Things Best Friends Don’t Do

The bass was a second heartbeat, a frantic, thumping pulse that vibrated up from the soles of my worn-out Converse and rattled the teeth in my skull. It was the rhythm of a senior year I was meant to observe from the sidelines, a soundtrack for a life I was content to watch through a window. Jace Carter’s house parties were legendary, but for me, they were less a social event and more an anthropological study. I’d find a corner, nurse a lukewarm soda, and watch the intricate, messy dance of high school hierarchy play out. My corner tonight was a slightly less-sticky armchair in the living room, a piece of furniture that had seen better decades. From my perch, I had a perfect view of the swirling chaos. Bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor, girls with glitter on their cheeks laughed too loudly, and guys in letterman jackets postured near the keg in the kitchen. And in the center of it all, the sun around which this entire planetary system of popularity revolved, was Jace. My Jace. My best friend since finger-painting and sandbox treaties. He was leaning against the fireplace mantle, a red plastic cup in his hand, looking every bit the golden god everyone at Northwood High believed him to be. His dark hair was a perfectly tousled mess, catching the dim party lights. A laugh crinkled the corners of his eyes—eyes the color of warm honey that I knew better than my own reflection. He was talking to a few guys from the football team, his posture easy and confident. He belonged here. He thrived in this noise, this energy. I, on the other hand, felt like a foreign exchange student from the planet Library. Our friendship was an anomaly, a glitch in the social matrix of our school. The popular jock and the quiet, bookish girl. It worked because it was old, forged in the fires of scraped knees and shared juice boxes long before the caste system of high school took hold. He was my constant, my anchor in a sea of adolescent angst. He knew I hated parties, but he also knew I’d come if he asked. He always asked. “You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of existence and finding it deeply disappointing,” his voice, low and familiar, cut through the din. I looked up to see him standing over me, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. He’d ditched his friends to check on me. My heart did a familiar, comfortable little flutter. It wasn't a romantic flutter. It was a *Jace* flutter. The feeling of being seen by the one person who always saw me. “Just wondering if spontaneous human combustion is a real thing and if I can will it to happen,” I quipped, taking a sip of my flat cola. He chuckled, the sound a warm rumble that made my corner of the room feel infinitely safer. He nudged my knee with his. “It’s not that bad, Lay. You’ve been here a whole hour and haven’t been accosted by a single drunk sophomore.” “A new record,” I agreed dryly. Before he could respond, a slender arm snaked around his waist and a cloud of sickly-sweet vanilla perfume enveloped us. Stacy Miller, Jace’s girlfriend of six months and the reigning queen of Northwood, pressed herself against his side. Her blonde hair was impossibly perfect, her makeup flawless. She was beautiful in the way a doll is beautiful—pristine, glossy, and a little unnerving. “Jacey-poo, there you are!” she cooed, her eyes, a sharp, glacial blue, flicking over to me with dismissive coolness. “What are you doing hiding over here with… her?” The ‘her’ was laced with just enough venom to be intentional. I gave a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach my eyes. I was used to it. Stacy saw our friendship as a threat, a weird, lingering relic she couldn’t understand or control. Jace, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. He just draped an arm casually over Stacy’s shoulders. “Just checking on my best friend, Stace. You know Layla.” “Oh, I know Layla,” she said, her smile as sharp as broken glass. “Come on, babe. Mark is starting a game of Truth or Dare. It’ll be fun.” She tugged on his arm, her gaze a clear challenge. *Choose.* Jace glanced back at me, a silent question in his eyes. *You good?* I gave him a slight nod, a silent dismissal. *Go. Have fun. I’m fine.* It was a conversation we’d had a thousand times without a single word. He hesitated for a second longer before letting Stacy pull him toward the cluster of people now gathering on the floor in the center of the room. I should have left then. I should have slipped out the back door, walked the three blocks home, and curled up with a book, letting the noise of the party fade into a distant memory. My plan for senior year was simple: stay invisible. Keep my head down, my grades up, and my heart intact. Games like Truth or Dare were landmines for a girl like me. But my feet felt rooted to the floor. Some masochistic part of me, the part that was hopelessly tethered to Jace, wanted to stay. So I stayed. I watched. The game started predictably. Tame truths and embarrassing dares. Chug a weird concoction from the fridge. Serenade the garden gnome on the lawn. Confess a crush on a celebrity. It was all loud, performative, and harmless. Stacy, of course, was in her element, laughing and daring people with a theatrical flair. Jace played along, a relaxed amusement on his face. He caught my eye once and winked, as if to say, *See? Not so bad.