"Out of the way, gonna hurl!"

The cluster of people on the porch hastily breaks apart as Gabe Federman stumbles past, not really running, but kind of falling forwards. Thank God he makes it to the yard before the retching starts.

Next to me, Olivia Harlow shudders. "Annnd that's how we know it's time to go home."

I laugh. It's a long-standing joke that parties don't end until Gabe is vomiting in the bushes. "Remember last year when he took a head-dive over the railing?"

Olivia cracks up, actually doubling over with laughter, but I suspect that has less to do with the memory of Gabe vaulting headfirst into the hydrangeas and more to do with the fact that she's not exactly sober either.

I check my phone's clock. 1:23 a.m. As always, Gabe has perfect timing. "Okay, well, I better go find Laila."

Addison Lien grimaces. "Good luck with that. Last I saw her, she had a beer in each hand."

My stomach twists in that old combination of worry and guilt. She's not supposed to be drinking. Abandoning the sanctuary of the porch, I make my way between Addison and her sister Kate and step back into the house. The noise and heat from so many bodies packed into a small space hit me like an invisible wave, reminding me why I went outside in the first place, but I get used to it quickly. The Harlows' living room is packed with high schoolers dancing, drinking, making out, and playing lots of alcohol-centered games. It's the first party of the summer, and we've all got plenty of steam to blow off.

I survey the room for Laila, hoping against hope I won't have to wade into the sea of raging hormones to fish her out (haha, get it? Sea? Fish?). I don't spot her right away, and I'm just starting to enter the fringe of the dance crowd when I hear her voice, loud and high-pitched, coming from the den. She sounds upset.

Quickly, I shove past a couple grinding and make a beeline for the den. It's back behind the staircase, and it has a foosball table, so it's always hard to get in there at one of these. The hallway is chock full of people taller and bigger than me, but I'm used to that. I use my elbows generously, on the guys and the girls. One chick in a floor-length hippie skirt snaps, "Watch it," as I try to squeeze between her and an overweight guy who's clearly stoned. Laila's voice is fainter, but every few words it spikes up really loud, almost shrieking. What has she gotten herself into now?

When I finally break through the meatheads blocking the doorway, I find Laila, holding a beer can and looking very tipsy, shouting at an equally unsteady Will. Laila's braid is coming undone, and her shirt is on backwards, while Will's hair looks as if he's been sticking his fingers in an electrical socket all night.

Oh, no. Not again.

"... you have to make it so hard, Will!" Laila's yelling, teary-eyed and red-faced. "Why can't you just let it be?"

"It's not that much to ask!" he says, and I hate how desperate he sounds, like he's begging her. "You always push me away, and I— I—" He scrubs a hand over his face. "Dammit Laila, can't you see that I'm trying?"

Everyone is watching them. Even the guys playing foosball are distracted. I want to tell them all that it's not a soap opera, but I know from past experience that it won't matter what I say. Drama follows Laila everywhere she goes, and they all know it. At this point, she basically is a character on a soap to them.

Laila tries to take a step towards Will, but she loses her balance and staggers sideways. I run up to catch her before she falls completely, propping her up with my shoulder. I'm the least strong person I know, but she's so thin, even I can support her.

"Sam?" She slurs my name, so it sounds almost like sham.

"Shhh," I tell her, pulling her hair out of my face. "It's time to go."

Someone boos, but then a guy yells, "Shut the hell up," and suddenly Israel Fisher is there, like a dark avenging angel, shifting Laila's weight from me to him. Caught off guard, I suck in a sharp breath, and get a whiff of Tide and the sports deodorant he uses before he backs away, holding Laila around her waist. Despite the hour, he looks stone-cold sober, and angry to boot.

On the best of days, Israel can be described as "intense", so an angry Israel is not one that I am particularly eager to deal with.

It's not my fault, I want to say, which is silly. It's not like I'm responsible for her. Still, as Laila's cousin, he's the closest thing she has to an older brother, and for whatever reason I feel the need to apologize for her state.

"Izzy," Laila whimpers, her head lolling back onto his chest. "I don't feel good."

"Yeah, wonder why." He takes away her beer, and then jerks his head at me. "I'm taking her out."

"Okay, I'll be right there," I say, but he's already walking away. I turn back to Will, who resembles a balloon someone's let the air out of. The sight makes me inexplicably tired.

The room has lost interest now, and everyone's returning to whatever they were doing before. There are some whispers, and I know this will be heartily gossipped about. But that's not my problem right now.

I go to Will and grab his arm, and he lets me lead him out of the den. With him in tow, people clear out of my way, so it's an easy march out the door. Olivia and the Liens are gone, but Gabe is spread-eagle in the grass, singing some old country song very off-key. Israel is halfway across the yard, headed towards the street, and he's given up on Laila walking. She hangs out of his arms like a limp rag doll.

"Can you walk on your own?" I ask Will quietly.

He nods, but doesn't say anything. I let go of him, then, and walk down the porch steps without checking to see if he's following me. I'm not angry. It just hurts to look at him.

Israel is slowed down by carrying Laila, so we catch up to him before he gets to the street.

I say, "Are you going to take her home, or am I?"

"It makes more sense for me to. I live closer." Israel glances back at us. "Someone else is going to have to take that dipwad though."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the insult, because I don't want to make Israel madder. Without turning around, I ask Will, "Do you have someone to get a ride with?"

"I live right next-door to you, Sammy," he answers. "Can't I just ride with you?"

"Yeah, if you want me to be grounded for eternity." My parents aren't strict, exactly, but coming home at two in the morning with a drunk boy in my back seat is a sure way to land myself banned from parties for the rest of the summer. "Plus if you pass out, there's no way I could get you inside."

