CHAPTER 1: THE PARTY I DIDN'T WANT TO ATTEND
The music was too loud, the kind that made my chest thump like someone was kicking from inside. It wasn’t just sound—it was vibration, traveling through the floorboards, rattling the cheap wall hangings, filling every crevice of the stranger’s house until you couldn’t think straight. My red plastic cup was sweating in my hand, my palm sticky from condensation, and I wondered how many fingerprints were already layered on it. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be standing in someone else’s living room, staring at people who seemed to belong in their own bodies in a way I never had.
But that’s college, right? Pretend long enough, and maybe no one will notice you’re faking.
“Loosen up, Mara!” Jess shouted in my ear, her curls bouncing wildly as she dragged me deeper into the chaos. She smelled like vanilla perfume and cheap tequila, the kind of combination that screamed confidence. Jess had been my best friend since sophomore year of high school, the kind of friend who believed dragging me into situations I hated was a form of love. Maybe it was. “You can’t spend your whole freshman year in the library. This is orientation, not prison.”
“I don’t like these things,” I muttered, voice lost under the bass. She didn’t hear me. Or maybe she chose not to. Jess had a habit of bulldozing through my resistance until I surrendered. Before I could repeat myself, she was already gone, swallowed by the blur of bodies and laughter, her bright yellow top bobbing in and out of my line of sight until it vanished completely.
I stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My sneakers felt wrong in a room full of heels and boots. The walls were painted a dull cream, half-hidden behind posters and beer stains. The living room reeked of sweat and vodka, a dizzying cocktail that made me want to sneeze. A group of guys were yelling at a beer pong table, cheering each other on like they were performing in a stadium. Girls perched on the couch armrests, legs crossed neatly, smiles perfectly practiced. Everyone seemed to know what to do with their hands, their faces, their bodies. Everyone except me.
I considered leaving. No one would miss me if I slipped out. I’d get back to my dorm, curl under the scratchy blanket, and scroll through my phone until the night dissolved into another forgettable memory. It sounded perfect—comforting, predictable. But then I saw him.
He leaned against the kitchen doorway, like the frame had been built for him. A beer bottle dangled from his fingers like it was part of him, not something he held. His dark hair was messy in the kind of way you knew wasn’t accidental, each strand falling just right, giving him a careless beauty that demanded attention. His shirt—black, thin, stretched slightly at the collar—had a rip near the seam, the kind of imperfection that made him look untouchable. Like he didn’t need to care about details because people would forgive him for it.
His eyes landed on me. Sharp. Unflinching.
I froze. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either. The stare was too much, like being pinned under a spotlight when you’re not ready to perform. I turned quickly, pretending to take a sip from my cup. My throat tightened around the lukewarm liquid. People like him didn’t look at people like me. Not twice. But I could still feel it, the weight of his gaze pressing into my shoulder blades, making my skin hum with awareness.
I drifted toward the kitchen, telling myself I was just thirsty, that I wasn’t following the magnetic pull of his presence. The counter was littered with half-empty bottles and sticky spills. Someone had left an open bag of chips that looked like it had been mauled by a pack of wolves. I set my cup down, debating whether it was worth refilling with something that didn’t taste like watered-down cough syrup.
“First year?”
The voice cut through the noise, low and rough, like gravel scraping against wood. I blinked and turned. He was closer now, impossibly close, standing a foot away as if he had always been there and I had simply failed to notice.
“Yeah,” I said. My voice cracked, thin and fragile. I wanted to punch myself in the throat.
He tilted his head, eyes flicking over my face in a way that felt both invasive and intimate. “What’s your major?”
“English,” I answered, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
A smirk tugged at his mouth, subtle but undeniable. “Of course.”
My brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, one shoulder lifting lazily. “Just… you look like the type who reads to feel alive.”
It should’ve stung, but it didn’t. It felt like he’d peeled something back and seen a truth I hadn’t admitted out loud. I hated that. I hated that a stranger could see me so quickly, so easily.
“And what do you look like?” I asked, surprising myself.
The smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, like he’d been waiting for me to ask. He leaned closer, the space between us shrinking until I could smell the beer on his breath, sharp and bitter. His voice dropped, low enough that it seemed meant for me alone.
“Like trouble.”
The word lingered in the air, heavy and electric. Then, just as suddenly, he straightened and walked off, disappearing into the blur of bodies without another glance.
I stood rooted to the spot, heart beating faster than the bass vibrating through the walls. Trouble. He wasn’t lying. I didn’t know his name then, not yet, but it would find its way to me before the night ended—Adrian Cole.
And by the end of the semester, his name would taste like both poison and salvation in my mouth.