* Then, the empty beer bottle, spinning on the hardwood floor, slowed, wobbled, and came to a dead stop. Pointing directly at me. The circle went quiet. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction. My blood ran cold. This was it. The spotlight. The one thing I spent my entire life avoiding. I felt my cheeks heat, a blush crawling up my neck. Mark, a lanky basketball player with a cruel streak, grinned. “Well, well. Look what we have here. The ghost of Northwood High. Truth or Dare, Hart?” My throat was dry. "Truth," I croaked. It was the safe option. The coward's option. Mark’s grin widened. He exchanged a look with Stacy, whose expression was pure, predatory glee. Oh, this was a setup. “Boring,” Mark drawled. “I dare you.” A collective "Ooooh" went through the group. My heart hammered against my ribs. “I-I’m not playing,” I stammered, starting to push myself out of the armchair. “You have to,” Stacy chimed in, her voice sweet as poison. “It’s the rules.” “Come on, Layla, don’t be a buzzkill,” someone else yelled. I looked at Jace, a desperate plea in my eyes. *Help me.* He was frowning, his jaw tight. He looked from me to Stacy, and a flicker of understanding, of anger, crossed his face. He knew what this was. He opened his mouth to intervene, to shut it down, but Stacy beat him to it. “I have the perfect dare,” she announced, her voice ringing with triumph. She stood up, pointing a perfectly manicured finger first at me, then at her own boyfriend. “I dare you to kiss Jace.” The air was sucked out of the room. A different kind of silence fell, thick with tension and anticipation. My brain short-circuited. Kiss Jace? My Jace? The Jace of scraped-up elbows and whispered secrets in a treehouse? The Jace who was as much a brother to me as a friend? The Jace who was, at this very moment, Stacy’s boyfriend? It was a power play, plain and simple. Stacy was marking her territory in the most public way possible, daring me to cross a line she knew I never would, humiliating me in the process. “Stacy, that’s not funny,” Jace said, his voice low and dangerous. “What? It’s just a game,” she said with a careless shrug, but her eyes were locked on me, gleaming with victory. “Unless you’re scared, Layla?” The world narrowed to the space between me, Jace, and his girlfriend. My every instinct screamed at me to run. But I saw the pity in some people’s eyes, the smugness in others. If I ran, I was the scared little mouse they all thought I was. If I ran, I let Stacy win. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline and a recklessness I didn’t know I possessed, I stood up. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced them to hold me. “Fine.” The word was a whisper, but it echoed in the sudden quiet. Jace’s eyes widened. He looked at me, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in their honeyed depths—shock, concern, and something else I couldn’t decipher. “And it has to be a real kiss,” Stacy added, her final, cruel twist of the knife. “On the lips. Ten seconds. I’ll even count.” My gaze met Jace’s across the circle. The rest of the world faded away. There was no party, no Stacy, no leering audience. There was only him. He gave his head the slightest, almost imperceptible shake, a silent offer of an out. *We don’t have to do this.* But I straightened my spine and walked toward the center of the circle, toward him. My heart was a wild bird trapped in my chest. This was insane. This was friendship-suicide. He met me halfway. He stood so close I could smell the faint scent of his cologne, a woodsy, clean scent that was so intrinsically *Jace*. He gently took my elbow, his touch grounding me. “Lay,” he murmured, his voice for my ears only. “You don’t have to.” “It’s okay,” I whispered back, my voice trembling. “It’s just a game.” I was echoing his earlier words, trying to convince myself as much as him. Someone in the crowd started counting down. “Ten… nine…” Jace’s gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips. My breath hitched. He lifted a hand, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking softly over my cheekbone. It was an achingly tender gesture in the face of such a hostile dare. “Eight… seven…” He leaned in, slowly, giving me every chance to back away. I didn’t. I couldn’t. My eyes fluttered shut. And then his lips met mine. For the first second, it was exactly what I expected: strange and awkward. The foreign pressure of my best friend’s mouth on mine. This was Jace. It was wrong. “Six… five…” Then, something shifted. The world tilted on its axis. His lips weren’t hard or demanding. They were impossibly soft, warm, and hesitant. He moved against me with a gentleness that shattered my composure. It wasn’t the kiss of a dare. It was a question. My mind went blank. All thought, all anxiety, all awareness of the counting, the crowd, Stacy’s venomous glare—it all evaporated. There was only the feeling of his mouth on mine. The soft scrape of his evening stubble against my skin. The thrum of his pulse beneath the thumb still resting on my cheek. “Four… three…” Instinct took over. I leaned into him, my hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath my palms. He deepened the kiss ever so slightly, a soft, searching pressure that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through my entire body.