Clair is not in the mood for a party. Before you even ask her about it, you can feel annoyance rolling off her, can feel it in the set of her shoulders and the hard line of her lips. And when you bring it up that Jay invited you both, she frowns.

"C'mon, M., let's just stay in. I don't want to walk to Dinkytown."

Had you not made up with Jay recently (shame still licks your insides when you think about how you acted. God, you were an ass.), you probably would've agreed with her outright. But there's something contrary in you, something restless that makes you say, "I'm going to go. You can have a night to yourself if you want, though."

The words feel like a dagger, twisting between you. Sharp.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Her eyes cut to you; her fingers twisting into claws, then fists. "If you're going, then I guess I am, too."

Silence. Not the comfortable kind you're used to, but something you fear, something you know to be wary of. (The silence of a forest when a predator pads through the shadows. The silence of a funeral procession. The silence of ice, of empty houses, of bruises. The silence before endings and the silence of empty spaces.)

And it envelops you both as you choose something sparkly (Clair's favorite top of yours) and put on the eyeshadow she likes and lend her a pair of your heels. All these small apologies to make up for that break-up silence.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I just want to do something different." (Lights and noise and elevated heart-rate and alcohol and adrenaline and the mystery of a night undiscovered.)

She smiles, a knife cutting through her freckles. "I know." She bites her lip, examining the dress she's holding. "I'm sorry too."

You let out a breath and elbow her. "C'mon. I'll race you to T-Hall."

"You're on."

The race is half-hearted, your heels and the ice making it impossible to navigate the sidewalk without slipping. And with the entrance of T-Hall is so close to your own dorm, neither of you is out of breath by the time you get there. (The color is high in Clair's cheeks, though, and her eyes glint in the fluorescents. With your hair tumbling out of place, it must give the illusion of high spirits, of actually running through the night.) The two of you shiver just inside the doors until Lacy lopes down the stairs to meet you, followed shortly by Sam, Jay and Nick.

Sam grins at the pair of you. "Well, well, well. Looks like Nick's connections've finally paid off, and brought the gang back together again."

"So you're going to take back all the shit you said?" Lacy arches an eyebrow.

"Not a chance," Nick cuts in. "It's the only thing he's got going for him."

Sam punches Nick in the ribs and Nick grins, darting away from his fists.

"Nick's connections?" Clair asks Jay, and you both lean towards him and away from the others (who've all earned a disapproving stare from the CA behind the front desk.)

Jay jerks his head towards the door, and Sam salutes him, peeling away from Nick. "Yeah. Some Carlson guys are having an anti-Valentines party and invited us. Well, him, but you know how it goes."

But, if you really think about it, you don't. When's the last time you went to a party? You can't think of one. You can't think of those throw-away invites, the casual you-should-comes that get tossed out at the end of conversations. It's sort of alarming.

When you walk outside and have gone a few blocks from the dorm block, Lacy casts a glance over her shoulder. A lazy grin works its way across her face and she digs in the small purse she brought with her.

"Let's catch up." Lacy offers you a flask and a wink, and you return it.

"Thanks, Lace."

It really is too cold for a party, but the alcohol staves off the February freeze. And despite your short dresses and frozen night and long walk, it is almost pleasant. There's a warmth between you and Lacy that you haven't felt in a long time. That, or the booze is talking. Still, you lean against her, wrapping an arm around her waist and she does the same for you.

Your breath clouds the air between sips, crystallizing in front of you. You pass the flask back and forth with Lacy, and your only bit of warmth is from Lacy's fingertips (which, admittedly, are turning dusky blue from the frosty air) and the liquor sloshing in your stomach.

At some point Clair had taken a bottle from Sam's hand, and is taking swigs on her own, staring out into the darkness. You want to go to her, to take the alcohol out of her hand and pass it between the two of you like you'd done in your room over winter break. But there's something in the set of her face that keeps you away, that makes you think she'd snap at you if you came to close. So you watch, and drink whenever she does, as though that could comfort her.

It probably doesn't, but it does get you very drunk, very quickly. You stumble into Lacy and startle a plume of laughter from her.

When you glance back at Clair, she's slipping the boys' bottle into her bag, but she doesn't wink when you catch her at it. Her eyes glow hollowly in streetlights, and you angle your face away from hers, so she can't read your expression. There's no shared space between you tonight, no familiarity. You take a swig from Lacy's flask to deaden the dread blooming in your chest.

And when you get to the house, the party feels wrong. The air is too thick, sodden with the odor of sweat and booze. A few paper hearts are taped up (duct tape), and crude drawings of body parts have been added to them. You feel sort of sick, and the way the room pulses with red light doesn't help; everything seems as though it is drowning in blood and shadows.

