The second we get inside, my body is smashed up against the wall. It’s that crowded. I try to follow Ebony, but she’s so tiny that she squeezes between two football-player frames and disappears into the mass of bodies. Great. I’m not sure what gave me the impression when Ebony said we should go together that we’d actually stay together. All the people in the room, pressed together like they are, look foreign, like students from some other school. They still seem to be enjoying themselves; I can barely breathe. I begin to wonder if it’s possible for me to survive a party without Griffin and Bret. I push my way through, into the kitchen. It’s not much better here, but there’s an open door across the way, and I can feel the night breeze on my forehead. I push forward, being knocked here and there, until finally, I put my hand on the knob of the screen door and throw it open. Freedom.

Quickly, I step down, toward the massive in-ground pool, wishing I had someone, anyone, to save me, even …

“Hey, you.”

Even Bret.

“Hi,” I say, relieved, thinking, So what? Being with Bret is definitely better than being completely alone. “Congratulations, Mr. High School Graduate.” I throw a hand onto his chest, not meaning to suggest anything, but he takes it and starts to massage it. He doesn’t speak. He’s just smiling dumbly, swaying to the music, eyes half closed. And that’s when I realize something. He’s not swaying to the music. He’s swaying as in ready to topple over. And his eyes are half closed, as in two steps away from dreamland. He’s falling-down drunk.

“Bret,” I say. “Let’s go sit down.”

“Oh, yeah yeah yeah,” he slurs, pulling me by the wrist. We pass plenty of open lawn chairs, but he keeps tugging me, nearly falling over the side of a miniature wooden bridge into the koi pond below, before leading me into a darkened cabana room. There are two couches, and when I realize they’re both occupied by couples doing things I probably shouldn’t be an audience to, I look away from them, embarrassed. He escorts me toward a mat that’s been set up on the ground, all cozy and covered with pillows. As if he was expecting to take me here. Reluctantly, I follow, then manage to set him down and stand over him. I don’t know what he’s thinking, probably a whole lot of nothing.

“You should just rest here,” I say. I make a move to leave, but then I realize I don’t have anywhere to go.

He reaches up from the pillows and yanks on my hand. “Stay.”

I sigh. “Fine,” I say, and kneel down next to him, trying not to get too close or too comfortable. But he has other plans. He moves in. I shift my body away from his.

“Julia.” He says my name so singsongy, so passionately, I have to laugh. It’s not possible to be that drunk and still be romantic. But he keeps trying. He strokes my face. “You are so gorgeous.”

I squirm away. “Stop, Bret. Just rest.”

“I don’t want to,” he says, his tone changing. Suddenly, he sounds annoyed. “Stop saying that.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I want.” When I see his face in a sliver of light filtering through a cabana window, he looks really pissed, worse than I’ve ever seen him. Then he leans toward me again, going in for a kiss.

“We can’t,” I say, giving his chest a little shove back.

“Why not? Don’t you get it? Griffin and you … never would have worked. He was going away. I’ll be here. We can—”

“I’m going away,” I tell him. “I’m going to the city in two weeks, for the rest of the summer. For the Architectural Journal.”

His eyes narrow. “What? I thought you—”

“I know, but I got in. There was a cancellation.”

This is where any ordinary friend would be happy for me. Instead, Bret’s face sinks in misery. That smile—the permanently glued one—has peeled from his face. He looks around haggardly, like he’s trying to find something to throw, and then his eyes focus on me. “You can’t. You can’t,” he moans, his voice climbing an octave.

“I’m going to, Bret.”

“Fine! And I’ll be stuck here, in Loserville. Alone.”

He looks at his feet, and I sit there awkwardly. As a good friend, I should be offering him compassion. So I reach over and wrap my arm around him. And that’s when he turns and clamps his wet mouth on mine. This time, it feels exactly like it did in the dream, like a vacuum, sucking me dry. He grabs me by the shoulders and then pushes me back, pinning me against the mat. I’m so shocked that I’m caught breathless as he grinds his body against mine. I try to say something, to scream, but his mouth is on mine and he’s stealing all those words from me. The most I can manage is a muffled “Stop,” but it’s so powerless that it doesn’t have any effect.

At once, the pressure is lifted. I open my eyes, but my sight is blurred. “I believe she asked you to stop,” a voice, edged with authority, says.

An angel? Griffin?

My vision clears, but in the darkness, all I can make out is the outline of Bret, breathing hard. Someone is holding him by the arms. He struggles to release himself, then shakes himself loose from the hold he’s in, spilling his beer. It’s wet between my toes. The other figure pushes him toward the door of the cabana, away from me. I see Bret’s face, white like the moon, in the minimal light, but it’s blank of all understanding of what has just happened. Finally, he mutters, “Jules …,” but he can’t seem to get anything else out. He staggers away, head down, leaving me alone with this stranger.

His frame is smaller than Griffin’s, though he’s just as tall. He moves closer, extends a hand to me. The light streaming through the window casts an aura upon his back, yes, just like an angel. In the dark, all I can make out is that he’s wearing a suit jacket. He’s very well dressed—too well dressed for a high school graduation party.

I take his hand, and as he pulls me to my feet, he murmurs to me, “Julia, I have a message for you.”

CHAPTER 18

Eron

I lead Julia out of the cabana. I realize it’s the first time in sixteen years that I’ve ever touched her skin. It feels just as I imagined: warm, smooth. Her fingers are delicate and thin, like flower stems.

She’s still trembling, babbling, trying to smooth down her hair. When we’re in the moonlight, she drops my hand, seeming self-conscious. “Bret’s a good friend of mine,” she explains. “He’s just drunk. I am sure he didn’t realize what he was doing.”

I shake my head. My fists are still clenched. As Mr. Anderson slinks away, I see my stepfather’s cruel face on his body. Mr. Colburn was right. “You do not know what he was thinking.”

She squints at me. “And you do?”

“I—” I begin. “No, I just—” I hold my tongue when I realize I appear more mentally unstable than Bret Anderson.

“But thank you,” she says. “You’re that guy from school yesterday. You have a message for me?”

“Yes,” I say. I’m fairly certain Mr. Colburn is with his charges, holding up his end of the promise. There is no chance he would have let his best friend take such liberties with his girlfriend without interfering himself had he been watching. So now is the time for me to hold to my promise. “You … you need to be careful. To stay away from people like that.”

“Like I said, he’s my friend.” She wraps her arms around herself and lets out a short laugh. “Was that a message from my mom?”

“No, actually …” I stop before I can get out the words. My mouth knows what to say—It’s a message from Griffin Colburn—but my head won’t let me say it. She’s still trembling. I think back to last night, when we were luring her to sleep and she quivered in the same way. Clearly she is in no state to hear this news. Not now. “It’s not exactly a message. It’s more of an observation. Er … you need to be careful.” I feel my face growing hot; this is all too familiar ground that I’m treading on. I sound like a fool, like I always have with women.