felt right, but now, away from the heat of the party, the cold air wafts along my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and nerves have my palms going sweaty.

My closet door opens, and he shuts it immediately behind himself. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, shut up.”

“Aw, Ephie, you have a heart,” he says wistfully. “It’s a White Winter miracle.”

“I don’t believe in miracles.”

“Maybe you should.” He opens the door, and words die on my tongue. Silver sparkly lights shimmer all around my closet. He’s angled a penlight at a disco ball, and it’s lit up the whole tiny closet like a starry sky.

He’s rolled up my bed blanket and stashed it on a supply shelf. Music plays from his phone’s speaker, high-pitched and thready, a violin rendition of a metal song written long ago.

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