Sarah is a Hot Girl on weekends. She informs me of this casually as she vetoes everything in my wardrobe.

"Casey, you are totally a HG. You need to be confident like a HG. You need to dress like a HG."

"What's a HG?"

"It's a Hot Girl. And it's a state of mind. You need to channel some HG energy if you're going to move past this awkward flirting thing you've had with Derek for four years, and move into actual relationship territory."

I let out a squeak of protest. Relationship with Derek. I want to bang my head against something. If only she knew. We already have a relationship. We're step siblings. Family. If she knew what she was trying to achieve, she'd be grossed out.

"How do I channel HG energy," I ask, instead of telling her the truth. It doesn't matter anyway, it's not like I'm going to be a HG for Derek. I'm new at this school and about to go to my first college party. There will be lots of hot guys there that aren't my step brother and it definitely won't hurt to establish a reputation as a HG.

"You're hot. It's a fact," Sarah says. "Don't be shy about it. You don't have to pretend not to know that most guys are interested from the second they see you. Own it."

I nod. "Okay!" I say with more confidence than I feel. "So… what can I wear?" The sexiest thing in my wardrobe is a jeans skirt and moderately tight tank top which Sarah already vetoed ages ago.

"You'll have to borrow something," she says with a grin.

We start pregaming as we put on make up, and somehow she ends up talking me into a backless (and braless) tank top and skin tight faux leather pants with four inch heel ankle booties.

I look like a hooker and you can definitely see my nipples, but she insists it's my HG signature look, and I'm just tipsy enough to let her talk me into it. Plus, she's right. I feel like a HG and I'm having fun already.

She brings wine in a flask because "If it's like the house parties at my old school, they're only going to have cheap beer and punch that's so strong it's toxic." We drink it on the way, and I drink a little too much because I'm acutely aware of how obvious my nipples are in the cold cab and I'm not drunk enough yet to go to a party knowing that.

Thankfully, the house is dark, lit only by some twinkle lights and a strobe light somewhere in the living room. It's crowded and music blares unpleasantly loudly, and I feel overwhelmed as I look for Derek. I texted him, but he hasn't responded yet and I don't want him to. He can't see me in this shirt. Why did I wear this?

Sarah is completely confident, already pouring her wine into a solo cup "to blend in" and scanning the room "for the hottest guys."

"Do you need some punch after all?" She asks sympathetically as she tries to get me to uncross my arms from over my chest.

I down a whole red solo cup of punch in about a minute, despite Sarah's warnings to go easy, but it tastes really good, and not that strong.

I'm not sure how much later it is, maybe twenty minutes? I feel great. Sarah and I are dancing barefoot on a table. There's a crowd of people at our feet, and I'm a queen. A Hot Queen. HQ. I giggle.

"Casey!" I look down in surprise to find Derek is one of the people below me. One of my subjects. A Hot Subject. HS. I giggle again.

"Deeeeeerekkkkk!" I say happily. He's looking at me intensely with this kind of dazed expression, but I'm too drunk to really care. He's here and I've missed him these last few months. It's been nice texting and not fighting, but it's not the same as being with him. In person.

I leap down from my table, very gracefully, but for some reason he feels the need to catch me and say "Easy, Casey."

I beam at him.

"Jesus, how much did you drink Princess?" He murmurs, close to my ear. I shiver. I love when he calls me Princess. Or I hate it. I think. Right now I love it.

His arms are around my waist, I think he might be propping me up a little, and I lean into it. His warm hands press against my bare back. I think I've always wanted to be in his arms. There's this deep, shuddering longing that's taken over my whole body and the closer I get to him, the better I feel.

His breath is warm against my ear. I sway into his body to the beat of the music. I can feel his heart beating against me, strong and rapid. It's exhilarating. I wrap my arms around him, pulling us tighter, and rest my face against his neck. He smells like him. Like home.

It's like when we danced together for the competition but better because it's not choreographed, it's just the two of us. Our bodies are pressed together, closer than we've ever been before, and it feels right. Simple.

We're not fighting about something or making an excuse to go nose to nose and touch each other. We're just holding each other. Swaying.

Why didn't I do this earlier? He feels so good. Somewhere, I know I'm supposed to deny deny deny but the reasons seem far away right now.

"You didn't tell your roommate we're step siblings," Derek says against my ear.

I pull back sharply. That's why. I don't know why or how I could've forgotten.

I struggle for a semblance of sobriety. This conversation is important. I need to play it cool. My heart beats wildly, and I feel my palms start to sweat. I stare at him with wide eyes, not sure what to say.

He smirks at me and oh god. I have to hide. I can't let him see. I'm too drunk, he'll know. He'll know.

"Relax Case," he laughs. "I know why you didn't."

"You do?" I breathe.

He shrugs. "It's the same reason I didn't tell anyone."

I stare at him. He didn't tell anyone either.

"You never wanted me to be your step brother." He states it. It's a fact.

Breathless hope flutters in my chest. Could he… is Sarah right?

"Neither of us wanted to be step siblings. Forced to live together, forced to share. Step siblings fight constantly. When you went to New York, I realized we don't have to be step siblings anymore. We can be friends."

"Like… a clean slate?" I ask. Is that what he's getting at?

"Exactly," he smirks at me. "Not that I won't still prank you occasionally," he adds.

I don't have anything to say. I think he's expecting a Der-ek and a good natured shove but I don't have it in me. Im hollow and cold and Sarah was definitely wrong.

God, I'm so drunk. Why did I drink the punch? It was a terrible idea. My face is tingly and the room is sort of roaring and I have the sudden clear knowledge that I'm about to vomit.

I don't aim for him. It's not my fault that a little bit splatters on his shoes.