“This is blowing my mind,” Ry groans as the three of us sink into the hot tub together. My borrowed swimsuit is navy blue, and so are the guys’ swim trunks. The heat of the tub bites into my flesh a little too sharply at first, but then it feels incredible. The tension of encountering Tom seeps away from my muscles, and I relax with a sigh.
“How long have these parties been going on?” I ask.
“Couple of weeks,” says Colton. “It wasn’t as crowded last time, but I think word is getting out that it’s free and everything is fucking awesome.”
“I’ll bet the cleanup after an event like this is a nightmare.” I close my eyes.
“I guess so,” Colton replies. “I heard that Gatsby even lets people stay here overnight if they’re too tired or drunk to get home.”
“Really? Seems weird.”
“Clearly you haven’t been to many parties,” Ry slurs. “There’s always stragglers hanging around until the next morning.”
I don’t answer. Truth is, every time I started having some real fun at a college party, or drawing too much attention from a guy, Tom would insist we leave. I found out later that he’d go back to the parties by himself and keep the fun going, sometimes with other girls.
I thought his jealous streak was cute. I thought it meant he really loved me, like with an epic, powerful love, an alpha-male love. I thought it was hot.
Stupid of me.
“I’ve been to so many parties,” Ry continues.
“You have not,” Colton retorts. There’s a splash and a jostle between the guys. “You’ve been to like three parties, dumbass.”
“You’re just as lame as me,” Ry says indignantly.
“You’re both lame.” It’s Tom’s voice again, and my eyes pop open.
He stands above me, wearing borrowed swim trunks that show off his lean chest and stomach. He’s leering down at my shiny, wet cleavage, which is barely visible above the surface.
I sink lower in the water. “Go away, Tom.”
“It’s a free country.” He crouches beside me and slides into the hot tub.
“Come on, be cool, man,” mutters Colton.
Tom fixes him with a hard look. “What’s that?”
Cowed, Colton glances away and shrugs.
“Fine. Then I’ll go.” I lurch upward, springing out of the water, but Tom catches my leg and jerks me back down. My shin cracks against the underwater bench, and I bite my lip against the pain.
“I love it when you bite your lip like that,” he whispers, his eyes on my mouth. His hand glides along my thigh under the surface, squeezing lightly. “You’ve gained a little weight, huh? Eating your feelings after the breakup? You should come to the gym with me sometime.”
“Enough,” I snap, climbing out of the hot tub. This time, when he tries to grab me, I kick him hard. I wasn’t aiming for his throat, but I’m not sorry when my toes drive into his Adam’s apple. He chokes a curse while I hurry away to the changing rooms.
There’s an attendant at the door, and I point Tom out to him. “That guy was harassing me.”
The man nods. “I’ll have him removed from the premises. Mr. Gatsby doesn’t allow that sort of thing.”
In the locker room, I switch from the swimsuit back into my dress and toss my limp feathered headband in the trash. A stern-looking woman is cleaning up the soiled paper towels and empty soda cans littered across the floor. Feeling a little awkward—even after all these years, I’m not fully comfortable being waited on—I collect some of the garbage as well and place it into the bag she’s using.
“Sorry you have to deal with this mess. People can be pretty inconsiderate, huh?” I smile at her.
She looks surprised, but she doesn’t speak until I’m nearly out the door.
“Little tip,” she calls to me. When I turn back, she says quietly, “Don’t drink anything from the ones with the bracelets.”
“Bracelets?”
“Thick metal bands.” She points to her wrist. “Look for them, and don’t drink what they give you.”
“Um, okay.” I hesitate, questions surging in my mind, but the woman clamps her lips together and moves into a stall, a clear signal that she’s not open to further disclosure.
As I walk the hall, my gaze darts to the arms of the guests. There are bracelets of all kinds—braided twine, embellished leather, delicate gold, simple hair elastics strung in colorful rows.
And then I see an unusual one—a thick, smooth bracelet, maybe brushed titanium, on a girl’s slim wrist. Probably a smart watch or something, though I don’t see a screen. But who even cares?
And then I see another bracelet, identical to the first, this time on the arm of a burly dark-haired guy a handful of years older than me. He’s got two girls draped on his shoulders, and they’re all laughing hysterically as they sidle past me.
The matching bracelets freak me out a little, like maybe there’s some underground-society shit going on here. But I’m not panicking. I’ve been to plenty of parties, and I know how to be careful. Besides, I have enough to worry about right now. I refuse to let paranoia ruin my fun.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have backup I can trust, in case Tom shows up again. The staff guy said they would kick him out, but I don’t know if they’ll follow through, or if he’ll stay gone. I have no idea where Jordan has wandered off to, but Nick might still be in the dance hall, so I head that way and look for him in the flickering purple dark, among the shifting shoulders and bending bodies. He’s nowhere in sight, but the band is playing “Hallucinate” and I can’t resist joining the dance again. Jordan used to make fun of me for liking Dua Lipa—too pop for her taste—but I don’t care.
The music drives through me, racing faster and faster like a passionate heartbeat. The magic in the room is grittier now, the crowd all elbows and sweat and desperation, glory and grinding, fists raised and feet pounding painfully through heels, and none of us mind. Little pills shift from hand to hand through the crowd; a girl passes me one and the dilemma breaks my rhythm. The automatic, ingrained no resounds in my head, clashing with the beat. But I need something to take my mind off Tom—what’s the harm, maybe it would feel good—so I nearly pop the pill in my mouth before it slips between my fingers and bounces away among all those rattling feet, and I smile because the choice was made for me and because I’m feeling pretty hyped up on nothing at all.
The song comes to an end, and with a brilliantly executed key change, the band brings up a jazzy version of “Gold Rush,” from one of Taylor Swift’s 2020 albums. There’s an audible sigh of delight from throats all across the room because new music meant something more that year; it melted under your tongue and circled through your thoughts and softened the constant worrying.
I close my eyes and forget everything else except the side step, hip sway, delicate swirl of the lyrics, like a gold chain unspooling across the room—
