1. Maggie

CHAPTER 1

MAGGIE

“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love me?” My best friend poses the question about two seconds after opening her apartment door and giving me a hug.

“Um…so much,” I answer. “Like, four-hundred and thirty-seven out of ten. Like, more than I love dark chocolate peanut butter cups.”

“Wow.” She beams because she knows they’re my one true love. Their sweet and salty goodness has never let me down, which is a lot more than I can say for some of the people in my life.

But not Vivian McDonald.

She’s been my best girl, ride-or-die, and partner-in-crime since kindergarten.

So, yeah. She ranks right up there with the holy union of peanut butter and dark chocolate.

Stepping back, she lets me into her new place. It should look like every other bland, standard-issue college apartment: cheap oak-colored cabinets, featherweight furniture, muted beige everything, and thin, scratchy carpeting.

But it’s Viv’s place, so it’s an explosion of rainbow colors. From the oversized teal pillows to the sunshine-yellow wall hanging, it’s all Viv. It’s also still full of unpacked boxes, but I can’t judge because she literally just moved in this morning.

I follow her into the kitchen space where she scurries around the counter, reaches down into a box on the floor, then turns back toward me. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

“Um…”

“Mags,” she says, putting her hand on her hip and leveling me with a look. “I know exactly where you were on the night before your sixteenth birthday when you told your Gam and Pop you were spending the night at my place, and I have never told a soul.”

See what I said about ride-or-die? I close my eyes and hold my hands in front of me like I’m back in grade school at Wednesday morning mass taking communion.

“Open!”

I look down at my hands to see the clear plastic tub of my dreams. The brown and red lettering tells me Viv wants a really big favor. These are not the commercial brand. Oh, no. Viv went all out and got me the Midnight Choco Cups that I’ve only ever found at a little market near our high school.

“You got me the family size? Either you really missed me, or you want to name my firstborn.”

Viv smiles, and it’s easy to see why she’s the top girl on the pyramid. Not only is she five-foot-nothing and a hundred pounds of muscle and pep, but she lights up a room with that competition-ready grin.

“ Oh. My. God . How freaking cute would Baby Baylor be?” She practically has stars in her eyes, which is laughable. I haven’t had sex in months, and I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon. I’m done with relationship drama because, in my experience, no dick is ever worth the trouble it causes.

New year. New school. New me. No dicks.

That’s my motto. But I can tell Viv’s got a list of baby names running through her head right now. She’s approximately halfway through the alphabet when she blinks and forces herself to focus.

“So…you can totally say no, but…”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “Our very best adventure stories

start that way. Ok, Viv. What am I totally not going to say no to?”

“I know it’s movie night. I even have the snacks and the blankets. And I am totally good with movie night. One hundred percent. Because I haven’t seen you since Christmas and even though we’ve talked every day, it’s not the same. So, if you want to go with the original plan of a horror movie marathon while we plot the demise of The Traitor and The Tramp, I am totally fine with that.”

Viv definitely wants option B, whatever it is. I’m sure of that. But I also know with complete certainty that if I said I needed a night to cry into my tub of dark chocolate heaven and bitch about all the ways my ex-boyfriend and ex-roommate did me wrong, she’d cue up the movies and break out the wine coolers.

But, truthfully, I’ve spent way too many nights replaying the events of the last few months. And Viv’s listened to every sordid detail and every jaw-dropping update since the whole mess began last spring.

As much as I was looking forward to a night in with my best friend, I think a change of plans is just what I need.

“Or?” I prompt.

“Or…we could go to a party. It’s at Kappa. It’s totally low-key. Jake texted earlier and said he was down to hang out. I said I had plans and he said the more, the merrier. But we do not have to go. Hoes before bros and all that.”

Jake Lanza is Viv’s current situationship. She likes her fuck boys fratty and athletic. I’ve sworn off the opposite sex, even for hookups, but Viv’s been so good to me through The Betrayal, so if she wants to get a little drunk and flirty, I can tag along. I’ll be the sober bestie and let her lean on me for a change.

