Chapter Twenty-seven | After Dark

♫  After Dark by Mr.Kitty

The next Friday night is all about Logan Peterson.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I get ready for his teammate's party. I did have some reservations about going, but then I realized how our relationship has been since we started college: strained and... barely existing. When I think too much about how he's been struggling, and how I've known this but barely did anything to help, I get a lump in my throat. The very least I can do is show up for him tonight.

News of the party traveled fast. Apparently, Fresco's parents are rich and out of town, which means the party is located in the Upper East Side, in their apartment that's probably worth more than all my body parts combined. I've heard several people mention it throughout the day. Most students in my hall are getting ready for it right now, even. Doors are open, music is blasting, and the dormitory is busy and crowded as if everybody just awakened from a long, deep sleep. Which, I guess they kind of did. A sleep called 'classes, midterms, essays and presentations'. Guaranteed to be filled with cruel nightmares.

Luckily for tonight's Nova, I invested in some makeup of my own after the unveiling. Granted, I don't have Olivia's skills (or her non-trembling hands), but I did manage to put a few subtle colors on my eyelids according to a YouTube tutorial, and I also did a weird job plucking my eyebrows. I would rather have it be a good job, but alas, the job's done regardless and if you don't stare at my face for too long, it looks fine.

My heart skips a beat when I secure my leg braces around my legs and cover them with one of the jeans Milo got me. It's high waisted and wide-legged and all soft inside. It makes me feel giddy, thinking about Milo sticking his hand into the leg of the pants and picking them because of their softness.

But then, his story involved Emmy. He said he gave her his creditcard and asked for her help. I know that's because she's experienced with mobility aids like mine and he wanted her advice after he heard about it at Hyde's meeting, but the idea of them going shopping together is just weird. What would they even talk about? He'd probably make her laugh all the time. And I bet he'd buy her food, too.

The thoughts sink into my stomach. I shake them away just as a figure appears in the doorway of the dorm.

Olivia looks shocked to see me. It's no secret we've been living past each other, waking up earlier than the other, coming back when they're in class or fast asleep. It's obvious that she doesn't know what to say to me, and I have nothing to say to her, either. Which isn't because I'm mad. I'm just hurt. And waiting for anything from her side.

The corner of my lip quirks up in what's supposed to be a small smile, or any type of acknowledgement. I don't wait for her reaction, turning back to my shoes instead and tying the shoelaces tight.

She whispers a curt, "Hey," and sits as her desk. Silence engulfs the room, then, as she unpacks her bag just as I grab mine to head out.

I'm halfway down the hall when I change my mind. This can't be fun for her, either. If she's anything like the roommate I thought she was, the guilt is eating her alive.

She seems taken aback when I bustle back into the dorm.

"Do you want to go to a party?"

Her wide eyes search mine. The question obviously catches her off guard, but something flickers behind her gaze and she nods, slow at first, then quickly. "Give me fifteen minutes to get ready," she says, standing.

I agree to wait and sit at my own desk as she collects an outfit in record time and locks herself in our bathroom, leaving her desk chair to spin in slow circles. Her books are strewn everywhere, several articles of clothing hanging over the back of the chair, photos taped to the wall of her and her sister and her friends. Despite Olivia's homesickness, she just fits. She knows what she's doing and I bet she aced her Writing 101 presentation.

I rock onto my steady feet and inch forward to take a better look at her pictures. There's Olivia on the Golden Gate Bridge, hugging her sister close. Olivia with her girlfriends at Disneyland. Olivia and her parents at her graduation. A small Olivia at dance class with a leg high in the air, and another years later as a cheerleader in the same pose. The most recent photo is the one her friend took of her last time, on the floor of our dorm, smiling into the camera.

Can I really blame her for the way she sees me? It's no different than what I'm used to. It only makes sense that she laughs about it when she's spent her entire life wrapped up in this normal, typical, beautiful life in which limbs listen to brains and that's the end of it. If I was her, saddled up with someone like me, I'm not sure if I'd be any different. I'm not sure I'd know any better.

Over my shoulder, my own wall seems to mock me. I have large posters rather than photos, of artists I barely listen to. There's a small picture of my parents when they were young and dating, hanging in between an alternative rock band and an indie artist who had two hit songs four years ago. I don't even know if I have any pictures of myself when I was a pre-teen and up. Until Milo started taking them, nobody was ever interested in taking a photo of or with me.