It's so unpleasantly hot that your dress sticks to your legs and crawls up the back of your thighs, and if it weren't for the crush of bodies behind you, you'd consider grabbing Clair's hand and leaving immediately. But Lacy drags you through the house, cackling at the décor you can't help but hate.

Though you aren't particularly sappy, there's part of you that wishes the hearts were in earnest, that the room was draped in lacy pink and silver garlands and people dressed like sexy cupids or something equally ridiculous. This feels too much like hell, with the heat and writhing dancers and the way Clair lingers at the edge of the room, drawn into herself and away from you.

Someone elbows past you, and a beer bottle smacks against your mouth.

This is what unhappiness tastes like. Like sour booze and a bloody lip.

You fight through the crowd and the sweat, trying to dance with Lacy and Sam and Jay and Nick and Clair and let the music overwhelm you. Clair grabs your wrist, and tries to whisper something in your ear, but the tide of bodies sweeps you away from her. Her eyes almost swallow you up, widening larger when you're dragged away from her.

You shove your way back, but a guy leans into you, his face too close and breath too hot and boozy and you try to press past because Clair needs you and something is wrong and you can't help but feel that you need to be next to her now. When he pulls you closer so he can grind against you, you twirl out of his reach and finally grasp Clair's hand. His drunk-dazed eyes study you both for a moment before he stumbles away to find another girl.

Clair's eyes flick past you, narrowing at something behind you. When they flit back to you, they're bright with anger. "Don't do that to me."

You blink.

"I'm serious, M. You can't do that to me, not right now. You're not helpless, and I don't want to be an excuse for you."

You recoil as though you've been hit. Is that what she thinks? That you're using her, that you'd discard her as soon as something better comes along. (There is no better. There never was and never will be.)

And how can she think that?

You didn't abandon her when—

Lips sugar soft and sweet as silk. That's what you'd told yourself. They were lovely, and you craved them. They were a promise, like a sailor's pledge to his sweetheart. Ships at sea and sailors and kisses and pledges. That's what you told yourself.

(Because if you whisper it enough, that's what it becomes.)

And whisper you do. "How could you?"

"How could I?"

And the words don't need to come because you both know your betrayals. Like a crack in the ice below your feet. Like a razor. Like an end. (Like a kiss stolen from you. Like choosing your selfish heart and choosing Jay over her.)

When you'd told her what he'd said, she laughed. "Jay is out of his fucking mind. Just ignore him. Stay with me." And she'd nuzzled into the crook of your neck, and you'd thrown your arm around her, and his words had been forgotten.

Forgotten, until they weren't.

So you'd listened to him, and you're at a party she hates with people you've chosen over her. And how could you? And how could she? Your stomach drops and acid rolls through your veins. How is your betrayal more than hers? Why is her heart greater than your sovereignty? Because she stole from you and you hit her back and now the wounds are splitting open and there's nothing you can do because you want to leave and fix this but you're too drunk and what can ever begin to repair this damage?

Your eyes well up and Clair's shoulders go limp.

Music jumps between you, erratic and forceful. The boom of the bassline strikes against your chest, barely drowning out your angry heartbeat.

"I can't do this, M. I just—" She blinks up at the red lights. "I'm sorry—" she chokes on the words before turning on heel, knifing through the crowd, and letting the bodies swallow her up. One staggering step is all you get before Nick jams himself in your path. His eyes are in soft-focus, but you blink, and he's too solid, too there.

"Move." It comes out icy and poisonous.

"No, M. I'll go get her, okay?" (His eyes were unfocused. How did you not notice that, or the sway of his footsteps or the slur in his voice? How could you look past all of that and not claw against him until he let you loose so you could race into the night? Until you could wrap her in your arms and kiss her cheek and—

But it's too late for that.)

You stumble forward after him, but Jay's hand snakes around your wrist. "She needs to cool off, M.," he says, "and you do, too. C'mon, I'll walk you home." He tosses a knowing glance at Nick, who nods before pushing through the crowd towards Clair.

Shame sweeps through you when you realize they must've been watching you unravel. But Jay keeps telling you he'll get you home, his voice low and soft, like his words can paper over everything else that's happened tonight.

The words sound far off, like they're rising through a fog. Where is home? Where your parents live? (Your dad cooking breakfast on Saturday mornings, the smell of bacon rising of the pan) Or Clair's dorm, where you share everything? And where is Clair? You should go back for her. But Jay murmurs reassuringly that Nick will find her, that all you need to do is get back home. (Home? Where?)

But you know, fuzzy though you are, that Jay doesn't your parents' house or your shared room in Centen.

Your dorm. It's not home. You nod anyway. "Okay."

You go to your dorm, sleeping away the liquor and stars. And that will always be your crime.