Page 5 of Trick of the Flesh
I press my palms to the counter and bow my head.
God help me.
I want him to catch me.
TWO
CALEB
The house feels too full.It’s suffocating, like all the college frat parties I try hard to avoid. It makes the panic attacks worse. The bass of the music rattles the windows, people shouting over it in bursts of laughter and drunken slurs. Orange string lights cast everything in a fever glow, shadows twitching across walls where fake cobwebs hang like real decay. Someone’s put on a fog machine near the front door, and the low mist curls over the floor like smoke.
Everyone else seems to love it.
Except me.
Inside, I’m trying to hold my shit together.
Dad’s in the middle of the living room with a plastic cup raised high, cape flowing dramatically every time he spins. Celeste claps along to the beat of the music, her witch hat tilting precariously as she dances with one of the neighbors. People are scattered across couches, perched on counters, or pressed into corners with bottles clutched in their hands.
Who knew our parents could throw such a rager?
I keep moving, weaving through clusters of guests, pretending I’m busy—refilling chip bowls, grabbing sodas,offering useless help no one actually wants. Anything to avoid standing still.
Because whenever I stop, I feel it.
I feelhim.
He hasn’t said a word to me since earlier, but he doesn’t have to. His mask does the talking now—faceless. Empty. A parody of anonymity. And yet I feel him watching me from behind it, every second, every breath.
He leans against the wall like he’s the one throwing this party. People gravitate toward him, always orbiting his gravity. Women throw themselves at him, and he doesn’t even have to try. They laugh louder near him, stand taller, and push closer. But his eyes—those blue neon X’s—never drift far from me.
It makes my skin crawl. It makes my pulse beat wildly against my ribs.
I can’t stand it.
I gotta get out of here before I pass out.
The bathroom is dim when I slip inside, the single overhead light buzzing faintly. I lock the door behind me and brace my hands on the sink.
The mirror is unforgiving.
Sweat clings to my forehead, my hair messy from the heat of the crowd. My jersey hangs loose on me, white with my school name stretched across the chest in faded blue. I wore it because Dad said costumes were “mandatory,” and I didn’t have anything else. Now, staring at myself, I just look like a kid trying too hard.
I pull at the hem, frowning at my reflection.
I’m not small. Six-one, lean muscle from endless workouts and a strict meal plan. I work for it every day. But looking at myself now, I don’t see strength. I see…average.Forgettable.
Sophomore slump, the coach called it last week. Said a lot of players hit a wall in their second year. But this feels deeper thanjust basketball. This feels like me. Like no matter what I do, I don’t measure up.
Not to him.
Miguel doesn’t even try and people fall at his feet. Tattoos, motorcycles, and danger dripping from every grin. He’s not chasing grades or games, and still—he eclipses me. Forever living in the shadow of my older stepbrother.
And I hate myself because every time I try to pull away, I get dragged back in.
My hands clench the porcelain sink.
This is why you’re single.The thought hits sharp and bitter. This is why every time you try to hook up, it falls apart.