It was one of those absolutely mundane things I think I secretly craved. A friend who'd hold up their phone unprompted and tell me to smile. Or snapping a picture of me when I didn't know it, so that I could see what I looked like when I wasn't thinking about what I looked like.

Logan and I, after years of being friends, don't even have a picture together. He does with his other high school friends, still up on his Instagram. Maybe he didn't ask me for one because it'd be embarrassing, or I'm just failing to see that I don't look good in photos and this is everyone's way of telling me.

Olivia's ready to go not long after. She's done her hair and makeup quickly and has pulled on a black dress with a dainty gold necklace hanging from her neck. She slips on her black fuzzy coat on top, because it's still November and cold and the Upper East Side isn't exactly nearby.

We both keep quiet on the way. It's undeniably awkward, as if we're having a heavy conversation without any sound. I know what she'd say. She probably knows what I'd say, too, but neither of us makes the move. Not walking down the sidewalk, not in the subway, and not when we part ways once the elevator has carried us up to the million-dollar apartment, where music rages, voices are loud, and though there's plenty of space to explore the apartment and walk around, people are still standing so close to each other it almost seems too intimate to even look at.

I watch Olivia take off toward the giant, circular staircase, phone at the ready to text her friends. It reminds me who I'm here for, and I pull out my own phone to text Logan.

I move out of the way of the elevator. It's the first time walking with my new mobility aids, for a moment I wonder if people can tell. In my head, there's always something to notice about me. If it isn't my distorted steps, it's surely the contrast between those and these smooth ones. But nobody looks at my legs. They don't even glance in my direction.

The wrestling team is distinguishable by the purple jerseys they're sporting. Not a single one of them has blonde hair, though. I pass a grand living room, dressed in gold and white and marble and LED-lights glued along the ceiling for the occassion, and a widespread kitchen with a large island smacked in the middle of the space, but Logan's nowhere to be seen.

I approach the cluttered kitchen island. Plastic cups, bottles of liquor and sodas stand at the ready, some knocked over in a pool of what looks like water with a few ice cubes still intact. My fingers struggle to slide some plastic cups into each other, then squeeze out of nowhere, resulting in only a small indent in the material, which at least tells me it's fine to hold.

With a drink in my hands (plural), I turn to discover the rest of the luxury apartment. Unfortunately, that's the exact moment Olivia's dear friends decide to make an appearance. Mackenzie, Cassie and Ally move almost like one organism, into my periphial and then my face, looking surprised to see me.

The discomfort starts in my shoulderblades. It almost feels like this living being underneath my skin is growing extra arms, reaching out to my stomach, where it clenches the muscles in its inexperienced fists.

Of course, I find it ridiculous that this is the reaction my body decides to have to three girls who are practically strangers to me. Tightening in my joints and everything. This should be the kind of moment in which it should have my back, let go of the reigns and hand over control to me, even if it's just for a little while. But it's incapable of doing so.

They don't acknowledge me at first. Cassie pours them all a drink, some mix between various alcohol beverages, as Ally pulls out her phone. "Did Liv say she was coming tonight or no?" The latter asks absentmindedly.

I peer at the hall as the other two girls shrug. They're blocking the entrance. If I want to leave the room, I'll have to bump past them or ask them to move. The mere thought increases the tightness in my body, and my back starts to ache.

"Well?" It takes me a few moments to realize they're addressing me now. "Is she here?" Cassie asks.

I nod. My legs, thanks to the leg braces, move on their own accord, zeroing in on the crowded hall. But neither Mackenzie nor Ally, who are still standing in the doorway as Cassie fixes their drinks, gets out of the way. Instead, Ally pockets her phone and flashes me a toothy smile.

"You know, we owe you an apology."

My drink sloshes over the rim of my cup.

Behind me, Cassie hums. "We didn't know it was such a touchy subject." She appears next to me, clutching a bottle of some unknown liquor in her hand. The label has been scratched off the glass, but the smell is strong. "Here. Have some of this as a peace offering."

I pull back. "No, thanks. I don't drink." I try to raise my chin, as if to show how secure I am in that statement, but the girls don't buy it.

"Olivia explained a few things to us. We get that it's a brain-thing now," Mackenzie tells me. She nods her head to the bottle in Cassie's hand. "This fogs up brains like no other. Maybe it could help with your issues."

I press my cups to my chest, so that I can hold it with one hand and use the other to shield the top. My siblings were always serious about warning me when it came to watching your drink at parties, but nobody expected it to be girls like these, circling around me with smiles that could be perceived as friendly if I didn't know any better.

