College Ruled

forty-one [part one]

41
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PRESTON MUST HAVE accomplished his task much more easily than Wesley, because when the car finally drops us off on the guys' crowded lawn, Maverick, Grayson, and him are already making themselves home in the foyer, tossing their jackets away in the closest closet.

       Preston's eyes light up as soon as they meet mine. He surges forward and wraps me in a quick, bone-crushing hug.

     "Remedy, how are—" He winces and releases me. "Shit, sorry. I—oh, wow..." He cuts himself off for the second time, eyes scanning my face. He grabs at my shoulders, as if to keep me from moving away from his assessment, and leans back to take me in better. "You look so much better."

      Over his shoulder, I don't miss the way Grayson stiffens. I don't miss the way he leans into Maverick's side, mumbling something short into the man's ear. And I definitely don't miss when, a moment later, he shoves off the wall and disappears deeper into the full house.

      Maverick offers me a smile, one I can't help but imagine is full of pity, and moves forward to tuck me into his side. Dark fingers land gently against my chin, and he tilts my face away from him to get his own look.

      "I see you escaped my brother in one piece," he says, eyes roaming over me. "Nearly all healed now, huh?"

      "Nearly."

"Good." Maverick taps a finger against my cheek before letting me go. Our little group migrates a few more steps into the house, music vibrating at our feet. "We were worried."

I offer him a closed-lip smile, unsure what to say. Thanks? It really wasn't that bad? You should see the other guy?

Get me another drink please because I am two seconds away from climbing into myself and never coming back out?

Thankfully, I don't have to. Wesley lurches forward, slings a heavy arm around my shoulder, and directs us toward the kitchen. "I owe Remi a drink."

∿

I don't leave the confines of the kitchen, mostly due to the incessant need to be in proximity of the wine and out of proximity of literally everything else, and an hour later, I find that I have officially reached shitfaced.

       I sprang right past weepy-drunk-Remi about twenty minutes ago and have now made it the point in the night where everything seems like a joke. Wesley's incoherent ramblings about his plans for the holiday? Hilarious. The girl who stumbles into the kitchen, takes a handful of chips, downs them like a shot, and stumbles back out? Hilarious. The kitchen's repeated offense of hiding away the spoons when I go to look for them? Fucking hilarious.
  
      Wesley barely takes his eyes off me. He fills the kitchen with noise, and I find that I'm thankful for it. There is no room for thinking when Wesley is involved.

      "...so anyway, I told the guy that I had not intended to throw the ball at his face, but he rushed way too soon. And, well... blood everywhere, and then this dude has the nerve to—Rem? You good?"

      I'm choking on my wine.

I must have accidentally snorted the cheap red because my nose burns nearly as much as my lungs. My throat rejects the liquid, and I'm hacking before I can even try to swallow.