Having been the only child of a professional schmoozer who spent more time lunching with his colleagues than with his own daughter, Brooke had learned from a young age that appearance always mattered.

"What's the first rule of business?"

"Wear good shoes!"

"And why do we do this?"

"People look at their feet when conversations slow, so you don't want to risk them catching you in your ratty loafers."

The first lesson from her father had been in shoe etiquette, and had come in the form of an afternoon lecture following a birthday party to which Brooke had worn flip-flops. She'd spent the rest of the evening sulking under the care of her then-nanny Celia, but didn't dare wear flip-flops for the whole year that followed.

But tonight, with her squad scattered around the place in their brightly coloured platform sandals and her best friend- who happened to be M.I.A, in the Converse she so often favoured, Brooke was grateful for the knowledge that had so crassly been dumped on her at the tender age of six.

"Should we get her a bucket?"

Brooke glanced from one blonde to another; Bevan, still slumped against the Beetle to Lucas, an arm's length away, brows drawn in distaste but eyes alight with amusement.

"Already ahead of you," Brooke replied proudly as her friend retched once more behind her. "There's one in the back, so I think that qualifies me to ride shotgun. Don't you?"

Lucas grinned, lips twisting into an attractive cross between a smirk and a smile. "You do this often, then?"

Brooke shrugged in way of explanation, deciding to elaborate only once she was met with silence. "Once a month is where I cap it. Any more and I'd turn into a charity act; any less and it would ruin my karma. Sometimes you've got to be the one to take the drunk girl home, rather than being the actual drunk girl."

She didn't mention that her last act of kindness had been the result of some college douchebag spiking her best friend's drink. She also didn't mention that as the result of the aforementioned drugging, she'd spent the majority of the night by Peyton's side in the emergency room in a mess of tears, and that it had really been the police who had driven them both home. Minor details.

"Right," Lucas deadpanned, "And when you do decide to be the hero, do you always do it half drunk?"

It was a jab, or maybe even a jibe at her current, semi-inebriated state and intention to drive in it. It might have been stupid, but why the hell would she want to babysit Bevan when sober?

"Keyword being half," she countered. "And anyway, you're here now to save the day. My knight in shining armour."

The grin returned, smoothed over the brows that had drawn together moments before. Despite the backing soundtrack of Bevan's gagging, Brooke found it hard not to return the sentiment.

And when Lucas's eyes happened to lower to the ground, his face flushing under the heat of her appraising stare, she thought of her father.

"Don't you think those shoes make your ankles look fat, pumpkin?"

"I like your shoes."

The voice was soft and sincere, and miles from the gravelly tone of Ted Davis. Soon, Brooke would come to find that those were the key words she'd use to describe Lucas Scott; soft, and sincere. Soon, she'd come to wonder if that had been the moment that she'd started to fall in love with him.

But that, really, was a story for later.

Peyton had a habit of cutting out whenever she pleased. Nathan had come to realise early in the relationship that her terms were the only terms; she stayed when she wanted to stay and left when she wanted to leave. It had always worked for him, until it had stopped working for him.

"Has anyone seen Peyton?"

He was met with an abundance of shrugs and found himself mirroring the action, brushing the responsibility of his girlfriend from his shoulders for long enough to track down a drink and crack it open.

He'd asked her to stay earlier in the evening. He'd had her up against the island he now stood at, having cornered her in the kitchen setting out plastic cups. She'd tried to worm away- she always tried to worm away lately, but he'd gripped the counter on either side of her hips and effectively held her there while he spoke. He'd asked nicely, although it had quickly bordered on forcefully.

"We've been good!" He'd exclaimed. "I've been trying, so why the hell can't you get over whatever's making you such a bitch? It's getting old, Peyton."

In hindsight, maybe calling her a bitch hadn't been the best idea.

"Who cares?" Tim chimed from across the kitchen. "You're more fun when she's not here, man."

And he was right. Which was part of the reason Nathan struggled so much with the fact that for once, he was actually bothered by her absence.

He took another swig from the bottle in his hand and then turned on his heel, pushing past the people loitering in the mouth of the kitchen. No one paid him any mind; the majority seemed to be sufficiently humming with the warmth of alcohol to notice him as he brushed by. And unsurprisingly, none of them were Peyton.

Back when they'd first started dating and the team- alongside half of the school, ended up back at the beach house post match, he'd always find her hiding out in his room. It was at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen and living, which happened to be where the beer was held and subsequently, most of his guests seemed to congregate. Despite having always seemed to be a social person, Nathan had learned early in their relationship that Peyton valued her own time, especially when her best friend had fled to another party or bailed early to leave with some guy. She'd retreat as soon as Brooke had turned her back; one second she'd be up against him, or glaring at him from across the room for being up against another girl, and then the next second she'd be gone. He never really went after her.

"Peyton?"

A few loitering party-goers glanced up at him as he called out, pushing open his bedroom door. It was empty. Go figure.

"Peyton?" He yelled as he backed out of the room, yanking the door shut as he went. It slammed as he spun, elbow colliding with something as the door collided with the wooden frame.

"Ouch!"

"I'm sorry," Nathan had said, before he'd even fully registered what had happened. He took a step back and eyed the girl in front of him, one small hand cradling her upper-arm, the other slick with the remnants of the drink that had sloshed onto the carpet. She lifted her head to shoot him a glare, though it quickly softened as she eyed the remorse painted on his face. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," the girl said, though grudgingly, as she lowered her eyes to her cup. "Although I can't say the same for my drink."

"Let me get you another," Nathan offered, unusually. And unpredictably, he might have added after the fact. "What are you drinking?"

"It's fine; I was about to leave, anyway. Any chance you could point me in the direction of the door?"

He faltered, brows knitting together as he gave her a once-over once again. "Wait," he said, a singular puzzle piece clicking into place, "you're Lucas's friend."

A statement more than a question, she grimaced in response. "I prefer Haley James, but I guess that will do. Door?"

Nathan pointed, again unpredictably, and spoke. "That way."

She was off before he could say anything else, though he kept his eyes trained on her as she made her way to the end of the hallway; navigating around a couple pressed up against a wall and then around an abandoned drink sat outside the doorway of the bathroom. He'd seen her in the school halls with his half-brother from time to time, and Tim had once even mentioned that she'd make a prized bet participant. She'd always seemed small to Nathan, slight in comparison to his lanky girlfriend. The kind of girl he'd be able to wrap his arms around twice, the point of which emphasised even now as she pushed past one of his teammates. And maybe that had been why he'd laughed off Tim's suggestion all those weeks back; she was delicate, with a little frame and those brown eyes that were almost too big for her face- something he'd only been close enough to pick up on after he'd barrelled into her, and she had narrowed them at him scornfully.

"Haley," he murmured with a grin, testing the name on his lips. "Haley James."

And then he shook his head and took another sip of his drink, his girlfriend far from his mind as he ventured back out toward the party.