Professor Stew crosses my mind, so do the things he said to me. 'This is just one presentation. Your impediment is just one of many.' What would he say, now? It's just one drink? Would he see this as me excluding myself once again?

Maybe I'm seeing red flags where there aren't any. Overly cautious and paranoid. My body's being defensive because my mind is hazy, because neither know any better.

I eye the liquor in Cassie's hand. My cup is full already, so there's not much she could pour in, anyway...

Before I can make a move, the bottle is snatched away and brought to someone's puckered, bright red lips.

Ramona chugs the liquor until there's none left. When it's all gone, she pulls a slight face and pushes the bottle back into Cassie's arms, who looks up at her, wide-eyed in the same way her friends are.

No-one knows what to say. I mentally curse myself for being surprised that she's here. Before everything with Atlas went down, I invited that entire group to go to this exact party. Of course he'd bring her. She's back in New York, permanently, as Atlas' non-official official girlfriend, and a crasher of parties hosted by students of a university she no longer attends, apparently.

Ramona turns to me. "You're everywhere, aren't you?"

Her tone has lost the slow pace she used to address me with. Instead, it's filled with a snark that conflicts with her previous action. It definitely feels like she just saved me, chugging that liquor like it was water, and now she's back to being annoyed with my existence.

Cassie takes a step forward. Her interest in me has fallen away. She's peering at Ramona with wonder in her eyes. "You're Ramona Sinclair, right?" She asks cautiously.

I can't even blame her. Ramona's still an heiress and a model and that's the energy she exudes, standing tall and slender with her hair in long braids and a makeup look straight out of Vogue. Then there's the air of exclusivity around her. She doesn't slug or look down, or wastes any time on questions she has no interest in answering. Instead, she rounds the kitchen island to pour herself her own drink.

Cassie, Mackenzie and Ally exchange flabbergasted glances. They still don't move from the doorway, though, either to purposely stand in my way or subconsciously as they're drooling over Ramona.

I recognize the comfort in their stance, something that melted into them when they saw how Ramona asked me that question, 'you're everywhere, aren't you'? They're probably seeing this as an opportunity. Someone rich and gorgeous to add to their posse. Someone completely opposite to me.

"What are you still doing here?" Ramona asks after she's downed her drink. It's unclear who she's talking to.

"We were in the middle of a conversation with Nova here, before you chugged the peace offering we were giving to her," Cassie explains with a laugh.

Mackenzie and Ally are being surprisingly quiet. It's obvious that they're intimidated, which is funny, because it's the exact thing they were trying to do to me. I wonder if Ramona purposely reversed the roles, if that was her looking out for me somehow, or if she was just very thirsty. The latter seems most likely as she stands there, turning up her nose without joining in on Cassie's laughter.

"Oops," she says sarcastically. She reaches for another bottle to fill her cup with. "I really couldn't care less. I'm just here to drink and dip."

Cassie laughs again, and I wince at the awkwardness. This time, she approaches the kitchen island, too, leaving behind Mackenzie and Ally to hesitate in the doorway.

"The one you're holding is just as good as the bottle you had just now. You should try it with—"

Ramona interjects. "Have we met before or something?"

"No, but my name is Cass—"

"Then what makes you think I give a shit about your opinion?" She takes a step to the side, forcing Cassie to back up. "The first time I asked you what you were still doing here should've been a hint. I don't want to talk to you." When Cassie remains unmoving, blinking at her, Ramona raises her eyebrows. "Scatter."

The single word triggers something within the girls. Cassie gives Mackenzie and Ally a look and they scurry out of the kitchen with their tails between their legs.

Ramona heaves a heavy sigh once they're gone, ignoring me still standing there.

Which, I don't know why I am. Maybe it's gratefulness, although I doubt she did this for me. If she told me to scatter the way she told them just now, I'd probably run and then burst into tears. But I wouldn't be surprised.

I shift uncomfortably. Her head turns and she regards me, finally, taking a large gulp of her drink without averting her eyes from me.

The music changes, as if someone noticed us standing in the kitchen together like this and frantically scrambled to find a fitting song for the heavy air that's descended upon us. The LED-lights glued to the walls, following the lines of the ceiling, turn to a deep purple.

"You know you're making it easy for them, right?"

"What?" The word sounds dumb coming from my mouth.

"Teasing. Bullying. Whatever you want to call it." She tilts her head sideways, letting her eyes glide over me. "There's something really... pathetic about you."

