Once Hanna and I finished getting ready, the pregame happened at Josh's apartment.

His roommates were having a bunch of people over, he told us. Oh—and there was plenty of room for any of Hanna's friends, if they were up for it.

Really? You sure?

Yeah, definitely. The more, the merrier, right?

So she reached for her phone, beginning to tap out invitations at the speed of light. Whether she was making plans or changing them, I couldn't be sure—but she certainly seemed eager to take Josh up on the offer.

On our way out of the dorm, Hanna obviously took her two bottles of vodka, tucked inconspicuously into a backpack with a bundled-up T-shirt between them so they wouldn't clink in earshot of the RAs. She'd already necked a couple of shots. Josh, too, which made me uncomfortable because he was driving us back to his apartment. But when I tried to mention it he just laughed me off, maintaining the alcohol still wouldn't have touched his blood by the time we got there and leaving me feeling stupid for speaking up.

His apartment was loud and hectic; we could hear the commotion upon stepping out of the elevator. In the living room the sound system was on full volume, and at least twelve people had set up camp there, spilling onto the arms of the couches and backward dining chairs dragged in to fill the gaps. A pint glass of murky brown liquid sat on the floor, ringed by a splayed-out deck of cards; everyone in the circle took turns to draw one, resulting in a range of vocal reactions and complicated consequences.

Hanna marched through to the kitchen and started rifling through Josh's cupboards to find a glass.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said when she did. "Not so fast. You think I'm going to wash that up tomorrow morning? Not happening."

"What am I supposed to do, then? You can't invite me over and expect me to swig from a bottle."

"I know we're college students, but we're not animals." Josh took the glass from her and placed it back on the shelf. Then he threw open the cupboard under the sink. "Voilà."

Inside was a jumbo pack of red Solo cups.

"You know you're killing the environment, right?" Hanna said, taking the cup he was offering. "But it's your place, so whatever."

Josh's eyes glinted mischievously. "You could also say I'm saving water, so how about we call it even?"

Hanna shrugged, then busied herself pouring a generous measure of vodka into her cup. Her movements were already jerky and unsteady; she definitely didn't need much more, but I knew better than to try and convince her. As I watched a splash of mixer jump past the rim and onto the countertop, I realized Josh was looking at me.

"You want one?"

I took the cup he was holding out. "Just for Coke, though."

"Oh, come on. Nothing stronger?"

I paused. Let my eyes flicker over his face. Then confusion set in as I realized he was asking a genuine question. "Obviously not. Why would you even ask?"

He shrugged. "Wondering if you'd made an exception for Hanna's big night. Let your hair down for once."

I felt something snap within me. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"You know what," I said. My fuse had gone fast, and now the mere expression on his face irritated me. "You know me. You know I don't drink, and you know exactly why. So don't act like I'm some buzzkill that needs persuading. I'm not going to change my mind."

Hanna looked up then, raising two hands which she used to separate us. "Come on, you two," she said, slurring a little. "No fighting. Not tonight. We're celebrating, remember?"

"Exactly." Josh nodded evenly, not taking his eyes off me. "Celebrating."

If he was trying to provoke me, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Instead I plastered an extra wide smile on my face. "And I'm going to make sure we're celebrating safely," I said, as Hanna knocked back the contents of her cup in one go. "Because left to your own devices, you'd probably both be sleeping in pools of your own vomit tonight."

"Okay, okay." After slamming her cup down, Hanna slung a clumsy arm over my shoulders. "You can be the designated mom. God knows I'll need it." She stepped forward and leaned through the little hatch that linked the kitchen and living room. "You hear that, everybody? Good news—Morgan's playing Mommy tonight!"

Scattered laughter came from the other side of the wall; I was also sure I heard several enthusiastic cheers. I may have let my face flush had I not been so aware of Josh still watching me out the corner of his eye.

"Come on," Hanna said, once she'd poured herself another drink. She grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the living room. "It sounds more fun in there. Let's go."

Ordinarily I would've been more reluctant—but right then, I seized the opportunity to get out of the kitchen and shrug off Josh's scrutiny by embedding myself into a crowd.

