Chapter 14: Avery

Avery’s POV

"Come with me to a party," Tara said, barging into my room without knocking.

I looked up from the chemistry textbook I'd been reading, raising an eyebrow at her dramatic entrance. "Hello to you too."

"I'm serious. There's a party tonight, and I need moral support."

"What kind of party?"

"Bryson's party. Specifically."

I nearly dropped my book. "What? Why would I do that?"

"Because I'm asking you nicely." She plopped down on my bed, giving me her best puppy dog eyes. "Jake's going to be there, and I think I might finally work up the courage to ask him out. But I need backup."

"Tara—"

"Besides," she continued, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint, "we both know Bryson will be all over you the second you walk through the door. And what better way to mess with Brooke's head than showing up right in front of her face? Does that sound good or what?"

The idea should have been appalling. The last thing I wanted was to voluntarily put myself in a situation where I'd have to watch Bryson play the perfect boyfriend to someone else.

But the thought of Brooke's expression when I walked into her territory... that had a certain appeal.

"I don't know," I said, closing my textbook. "It seems like asking for trouble."

"It's asking for fun. Come on, when's the last time you went to a party?"

"There's probably a good reason for that."

"Avery." Tara's voice turned serious. "You've been back for weeks, and what have you done? Studied, gone to one soccer game, and holed up in your room. Come on, live a little."

I stared at her, weighing my options. I could stay home, finish reading about reaction kinetics, and go to bed early. Safe, boring, exactly what the old Avery would have done.

Or I could go to this party, show Brooke Thompson that I wasn't hiding anymore, and maybe have some actual fun for once.

"Fine," I heard myself say. "But I'm driving myself, and if it gets weird, I'm leaving."

"Deal!" Tara jumped up, already heading for my closet. "Now, what are you wearing? Because that chemistry textbook look isn't going to cut it."

Two hours later, I was standing in front of Bryson's house, second-guessing every decision that had led me here. The music was loud enough to hear from the street, and there were already cars parked on every available inch of curb.

"Remember," Tara said, checking her lipstick in her phone camera one more time, "confidence is key. You belong here just as much as anyone else."

"Right," I muttered, smoothing down the black dress Tara had insisted I wear. It was shorter than I usually preferred, but it made me feel confident in a way I wasn't used to.

The front door was already open, music and laughter spilling out into the night. We walked in like we owned the place, and I immediately spotted the usual crowd. The football players, cheerleaders, the kind of people who'd always seemed to exist in a different universe from me.

"Drinks?" Tara asked, pointing toward the kitchen.

"Sure."

We made our way through the crowd, and I tried to ignore the way people were looking at me. Some with curiosity, some with recognition, a few with expressions I couldn't quite read.

In the kitchen, Tara immediately started mixing something that looked lethal while I scanned the room. No sign of Bryson yet. Not that I was looking for him.

"Here," Tara said, handing me a red Solo cup. "Liquid courage."

I took a sip and immediately regretted it. Whatever she'd made was strong enough to strip paint.

"Tara, what is this?"

"Magic. Now come on, let's go find Jake."

We moved back into the main party area, and that's when I saw him. Bryson was in the living room, one arm casually draped around Brooke's shoulders while he talked to Carter and Mason. He looked relaxed, happy, every inch the popular quarterback with his perfect girlfriend.

And it made me feel sick.

Not because I wanted to be in Brooke's place, but because seeing them together like that reminded me of everything I'd lost. Everything I'd given up when I'd trusted him.

"You okay?" Tara asked, following my gaze.

"Fine," I lied, taking another sip of the horrible drink. "Just fine."

But I wasn't fine. Every time I looked at them, every time I saw Brooke laugh at something he said or the way he automatically pulled her closer when other guys walked by, it felt like someone was twisting a knife in my chest.

So I kept drinking.

By the time Jake finally appeared and Tara dragged him off to have what she called "a very important conversation," I was definitely feeling the effects of whatever toxic mixture she'd created. The edges of everything seemed softer, the music louder, the press of bodies around me more noticeable.

"You look familiar."

I turned to find a guy I didn't recognize standing way too close. He was tall, probably in college, with the kind of confident smile that suggested he thought he was more charming than he actually was.

"Do I?" I asked, taking a step back.

He followed, closing the distance again. "Yeah, definitely. You go to Westfield?"

"I do."

"Thought so. I'm Brad. I graduated last year, but I know I've seen you around." His eyes traveled up and down my body in a way that made my skin crawl. "You're not exactly forgettable."

"Thanks," I said flatly, looking around for an escape route.

"You want to get some air? It's pretty crowded in here."

"I'm good, thanks."

But he wasn't taking the hint. If anything, he moved closer, one hand reaching out to touch my arm.

"Come on, don't be like that. I'm just trying to be friendly."

"And I'm just trying to enjoy the party."

"We could enjoy it together."

His hand was definitely on my arm now, and the combination of alcohol and growing panic was making it hard to think clearly. I tried to pull away, but he held on.

"Let go of me," I said, loud enough that a few people nearby turned to look.

"Relax," he said, his grip tightening. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to get to know you better."

"Get the fuck away from her."

The voice came from behind me, low and dangerous, and I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Bryson appeared at my side like he'd materialized out of thin air, his expression darker than I'd ever seen it.

"No," I said quickly, the alcohol making me brave and stupid. "Leave me alone. Go back to your girlfriend."

"You heard her," Brad said, though his confidence seemed to be wavering in the face of Bryson's obvious fury. "She wants to stay here with me."

"She's drunk," Bryson said, his voice deadly calm.

"So what?" Brad shrugged. "She's having fun."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Before I could blink, Bryson slammed Brad against the wall, his forearm pressed across the other guy's throat.

"When I tell you to get the fuck away from her," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but somehow more terrifying than if he'd been shouting, "you get the fuck away from her. Are we clear?"

Brad nodded frantically, and Bryson released him. The guy stumbled away, rubbing his throat and shooting dark looks over his shoulder.

"I didn't need you to—" I started, but the words got tangled up somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

"Yes, you did," Bryson said, and before I could protest further, he'd scooped me up in his arms.

"Put me down," I said, but my protests sounded weak even to me. "I can walk."

"No, you can't."

He was already carrying me through the crowd, ignoring the stares and whispered comments from other party guests. I caught a glimpse of Brooke's shocked face as we passed, but then we were moving up the stairs, away from the noise and chaos. I don’t know what else was said, if anything, I was too out of it.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked as I tried hard to familiarize myself but just made myself dizzy instead.

"My room."

My mouth fell open. "I don't want to go to your room."

"Too bad."

He kicked open a door at the end of the hall and carried me inside, setting me down on what I assumed was his bed. The room was spinning slightly, but I could make out familiar details: football trophies on the dresser, a Westfield High pennant on the wall, the same navy blue comforter he'd had since middle school.

"Water," he said, disappearing into what must have been an attached bathroom. He came back with a glass and sat on the edge of the bed. "Drink this."

"I don't want water."

"Avery, drink the damn water."

Something in his tone made me take the glass and sip it obediently. The cool liquid felt good against my throat, and some of the fuzzy edges in my brain started to clear.

"Better?" he asked.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he continued, his anger apparently having found its target. "Coming to this party, drinking like that, letting some random piece of shit put his hands on you?"

"I was having fun," I said defensively.

"That wasn't fun, Avery. That was dangerous."

"Since when do you care?"

The question hung in the air between us, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. Then Bryson ran a hand through his hair and looked at me like I'd asked the stupidest question in the world.

"Since always," he said quietly. "I've always cared."