I feel a scoff rising up in my throat, but push it back down. "Thanks."

"That wasn't an attack. You should see it as feedback. Nasty girls like that are everywhere, and the way you carry yourself just shows them what a ridiculously easy target you are. Getting tongue-tied isn't cute. It's an invitation."

"So, what should I do?" I can't believe I'm asking Ramona Sinclair for advice, in a stranger's kitchen, during a party.

For a while, I don't think she'll answer. She leans against the kitchen counter with her lower back, holding her cup up to her lips and taking slow sips. But then, she says, "Don't be pathetic."

I blink at her.

"Do you know how I define patheticness?" She asks. "It's not saying anything. It's waiting for someone else to say something, and then responding to it. It's waiting for someone else to do something, and then adjusting your own actions based on theirs."

I'm confused. She notices.

"I heard your conversation just now. All you did was respond. Take a step back when they took a step forward, deny the drink they offered to you, stand still when they wouldn't move aside. Logically, how pathetic is it for everything you do and say to indirectly be decided by someone else?"

Ramona puts her cup on the counter, wipes her mouth with a tissue from the dispenser next to the refrigerator, and then moves to leave. But she pauses when she's standing next to me, not turning her head to look at me as she speaks. "Half of the fun of being an asshole to someone is them going along with it by not doing anything. I should know." A beat passes. "Let's not speak again."

Her hips sway as she leaves, into the party and dissolving in the crowd. It's the first time I think I get the appeal about her. It's easy to get jealous of Ramona Sinclair, but jealousy often comes forward from admiration, and I would be lying if I said I don't admire her. She's so settled in who she is— not just her body, but her identity as a whole.

I imagine tucking her words underneath my arm as I finally leave the kitchen and join the party myself, scouring the crowd for Logan. There's an obvious contrast I feel to my first night in New York, when Milo took Olivia and me to that party where I met Atlas. It feels like ages ago now. How nervous I was, how insecure I was about my legs and my walk, how that party was both a jump in the deep end and a reassurance that everything was somehow going to work out (although, part of me doubts that now).

I kept thinking Atlas was the main character of that day. The charming, dimpled rich boy I had my very own meet-cute with. I mean, he did carry me when my legs started to hurt, and he engraved himself into my brain by giving me that damned business card.

But I might've seen it all wrong. My New York experience didn't start that night, but that afternoon. Meeting Olivia. Seeing Milo's brown eyes peek over the tray of drinks he was carrying. The way he mopped the floor for me, called me his friend and gave me that tour. Before Olivia's friends, before Ramona and professor Stew.

As if summoned, I spot Milo in the study, leaning against the doorpost as he speaks to someone. He's smiling wide. The kind of smile where his eyes narrow and his lip twitches, where he has to look away. And his hair is all shiny and clean, and his posture relaxed, and his eyes kind.

The sight sinks into me. My hands flex tightly for just a second and relax around the cup I'm holding.

Then I realize who he's talking to. Emmy's twirling a strand of hair around her finger with an ease I didn't know she possessed. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, then says something to make him laugh again.

What could even be that funny? I don't think Milo's ever laughed that loud over something I said, and we've been friends for quite some time.

Unexpectedly, Milo's brown eyes lock with mine. The LED-lights change colors fluidly, purple, blue and pink strobes running over his face as he keeps his eyes on me. The smile Emmy gave him is still etched onto his lips, but his gaze changes, melting into a calmer sort of look that has the opposite effect on my hands: they twitch. I almost drop my drink.

He touches Emmy's arm, says something to her, then makes his way over to me, eyes not wavering from my face. I realize too late that him coming over means he'll talk to me. Before I can flee, he stands in front of me, so close that the tips of his shoes touch mine.

"We have a way of meeting at parties, you and I," he says. He shifts the tone of his voice. "Eyes meet from across the room, the crowd disperses... it's like a movie."

"I'm looking for Logan," I respond.

He seems confused about me changing the subject. "I haven't seen him. Have you checked upstairs?"

I shake my head. "I'll do that, thanks." I turn on my heel to head for the stairs, but his voice and the urgency in it halts me in my step.

"Actually, Nova, could we have a talk first? I have something to tell you." He sees me hesitate. "I'll help you find Logan right after, I promise."