In the living room, Hanna's sharp elbows helped a space for two open up in the established circle. She parked herself cross-legged on the carpet, next to a guy she recognized from her short-lived induction with the Daily—could she go anywhere without finding some kind of in with someone?—who soon leaned over to give us a condensed version of the rules to the elaborate drinking game. Not an easy feat, considering the list was expanding by the minute; every time someone drew a Jack from the pile they could make up another.

"Speaking of which, latest rule is you've gotta drink with your left hand at all times," he advised us solemnly. "Don't get caught out."

I didn't even have a drink after my altercation with Josh had distracted me. But my knack for blending into the background meant nobody noticed. It didn't bother me; I was perfectly content to sit back and watch while the game continued, getting a better grip of the rules with every card drawn. Four was (charmingly) whores, which meant girls took a drink. The same for guys at six (dicks). Nine for rhyme, which started with a word and then subsequent rhyming words from the people to the right until there was a too-long pause and the loser had to drink. Kings had something to do with the murky pint glass in the middle, and that alone had me thankful to be a bystander.

In fact, I was so absorbed in the game that I didn't even register the presence behind me. Only when I felt a small nudge against my shoulder did I look up.

Josh was holding out another Solo cup.

"What's this?" I asked, as it changed hands. Then he sat down beside me so our faces were almost level. A smell from the cup wafted toward my nose. "Wait, is this—"

"Vanilla Coke. Your favorite."

"Where did you get this? I didn't bring it over."

"The store across the street. I ran over just now."

"Why?"

"To say sorry."

He ducked his head as he said it. But I didn't need to see his face to hear the note of sincerity in his voice.

"Okay," I said evenly.

"I was out of line back there." He shook his head. "I don't know why I even said it. I know you're not going to change your mind because of some stupid comment I made—nor would I want you to. Seriously, it doesn't matter to me whether you drink or take anything or not. I love you exactly the way you are."

He looked up then, and our eyes locked. There was a softness to his expression that seemed to culminate in the small crease between his eyebrows. My irritation began to melt away.

"It's okay," I found myself saying quietly.

"Seriously, Morg." He took one of my hands in his, stroking a patch of my skin over and over with his thumb. "You know I admire you for sticking to your principles, don't you? It takes a lot."

I wondered how much he meant it: whether his words carried only vocal sincerity or stretched to something more. If I had total faith in them, I would've dared to ask the question. Would've let my words wrap around the pills I knew were still in his pocket, feigning casual wondering so he wouldn't know they were all I could think about. Asked outright whether his admiration for me went far enough to respect my concern and consider not talking them altogether.

But I didn't.

Instead: "Thank you."

"So are we okay?" he asked, looking up at me from under thick lashes. "I really am sorry."

There were a number of things I could've said. I could've pushed for a better apology, because for all his talent for picking the right words, there was good reason that actions spoke louder. I could've probed deeper into why he said it in the first place, especially when we had an audience of Hanna. I could've even opted for the cold shoulder—turning my attention back to my best friend for the rest of the night and letting her extroversion envelop me like a security blanket.

But I didn't want this to poison the evening. Although Josh's comment had stung at the time, it wasn't the worst thing he could've said to me. The only thing that would make me feel worse was dragging the situation out and inflating it far beyond necessary.

So I nodded. "Yeah," I said, as relief broke across his face. "We're okay."

"Thank God." Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on my forehead, lingering there so I felt the shape of his next words on my skin. "You know I really do love you, right?"

"I know. And I love you, too."

"Let's put this behind us and have a good night."

I nodded. A small smile found its way onto my face; whether it was voluntary or muscle memory, I wasn't sure. But I guessed it didn't matter as long as I felt better. "Yeah. Sounds good to me."

Josh lifted his cup and clinked it against mine.

Then he took a drink.

I followed his lead.

----------------------

The memories of that night are coming back... but where will it all end? There's still more to come, so strap in for the ride!

As always, let's chat in the comments!

- Leigh