BEYOND HEALING

CHAPTER 19: THE EDGE OF THINGS

POV: Ayoola Davis

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The music hit like a hammer the moment we stepped inside.

If the last party had been loud, this one was a full-body assault. Strobe lights carved the darkness into shivering fragments. People were packed into the room like shadows made flesh — dancing, laughing, some already too far gone to stand straight.

I could smell it all: smoke, perfume, sweat, and something sour-sweet that clung to the air — alcohol and whatever else they were passing around in plain sight. I wasn’t sure if it was a party or a well-dressed descent.

Zainab held tight to Ken’s hand, already giggling in his ear, flushed with excitement. She barely glanced at me as they melted into the crowd. She’d warned me on the way here: “I’ll stay close to Ken, but if anything happens, just signal me, okay?”

I nodded, not believing it.

And I was right not to.

The house was bigger than I expected — two floors, sprawling, expensive. There were people from our school, other schools, even some clearly older — university students in body-hugging clothes and too much cologne, walking around like they owned everything.

I kept close to the wall, my usual position. Watchful. Still.

But Nate found me anyway.

He always did.

“Ayoola,” he drawled, stepping in front of me with a red solo cup in one hand and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I knew you’d come. Thought you didn’t like parties.”

“I don’t,” I said flatly.

“That’s a shame,” he said, eyes scanning me too slowly. “Because you look like the kind of girl parties were made for.”

I moved to brush past him, but his hand caught my elbow lightly — not hard, but firm enough that I noticed.

“Relax,” he said, laughing too loud. “I’m just messing with you. Come — let me show you the upstairs lounge. It’s quieter there.”

“No thanks.”

“Aww, come on, Ayoola. One drink. One song.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve had enough of both.”

He was definitely high on something — not just alcohol. His pupils were too dilated, his body too loose. He wasn’t stumbling, but he had that floating confidence people get when nothing feels real anymore.

I stepped back. “I’m not here for you.”

“Maybe not,” he said, grin widening. “But I’m here for you.”

Before I could respond, someone crashed into me from behind — a girl trying to dance and hold her cup at the same time. I felt the cold splash of her drink hit my shoulder and chest.

“Watch it!” she giggled, not even looking back.

“s**t,” I muttered, looking down at my now-soaked top. Sticky, pink, and reeking of some fruity cocktail.

“I’ll go clean up,” I said, not really talking to Nate.

I started toward the stairs before he could follow — but of course, he did.

The bathroom upstairs was dimly lit, golden tiles and a huge mirror that reflected my stained shirt and tightly drawn expression. I wet a towel and began blotting the mess, trying not to inhale the scent of the house too deeply.

Then I heard the door click shut behind me.

I turned.

Nate.

Of course.

“I said no,” I said immediately.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward. His eyes were hazy, his body loose, like a puppet being dragged by a string that had snapped too late.

“Don’t touch me,” I warned.

But his hand was already reaching — fingers brushing the curve of my waist, then the hem of my top.

“I’ve been thinking about you since the first time you walked into that library,” he whispered, breath warm and sharp with alcohol. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

I pushed his hand off. “You’re drunk.”

He laughed, low and rough. “You think that matters?”

Then he grabbed my wrist.

It wasn’t rough — not yet — but it was wrong. Every nerve in my body screamed no. I twisted away, but he caught me again, faster this time, and his other hand came up to touch my cheek.

And then he kissed me.

Hot, unwanted, forceful.

I didn’t freeze. I didn’t pause to reason it out.

I punched him.

Hard.

Right across the face.

His head snapped sideways. The thud echoed.

He stumbled back into the sink, swearing, a hand to his jaw.

“What the— Ayoola?!”

The bathroom door was already half open — someone must have heard the noise. And standing right there in the hallway, in perfect view, was Christopher Adefila.

Our eyes met.

He saw everything.

Nate, holding his face, stunned and furious. Me, breathing hard, fists clenched, chest still heaving.

Christopher didn’t say anything. He didn’t blink. He just looked — and that one look carried more weight than a thousand words.

I brushed past both of them and left.

Down the stairs, through the fog of music and sweat and smoke.

Past the crowd, past the stares, past the girl laughing on someone’s lap, past Zainab who was too busy kissing Ken to see me disappear.

I kept walking until the house was behind me, until the music was just a muffled hum in the distance.

I didn’t stop until I reached the street and the night air hit my face like a cold slap.