"I'm not going to pass out," he says, sounding indignant. "I only had, like, three beers. I weigh almost two hundred pounds."

This last comment is grandstanding for Israel's sake. This time, I do roll my eyes. These boys and their feud. It's ridiculous.

"It's not her responsibility to get you home, douche," Israel says, and his voice has that tightness it gets when he's about to blow his lid like a bottle rocket. Will is a little slower tonight, so it takes a few seconds for the insult to sink in, but then he's stiffening and drawing himself up to his full height.

Quickly, before things can get ugly, I say, "It's okay, I'll do it."

Israel makes a disgusted scoff, but it's quiet enough that Will doesn't hear it. Immediately, Will relaxes and throws his arm around my shoulder, any trace of his anger gone. "I promise not to throw up in your car," he says cheerfully.

"Great," I deadpan. "Sounds fun."

We reach the sidewalk, and Israel asks, "Samoa, can you stay with her for a sec while I bring my car up?"

Nobody calls me Samoa except my grandmother, is what I think. But I've learned it's futile to argue this with him. "Sure."

He nods at the streetlight. "Just sit here on the curb, you should be fine by the light. I'm not parked very far."

I dutifully sit, and he sets Laila down as gently as if she were a baby bird. She sinks her head down onto my lap, her eyes once again fluttering shut, but I can tell that she's still conscious. Carefully, I stroke her hair, which is tangled and clumped with sweat and I don't want to know what else.

"They'll be fine with me," Will says, which would be more reassuring if he wasn't wincing from the light's glare. "Don't worry."

"Fine with you?" Israel turns around, his fists clenching. Crap. "She is the farthest thing from fine right now. You know she's not supposed to drink!"

"She's not a kid, Fisher," Will grumbles. "She deserves to make her own choices."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Israel kicks the streetlight's base, making me flinch. "She's fricking bipolar!"

"So? She's a person, isn't she?" Will crosses his arms stubbornly, his forehead furrowing. "She has the right to live her life how she wants to."

"Even if it gets her killed?" Israel demands, stepping closer to Will. "Huh? Does she deserve that?"

"Just because she's bipolar doesn't mean other people get to decide what's best for her!"

"When her life is on the line, then yeah, it does." Anger rolls off of Israel in palpable waves. "If she drinks, if she doesn't take her meds, the episodes come back, and the next thing we know she's slitting her wrists or—"

"Israel," I say sharply, all too aware of Laila's weight in my lap. "Stop."

He whirls on me, eyes flashing. "Don't tell me to stop. You were supposed to be watching her."

"So were you," I shoot back, and that shuts him up. For a few seconds, we're all silent, but the boys are still staring each other down like dogs trying to establish dominance.

"Look," I say evenly. "The truth is, we're all supposed to look out for her, and we all failed. So let's just get her home, and then tomorrow you can duel or joust or whatever it is you neanderthals do to resolve these things."

"Oh save it," Israel snaps, but the edge is gone from his voice.

I let out a long, weary breath. "Just go get the car, okay? I need to get home."

With one last glare for good measure, Israel strides off, his back rigid as a pole. It's not until he's out of sight that Will sighs and lowers himself onto the curb next to me, somewhat unsteadily. I'm acutely aware of his shoulder brushing against mine, the heat from his body, the sheer mass of him making me feel small and shielded. My heartbeat stutters predictably.

"You're all over the place tonight," I tell him. Usually, in those situations, he's the one who keeps his cool. To see him go toe to toe with Israel is unsettling. "How many beers did you really have?"

He doesn't laugh like I wanted him to. He rests his elbows on his knees, staring off into the middle distance of the neighborhood. In profile, his face is haggard, bloodshot eyes and wild hair, but somehow it makes him look young. "It's not the beer. It's just... been a crazy night."

He glances down at Laila, and I wish he'd just punch me in the gut because it would probably hurt less. It occurs to me how very pathetic the both of us are, pining away for something we can't have.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "I thought you guys were doing good with the 'just friends' thing."

"We were." He puts his head in his hands, driving his fingers up into his hair. "I just screwed it all up, as usual."

"What'd you do this time?" I ask, nudging him with my elbow. I want to make him smile. I want to get that empty look off his face.

"Oh, you know." He looks away, scrubbing the back of his head. "Told her I loved her."

He says it so casually, at first I don't register the words. Then it hits me, and I forget how to breathe.

It feels like I've gotten the wind knocked out of me. I literally can't draw in air, because all I can think is He loves her?

I suppose, in some far corner of my mind, part of me knew this—but I didn't want to know it. I buried it, and instead fed myself lies built on fleeting glances and meaningful smiles. Every time Laila turned him down or had a new boyfriend, I told myself this time it was it. This time he would be over her.

But I was wrong.

He loves her.

I'm getting lightheaded. I wish I could pass out, because it sounds romantic and dramatic, and it would get me away from this moment. I think I might cry.

Don't you dare, I tell myself fiercely. You did not spend the past 8 years sucking it up just to lose it now, right in front of him.

I make some sort of strangled gasp, and then I'm breathing again, and I focus on each inhale and exhale until the heat behind my eyes goes away. Somehow, I manage to get out, "You love her?"

"Well, yeah." Will still isn't looking at me, and clearly hasn't noticed the effect his declaration had. "I guess I kind of always have. And with her birthday coming up, I just wanted to tell her before, y'know..."

He turns his arm to expose the soft flesh of his forearm, where a series of black circles and star-like icons form a pattern the size of his fist. His soulmark, received several months ago. The sight of it makes me ache for pure want; that old, overwhelming desire to see the same image mirrored on my own skin, telling the whole world that he was mine and I was his. That we were connected. 

Only now do I realize, he had the same dreams. Just for Laila.