The ceiling in my room is dotted with tack from old posters. Heather lay over my arm with her head resting on my chest, and despite how warm her body was next to mine, my hand stopped receiving blood fifteen minutes ago. I chose to ignore it because she is small and achingly beautiful in my arms.

When you first have sex, it causes temporary idiot euphoria. Not only are you giddy, and your cheeks hurt because you've smiled too much, but you also start spouting stupid shit.

I'd blurted a confession to Heather before she'd left that we'd had magical sex, not to be confused with magic sex, which implied there were wands and warlocks and dodgy robes, but the kind that would alter you by morning. She'd smiled, of course, and told me she'd heard sex was magic to all boys. But, for the first time, I don't think she got what I was trying to say.

She'd asked again about the party and this time I couldn't refuse. I would put my reservations about Chuck behind me for one day because the light in her eyes when I nodded was priceless.

Later, I composed a text for Heather but deleted it. Chuck maintained you shouldn't text a girl after sex for at least seven days. Once, Heather had told me a boy from summer camp texted her all the time, and she caught 'The Ick.' I wasn't sure what 'Ick' was, but I hoped she'd popped a pill or whatever to get rid of it.

I dozed until it became a deep mid-afternoon snooze. It was the most rested I'd felt in months.

When I eventually awoke, it was past six in the evening. I went downstairs to the kitchen; Mom was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink.

"Are you coming to the hospital?" she paused, soap suds masking her hands. "His surgery is scheduled in a couple of hours."

"I might see you later," I said noncommittally. "I have a date with Heather first." Although she'd never explicitly called it such, she hadn't not said it either.

"Oh," was all she said.

"At the party?" Chuck added from the breakfast bar.

My eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem?"

His mouth curled into a predatory smile, but I was the only one who noticed.

"Chuck, you're a dick." Unsurprisingly, he snorted a laugh, knowing I had nothing better to give.

Mom suppressed a sigh with her back to me at the sink. "Would it kill you to try harder to be friendly, Adrian?" She wiped her brow with the side of a wet hand.

She would never understand how much. "Probably," I said, wrinkling my nose, "so I won't chance it."

Chuck was an intimidating foot taller than me, having had a growth spurt over the summer, and fifty percent more stupid—which took effort. I put his dumb comments down to the number of blows he'd taken during football practice, but I believed nature was playing her part too.

Looking at him now, there was a plan brewing behind those big dumb brown eyes of his, and all I could do was wait for it to happen.

Heather arrived an hour after Chuck commandeered the truck, so we hiked two miles of flat desert highway. I was doing this for her, not me, and because we'd had sex, which I was immensely happy about. I was also determined not to be the guy who knocked back one Budweiser after another and spent the evening weeping in a corner over his dad before vomiting on somebody's dog.

But as I leaned with one thigh against the wall, white knuckles clutching the synthetic red cup, music thumping, it felt inevitable. The house was crammed with soon-to-be seniors and college freshmen on summer break.

"Glad you could force yourself to a party," Chuck said through a tight-lipped grin and a rougher-than-needed back slap.

"Fucking asshole," I muttered under my breath.

I regressed to my favorite hobby, watching Heather navigate the world of normal people. Every few minutes, I'd lean over her shoulder, close enough to detect her bubble-gum body wash but with sufficient distance to avoid creepy.

"This party is lame," I said, glancing around the crowd. "Are you ready to leave yet?"

She glared at me. It was a joke. Probably.

"If you agree to take me to prom?"

I stopped my eyes rolling for her. "We'll see..."

She let out an exaggerated sigh and turned back to Sylvie. Heather's arms waved in the air while retelling the story about the day she almost got absorbed into a faulty jet at Aqua Splash. I smirked. Even though it wasn't a joke, it had been the funniest thing I'd ever seen, and it wasn't as if she'd lost a limb or anything. It was the way she told it.

I went to take a sip of beer but thought better of it. I'd not consumed a drop yet. Before I even lowered my arm, the purposeful knock from Chuck's caused my elbow to hit a new angle, spraying lukewarm sticky beer over Heather's back.