“Count me in,” I say. Then I look down the length of my body. I’m wearing a sweatshirt that’s so long it covers my shorts. My slides and fuzzy socks definitely make a statement, and my messy bun isn’t cute. The jammies in my bag aren’t any better. Oops. I could go back home and change, but…it’s not really my home.

When my life imploded last semester, I thought I could tough it out. Keep my head up and ignore all the hate and drama. But months of relentless nastiness wore me down. Viv’s been begging me to come back home since I left, and my uncle offered me a room at his place. I didn’t think I had a prayer of registering for classes in my major this late in the summer, but Uncle Hudson pulled a few strings, which I was grateful for. I guess being related to the head coach of the men’s hockey team has its advantages.

I moved in with Uncle Hudson and Aunt Jules last week. Their house is gorgeous, and with good reason. They don’t have any kids and Jules is an interior designer. My room is straight out of a magazine.

But coming back home as an adult is weird. Aunt Jules is out of town for work this week, but Uncle Hudson is lounging on the couch watching TV. So, if I go home to change now, I’ll have to explain why my sleepover at Viv’s requires party clothes.

As usual, Viv is five steps ahead of me. “Black or white?” Her muffled voice carries from her bedroom, and it sounds like she’s deep in her closet.

“Black or white, what?” I ask, stepping inside her room. If possible, it’s even more vibrant than the living room she shares with two other people. Her walls are covered in inspirational quotes, and the bright blue duvet on her bed is almost hidden by a mountain of fuchsia and purple pillows.

Peering around her bed, I see her toned, tanned arm shoot out from the closet, thrusting a few hangers in my direction. I hold each one up, thinking nope, nope, and hell, nope.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says, shaking her head and dropping two pairs of shoes on the floor. “You’re only a few inches taller than I am.”

“And a good thirty pounds or more.”

She waves me off and lifts up the black tank dress from my discard pile. “It’s stretchy.”

I sigh and strip before donning the dress and squeezing my size seven feet into her size six heels. Stepping into her closet, I eye myself critically in the mirror. My blonde hair falls past my boobs and probably needs a trim. My skin is fair, thanks to the hours spent working inside an office all summer. There’s a slight gap between my two front teeth because I never wore my retainer despite all the warnings from Gam. My eyes are blue, just like hers were, but they’ve lost any sparkle they ever had.

I went to college in California to find myself. And now I’m back home, every bit as lost as I was when I left a few years ago.

Before I can spiral into a pit of despair, Viv gently shoves me into her desk chair and starts a hair and makeup routine I’ll never be able to duplicate.

Twenty minutes later, I barely recognize my glammed-up self. My mini makeover feels good.

“Maybe that’s my problem,” I muse, staring at my reflection.

“It’s a problem that your best friend could freelance as a makeup artist?” Viv asks, striking a pose next to me in the mirror. She’s in a bright yellow body con dress that shouldn’t look good on anyone, but on her, it’s perfection.

“Yeah, no. I’m just glad we’re going out tonight. I’ve been so stuck lately. I’ve been playing it so safe, beating myself up for dumb mistakes and then paying the price. I just—ugh. Maybe it’s time I let myself have a little fun. Not too much—just a little.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah!” She cries, taking me by the hand and dragging me into her little galley kitchen, where she grabs a few glasses and bottles out of the cabinet next to the fridge.

“Two scoops of ice,” she directs, pointing toward the blender. “Then juice one of the limes.” Viv might be tiny, but she’s not timid. She commands her cheer squad with the efficiency of a drill sergeant and when I hear them whine about it, I tell them she’s softened a lot over the years.

“Not too much—just a little,” I repeat as she pours various liquids into the blender before snapping on the lid and giving it a few pulses.

I take the handle of the blender—those three inches I have on her come in handy sometimes— and pour a short drink for myself before giving the rest to her.

“To booze and bad decisions,” she says, raising her glass.

“Um…how about to best friends?” I counter.

She smiles at me. “Oh, yeah. Those, too.”

We clink our glasses and as the smooth liquid glides down my throat, I remind myself it’s only one night. How crazy can a party get?