"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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Halloween was the first time I braved a party since my first night at Davidson.
I was nervous, but I knew I had less to worry about this time around. It was a dutifully organized volunteer group social, not a gathering of random strangers, and held at none other than Cat's apartment, which helped to put me at ease. The strict dress code was less relaxing, though. Killer costume, or absolutely no entry, read the Facebook event description. Not just any costume, either. There was a strict theme: book characters.
What else for a literary group?
Josh had taken things one step further and insisted we pick out a couple's costume—and although I pretended the whole thing was mortifying, I was secretly thrilled. We settled on Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan, partly because it was the only classic that didn't bore me to tears, and partly because we could still look attractive in the black tuxedo and sequined flapper dress. Truthfully, I couldn't wait to post the photo of Josh and I that Hanna had taken in the dorm hallway on my Instagram.
"Hey, you!"
I was in the kitchen, pouring out two drinks—one double rum and coke, the other just coke—when the voice snuck up on me. It had to yell over the thumping music from an extra Bluetooth speaker on the countertop. When I spun around, Cat was standing there, grinning at me.
Of course, she'd made an effort with her costume—a given, since this was pretty much her party. My eyes swept from the floor upward, noting her sky-high heels, skintight black pants and scarlet blazer. Hanging from her neck was a necklace made to look like a pocket watch, and the outfit was topped off by a white bunny-eared headband.
"Cat, hey." I set the bottle of rum back down. "Let me guess, uh... White Rabbit? Alice in Wonderland?"
"Sexy White Rabbit," she corrected, spinning around to show me the back. "Come on. You can't tell me this tail doesn't make people look at my ass."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, yeah. You have a point."
"Pretty good effort on your costume, I have to say." She looked me up and down appreciatively. "Daisy's always a winner. Did I hear a rumor that your very own Jay Gatsby is somewhere out there, too?"
"Somewhere, yeah," I said, trying not to flush under her knowing gaze. "I'm just getting us some drinks."
"Starting early, huh? You party animals."
I glanced at the still-open bottle of rum, then the two cups on the counter. "This one's for Josh," I said. "Mine's a little less strong."
"Oh. Not a big drinker?"
"No. Not really."
I expected her to question why. Only because that was the reaction the last few years had primed me to anticipate; people always seemed to think they were entitled to an essay on all the reasons I avoided alcohol. If they weren't deep or gut-wrenching enough, I could safely be labeled as boring.