There's no real reason for me to say no. I don't even know why I want to. I assume it's all because of the bad few days I've been having, and the strained and stranded relationships with people who used to be my best friends at the beginning of the year. Maybe this is self-sabotage, and this is me pushing Milo away like I've done with Logan and Olivia. Maybe I should stop being pathetic, as Ramona said.

Milo leads us through the crowd. When a large group of people exit the elevator, into the hall we're in, he glances at me over his shoulder and takes my hand in his, squeezing as he pulls me with him through the chaos. The pressure he's putting on my hand is both tight enough to stop the trembling and light enough to not hurt me.

I glue my eyes to the back of his head, and the way his brown hair tickles the nape of his neck. It's getting longer. When he runs his hand through it, it almost disappears completely.

There's no real privacy to be found in this apartment, especially with the stream of people who keep pouring in. Eventually, Milo and I settle for a pair of corner seats in the home theater. He only lets go of my hand once we're seated. I press the edge of my cup between my thumb and pointer finger and set it on the floor.

Milo rubs his hands on his jeans. The sleeves of his hoodie are so long that they pass his wrist, clutching his hand.

I wish I had something to hide mine. They're all sweaty and shaky for no reason.

"I..." he starts, shifting in his seat. I watch him swallow, and then again, avoiding my eye. "God. This is harder than I thought it would be."

In front of us, the black screen flickers to life. Chatters subside as the attention shifts to the film that starts to play, but Milo doesn't pay attention to the black-and-white movie, and neither do I. Besides, it's obviously meant to serve as background noise, as the music from the party barely reaches into this room.

"I'm leaving."

The words come with their own soundfilter, it seems. Once the words leave Milo's open mouth, all other noises are expelled.

"Leaving?" I echo, gathering my thoughts.

Milo nods. "I'm meeting my— my mother. Italy. She invited Maxwell and me, but he's not interested and I... am. I'm finishing the term, for what it's worth, then I'm off." He swallows again. It takes him a while before he looks at me to find me already staring at him.

"Milo, that's great." I feel myself deflate. 'I'm leaving' sounded awfully permanent, but meeting his mother, going to Italy like he's always wanted, that truly is great. "You're going there for Christmas?"

"Not just Christmas," he says.

New Years, too, I guess.

"Nova, I'm... I mean, if everything works out, I might want to stay. She says she wants me to. A friend of hers has this photography class I could transfer into, and she has a spare room in her home. The one where she has chickens and a pool in the yard. I told you she lives close to the coast, right?"

The subway. When we went to Brooklyn, he told me all about it. His biological mom living off the Amalfi Coast, the house with green running up the bricks, the swimming pools and the chickens, art and cooking. Back then, I barely knew him. I barely knew how close that dream was.

"But, what about school?" It's not the question I'm intending to ask.

Milo's wringing his hands and averts his gaze again. "You know I'm not like Maxwell. Or like you. The only reason I'm still enrolled at all is because my Dad has connections in the admissions office and the board. I never enjoyed studying and I'm not good at it." He forces his face into a smile. "Ever since taking that photography class, I've realized that college is not the blueprint. I don't have to have a degree to live a good life or chase the things I want. And if I ever change my mind, I can start small. Closer to a place that feels like home, away from a place that doesn't."

He's talking about New York.

I understand everything he's saying. From his Mom, to Italy, to NYU. But that doesn't mean it doesn't sting when he says it. New York, the place I'm just now discovering, the place I've spent my entire life dreaming of, is not the place for the one person I want to be around most. The one person I've found who I feel so at ease with.

I could tell him it's a bad idea, hold onto him and never let go, but it would be selfish. He wouldn't be happy. And that, in turn, would make me unhappy.

I swallow and turn away, focusing on the screen. Something is churning in my stomach, but my hands are shaking too much for me to reach for my drink, so I just sit like that.

"Nothing is certain," Milo assures me, though I can tell how much he wants it to be. "Sergei might find out and lock me in a dungeon before I get to go. My mother might change her mind and uninvite me, or something." He laughs humorlessly.

"She won't," I say. It calms him. But it makes this churning in my stomach even worse.

His hand hesitates as it lifts over to me, searching in the dark. "Nova, I—"

The door bursts open, deafening my ears to whatever he was saying to me. A blur of colors fall into the room, followed by a commotion that started in the hall and follows it inside along with the bright LED-powered light.

The blur reveals itself to be two boys in the familiar purple jerseys of the wrestling team. The boy on top lands a heavy punch against the blonde guy's jaw.

I feel myself stiffen.

I found Logan. And he's getting beaten up.

You have two push notifications.