The anger takes longer than I expect to settle, and a baseline rage is still coursing through my system when I get back to my dorm that evening. After storming out of the student center, I went to the library instead, but my mind was racing too fast for me to concentrate on any assignment. I gave up after about thirty minutes and came back here.

The fourth-floor corridor is busier than usual; several bedroom doors are propped open and girls dart from room to room, in various states of dress and undress. I know most of them by name and face, but I'm definitely not part of the close-knit friendship group that's formed over the last few weeks. Still, they're nice enough, and one of them—a freshman called Mila—gives me a wave when I step out of the elevator.

"Hey, Morgan!"

She's standing in her doorway, half dressed in a denim skirt but with a towel wrapped around her top half. Her long hair curls down to her waist, and she's done something magic with her eyebrows that makes them look bushy yet perfectly tamed. "Hey," I say, with a polite smile. "Big night out?"

"We got an invite to a frat party," she says proudly. "I know what you're thinking, and I agree—most of the guys there are douchebags. But it's a free invitation and free booze, so we're making the most of it."

I feel a little twinge at the mention of a frat party, sadness making waves through my lingering anger. But I don't let it show. "Sounds fun."

"Want to come with?"

I figure she's joking, so I laugh. "Yeah. Right."

But she doesn't laugh with me. Just looks perplexed by my reaction.

That's when the conversation with David comes rushing back, and I shrink under her gaze and start wondering what she really thinks of me. Why she always takes the time and effort to be nice, even though I'm never in the mood for more than small talk. How much she knows about Josh, whether she knows about me and him, and if she sees me as a victim to feel sorry for. If she would think, given the opportunity, I'd throw the actual victim under the bus to save a reputation.

I can't stop thinking about what David said—and right then, I realize sitting in my room alone tonight is probably the worst thing I can do.

Maybe a distraction isn't a bad idea.

"Okay," I say, and I almost hear the screeching of brakes as my night takes an unexpected U-turn. "Yeah, I will, actually."

Mila's face brightens immediately. "Great!" she says, then throws a glance over her shoulder and calls to the two other girls in her room. "Did you hear that, guys? Morgan's coming with."

There comes a cheer from inside, and I laugh self-consciously because I'm not sure how to react. I wasn't expecting such a warm reception—probably because I've never extended the same courtesy to them. And it's all my doing. They've been friendly from day one, happy to include me if only I stopped brushing them off and shutting myself away.

I know I need to do better. Perhaps tonight is a good place to start.

***

As always, I have no intention to drink.

Especially not before or during a frat party; if there's any place to steer clear of alcohol, I'm aware this should be first on my list. I can almost feel Caleb looking down on me disapprovingly. But I can also feel that something's changed. I already feel lighter, different—perhaps buoyed by the unexpected welcome from Mila and her friends. I've spent so long being miserable I've grown into the idea that I'll bring down anybody around me. Now I can see that's not true.

When Mila forces me into her desk chair so she can try out a hairstyle she saw on Pinterest that will apparently turn out amazing on curly hair, I protest only once before accepting it. When she and her friends make real conversation with me, asking about where I'm from and the classes I'm taking and the shows I've watched on Netflix, it's surprisingly easy to keep talking for someone so used to giving one-word answers. And when they pass me a Coke with a splash of vodka mixed in, I don't freeze up or refuse to take it.

It's not because I feel pressured. They don't seem like the type to judge, even if I was to explain that I'm usually teetotal.

Rather I don't feel the same panic that I usually do around alcohol. In this environment it seems much less scary, cushioned by the walls of Mila's bedroom and a chilled, hands-off vibe. One drink is hardly going to make me lose control—and it might even help take David Stephenson off my mind.

"Thanks," I say, as I take the cup.

I don't feel anything with the first sip, nor the second, nor any of them that come after. In fact, when I drain the last of the Coke, it's almost disappointing how little of an effect it does have. I'm still here, still me. All the same thoughts are still there, about David and Hanna and Caleb and Josh—although maybe they do feel a little less sharp around the edges.

It's kind of nice.

Especially here, lounging on Mila's bed, with music playing from her Bluetooth speaker and the comfortable buzz of chatter around me. Girls from further down the corridor keep showing up to join, but more people simply means more opportunity to get lost in it all.

