One Last Thing

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    MY LOCKER SLAMS shut as I see a flash of football varsity jackets come into view. On a normal day, I would ignore the fact that Everett O'Hara tormenting me brings him so much joy. Today though, I've already been through enough shit. It's like he knows it's my birthday and wants to ruin it even more.

    I sigh and turn around to be met with a pair of gray eyes and a smirk on that irritating face. I would really do anything just to see him get pummeled straight through that stupid smile of his.

    "Can I help you?" I all but growl.

    That insatiable smirk widens. "I think the better question is how I can help you."

    The football team's laughter echoes down the halls as they continue walking, but he doesn't bother falling back into step with them as he leans against the lockers and looks down at me with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

    I go back to putting back my locker combination for the second time, since someone shut the locker in my face, and scoff. "Everett O'Hara helping me? Now this I can't wait to hear."

    "Come to Lahey's party on Friday with me."

     I still, glancing back at him. "What?"

    That cocky disposition doesn't let up. He tilts his head to the side. "A party. You know, a social gathering involving a large number of people? You dance. You drink. Normal people call it fun."

    Every week during football season a player hosts an after-party at their place. It doesn't matter whether we win or lose; everyone knows that after game days, you go to the game, and then you get shit-faced right after. Why he's suddenly asking me to go with him out of the blue, or how that's supposed to help me as he's so confidently stated, I have no idea. Nor do I want to know, because I don't care.

    "I know what a party is," I roll my eyes. "And the answer is no."

    "Ah, yes, I forgot," he snaps his fingers like he's just remembered something invaluable, "you're not like normal people, and you hate fun."

    "Or I don't want to watch a bunch of people making out with each other in some dude's living room," I shoot back.

    "Right," his eyes gleam. It's almost too easy, the way we can slip into banter, "because sitting at home curled up under your covers watching The Bachelor with your broken fairy lights is so much better."

    And it's that awful twist of familiarity—the undertone of amused understanding, the reminder that he sees me—that makes me stiffen. "Don't pretend like you know me."

    His eyes soften imperceptibly. "I used to."

    A course of nostalgia runs through me at the painful acknowledgement of what we once were, and then it's gone, replaced with a bitter ache. I swallow hard. Use to's are meaningless when so much has already changed.

    And he seems to know it too, because after a moment of heavy silence, he nods his head to himself and raps his knuckles twice against the locker before he stands up straight. For a brief second, there's a sadness to him in a way I can't explain, a tiredness in the way his shoulders sit.

    And then it's gone, and the smirk is back on his face.

    "Well if you change your mind..." he trails off suggestively.

    "I won't."

    He hums, lips curling further. "That's what they all say."

    Another scoff of disbelief is my only response. He huffs something like a laugh as his eyes scan my face, though I don't know what he's searching for, and then he shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and turns away. He only takes a couple steps before he stops and turns back to me.