Page 35 of Until Forever Falls

To my surprise, he’s right—it’s not complicated. Somehow, I start landing more shots than I miss, and by the second game, we’re on a roll. The crowd around the table grows louder with every win, their cheers blending with the steady hum of music.

“You’re killing it!” Colt says, shoving another beer into my hand as if it’s my trophy. “Didn’t expect anything less from Beckett’s sister.” His excitement feels contagious, but I offer a distracted response. My focus fractured, scanning the room for something—or someone—I haven’t seen in a while.

“Have you seen Brooks?”

Colt downs a mouthful of beer, then tilts the bottom of his drink toward the stairs. “Pretty sure he went up with Chloe.”

“Chloe?”

“Vance,” he says, as if that makes it better. “His ex. He dated her last year. Things were messy for a while, but he tolerated her—well, until you showed up, anyway.”

The realization hits, like stepping off a curb I didn’t see coming. Chloe is his ex?Of course, she is.How did I miss that? The party hums around me, but it’s meaningless. Every shared moment with Brooks plays back in my head, only now the colors feel different—faded. Was I only seeing what I wanted? Is she in the picture? Was she ever really gone?

“Oh.” The syllable barely makes it past my lips, drowned out by the bass rattling the walls.

The bottle sweats in my grip, slick against my palm. I don’t hesitate. I knock it back, the liquid rushing past my lips, my throat working fast to keep up. One down. I don’t stop to think before grabbing another. The burn of alcohol doesn’t dull the ache in my chest like I’d hoped—it only seems to stir it up more. Or maybe it’s the buzz amplifying everything, turning a twinge into a full blown ache.

Colt’s words flicker around me, and it’s predictable enough to fake my part. I tilt my head just enough to feign presence, but my focus dissolves before it can land. Our winning streak finally breaks, but instead of celebrating or groaning with the rest of them, I slip away. The press of people, the noise…it’s too much. I weave through the crowded house, my only goal to find the one person who feels real in the haze of uncertainty.

The next thing I know, I’m stepping onto the patio. The damp air bites at my skin, but it barely makes a dent in the uncertainty curling around me. KitKat and Miles sit by the fire pit, shadows shifting over their faces, their heads tipped toward each other—sharing a quiet joke or a secret I can’t hear. My brother notices me first, his posture swaying slightly before he catches himself.

“Dilly, I saw you playing beer pong. The apocalypse must be near!” He drags a finger through the air, pointing at me as if I’ve just rewritten the laws of the universe.

I slump into a chair, shedding the last hour off my back. “Colt had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. I never stood a chance.”

Beckett’s attempt at a nudge turns into more of a slow-motion lean, his balance questionable but his grin intact. “Regardless, you stuck it out and you didn’t bail—real MVP move, sis.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter, eyeing him wearily, as if he just tried to sell me a broken-down car. “On a scale of one to regretting this tomorrow, where are we at?”

He waves off the question, his movements uncoordinated. “Enough to regret all of it tomorrow.” His tone carries the kind of certainty only a drunk person can manage.

The liquid in my beer shifts as I tip it to my lips, my attention settling on the yard. A football cuts a smooth arc under the dim glow of string lights, rising, falling, caught. I watch the easy repetition losing myself in the motion, something predictable when everything feels off kilter.

Miles pops up from his seat, as though someone randomly hit fast-forward on him. “Who’s up for a game?”

I lift a palm. “Absolutely not. I’ve had enough games for one night.”

But it doesn’t matter. Beckett swoops in, hauling me up with a grip loose enough to escape but determined enough to make resistance pointless.

“You’re playing.”

I huff. “And you’re exhausting.”

My steps lag, half a step behind, but the momentum is inevitable, drawn into the loose perimeter forming near the pool’s edge. The game kicks off quickly, and I’m instantly aware of one glaring problem—I have no idea what’s going on. Flip, Sip, or Strip, apparently, isn’t just a clever name. As the rules unfold, I realize I’ve walked straight into a minefield of potential embarrassment.

13

Dylan

Now

When I wake up, the room is shrouded in darkness, and the pounding in my head feels like a drumbeat I can’t escape. Squinting at the clock, I notice the time on the nightstand—2 AM. I must’ve passed out shortly after calling Aaron. We didn’t talk long. I was too drained to hold a conversation, and must’ve fallen asleep the second my head hit the mattress.

My hand sweeps across the bed until I find my phone, wedged between the pillows.

One tap, two, nothing. Perfect. Dead battery.

The room tilts, or maybe it’s just me. The tequila hasn’t worn off—it’s settled in, making itself at home. Regret settles in alongside the hangover, both making it abundantly clear: I’m not as resilient as I once was.

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