"Hey, Morgan." The voice comes from the girl lounging on the end of Mila's roommate's bed. Not only does she look effortlessly casual in a denim jacket and ankle tie heels, she's also so pretty it's intimidating, with dark soulful eyes and impossibly long lashes. I recall her being introduced as Himani. "Did I see you in the cafeteria with Elliot Kelley the other day?"

The question catches me off guard.

"Uh, yeah, maybe," I say. "Do you know him?"

"Kind of. We're in the same analytical chemistry class, so I knew the name and face. But I'd never actually spoken to him before the other day."

It takes more effort than it should to keep my face neutral. "Oh?"

"He took my photo," she says. "Which sounds creepy as hell without context, and honestly, that was my first thought when he approached me. But then he explained what it was all about. His big photography project—a Humans of New York thing, except on campus. Have you heard about it?"

I nod.

"Stupid question. You're friends—of course he's told you. But the photo was amazing. I was waiting for my friends on a bench by the quad, staring into space and in my own little world. When he first approached me, I thought, Oh my God I probably looked dead behind the eyes. I made up my mind I was going to get him to delete the photo even before I saw it. But weirdly... it turned out good."

This makes me laugh, because she really does sound amazed. "Yeah, well, he's really into his photography."

"I even made it onto the Instagram," she says proudly. "My caption was kind of embarrassing, because I really was thinking about how I was going to align my hair-washing schedule with my weekend plans, and I couldn't come up with something cooler on the spot. But still. I've got the second-highest number of likes so far."

"Wait, there's an Instagram?"

"Yeah, did you not know? Hold on." She pulls her phone out of her pocket. After a few swipes, she's getting off the bed and handing it to me. "It's this one."

I take the phone, squinting at the grid of photos. There aren't many: just a neat selection of nine to get the feed started, with a bright and varied color palette that pulls my gaze in all directions. Nine people, nine locations, nine outfits and nine different pensive expressions. I don't recognize any of them—except Himani, of course, who has prime spot in the center of the grid.

"I didn't know he started it," I tell her, "but it looks great. Especially your photo."

"Aw, thanks," she says, looking genuinely flattered as I pass the phone back over. "His followers are going up pretty quickly. I swear, it'll be all over campus soon."

"I need to give him a follow," I say, smiling to myself as I think about how he'll react if my username pops up in his notifications. I'm definitely going to confront him about this later; I just need to find the most entertaining way of doing so.

And it's weird then, when I realize how much I'm looking forward to doing it.

"Has he taken yours?"

I almost choke on my sip of Coke. Which also happens to be the last one in my cup. "My photo? No chance."

"Why not?"

"Because I am not photogenic in any way, shape or form," I tell her. "I don't want my face ruining his Instagram grid. And we're friends, so he wouldn't want to tell me if it did."

"That's what you think," Himani says, with a glint in her eye, "but then he takes the photo."

"Still not convinced."

She looks like she's about to say something more, but we're interrupted by Mila coming striding over. The towel is gone; she's now fully dressed on the top half, in a silky shirt that very effectively conceals a hip flask full of vodka. She shakes it at me. "Another one?" she asks. "There's still time before we head over."

The no thanks is already on the tip of my tongue. It's habit more than anything: an ingrained reflex designed to shut down further pestering, which is only successful half the time. But now something stops me.

The night's barely begun, and I'm enjoying myself already, all because I said yes to something instead of running away. Mila's nice, Himani's nice, so are all the other girls in this room—and I would've known it earlier if only I had given them a chance. They deserved a chance.

But habit always pulled me back. Habit's been pulling me back my whole life, and it's only got worse since Josh died. Habit would have had me on the other side of the wall right now, listening to muffled voices and laughter, angry and upset and once again fucking lonely.

So I'm not going to let it take the reins tonight.

It's time to change.

After all, why am I so scared of losing control when I've always had the power to say no?

"Sure," I say to Mila, holding my cup out. "Why not?"

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

What do you think? Morgan drinking: good or bad idea? Does she need a distraction from everything going on, or is she in a dangerous state of mind?

As always, I love to hear your thoughts!

- Leigh