And there it was—the amalgamation of Chuck's plan coming to fruition.

She gasped, pitching her shoulders like tents. When her head whipped around, Chuck pointed a finger at the crumpled cup in my hand. Beau slapped Chuck's back as they laughed in unison like idiots.

My eyes pleaded accident, but hers stayed trained on Chuck's accusing finger. That's when I saw it—the sudden understanding that I'd asked her to leave, that I never wanted to come, and this was perhaps, in her eyes, the only thing left I could do about it.

Livid is a word that didn't touch the sides as my eyes bored into Chuck, wondering how the fuck we're even related—low is the blow that goes unnoticed but scores a high point.

I might hate him.

If I took a swing at Beau's face, I don't have the money to be sued by his dad. I could punch Chuck... after all, he can't sue me without enduring the crossfire himself, and then all would be well in the kingdom. Heather's honor would be defended, and I wouldn't come across like the jackass I am right now, standing here having a meaningful internal monologue with myself.

"Heather, listen..."

"You did that on purpose, so we'd have to leave... You never wanted to bring me. You said so yourself. But Adrian...this—really?"

Whoa... "No, Chuck did that on purpose because he's a dick." I smiled at Heather to appease her, but it had zero effect.

Heather's mascara smudged under her eyes. She looked better without it. A solitary black tear rolled down the bridge of her nose. I wanted to tell her that crying might make me cry and she should stop, or I'd be close to asking where a corner was and if they could let the dog in.

"You're the dick," she fired back.

Heather was funny because she made her eyes look like she wasn't joking, then she said, "Whatever, Adrian."

But it was his fault, and I found it insane that, for the first time, she couldn't see it. I plucked Chuck's car keys from the fishbowl and stormed outside. He'd be pissed when he found out but wasn't that the point? It was pitch black with only the occasional streetlight, the nearest neighbors being a mile and a half in either direction.

After that, I drove beyond the vineyards and roadside pit stops until it was just sporadic trailer parks and landscapes dotted with cacti and acacia trees. At the darkest point of the night, the vibrant desert oranges morphed into silhouettes. A vicious crosswind lashed against the truck, veering it sideways. I teased the accelerator, and the car became weightless, an extension of me until driving became as natural as running.

There was a sudden pressure behind my eyes. This—the crushing disappointment in my family was becoming a near constant.

Ten seconds later, I eased off the gas and flexed my fingers, loosening the cramp that had begun to build in them. Chuck would know I'd taken the truck by this point and would be spitting fireballs by the time I got back.

On cue, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Chuck, most likely. I'd ignored his last four texts, one more wouldn't kill, but I remained hopeful. Then the ringtone changed.

"Hey, Mom."

"Where on earth are you?"

"En route to Fresno, believe it or not." I wasn't. I was just fucking with her.

Mom made a thoughtful sigh. There was radio silence except for Chuck bouncing insults off the walls in the background.

"Chuck is disappointed that you borrowed his truck again without asking. I had to collect him from the party."

I grinned, knowing that Chuck was way past disappointed by this point, especially at having a parent pick up.

"You need to try harder, Adrian." Her voice distorted a little, but the coolness that seeped into it was hard to ignore—I could tell the phone was pressed to her mouth. "You missed your antidepressants this morning. I picked up your repeat prescription from the pharmacy, and they were still on the counter when I got home. Are you okay?"

My pause was just long enough to convey how shitty her question made me feel. It always left me thinking how far from their version of normal I'd allowed myself to drift.

"What do you think? I'm just out for a drive. No big deal, alright?"

"It's a big deal to Chuck."

"He'll get over it."

Chuck interjected with a snort, and I knew he was eavesdropping.

"Get him off the line, Mom."

"Get your ass home," Chuck shouted.

"I am done with this shit." Mom dropped an octave whenever she cussed. "You guys need to bury the hatchet. This is too much now; something has to change."

The underlying tone of disappointment in her voice no longer stung on the surface. So out of the three of us, I was the first one to hang up. And it felt good.