A/N: I've changed the rating of this to M, as things get a little more... mature, from this point on. Strong language, mild sex references, mild violence, and a couple of themes much later on in the story that might be upsetting to sensitive readers. If you're worried at all and would like more info, feel free to PM me.

Thank you to those of you who have favorited/followed/reviewed, it is much appreciated :)

Nina has gone up to Portland to visit her boyfriend again, a bombshell she dropped on me just this morning, an hour before heading out the door.

"Again?" I exclaimed, sprawled out on the floor making carpet-angels with my arms. "Is it getting serious?"

I heard her exhale a tornado in the kitchen. "It's been six months!"

"I don't know if that's serious. I don't date for very long."

She didn't say anything. I know that I get on her nerves, the way I talk about her relationship like it's a passing phase, but I don't know how else to react. The weekends away are becoming more and more frequent. We've been best friends for three years, and now she's starting to choose somebody else over me.

I sat up and flicked a breadcrumb into the wall. "Whatever happened to the days when we'd spend all weekend in bed?"

Silence, for a moment. "We agreed that wasn't healthy for either of us."

"I don't think we did."

"Yes, we did. Remember how angry you used to get when I dared to step out of your bed and go back to my normal life?"

"Because you kept telling me you were straight, which was such a lie," I said, rising to my feet and leaning on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. Nina was slapping peanut butter to bread and stashing sandwiches away in little plastic bags. I didn't understand why. They didn't have bread in Portland? Kyle was homeless?

"I am straight," she said, eyes on the butter.

"Yes, you're the first straight girl on the planet to sleep with a lady fifty times, for hours at a time."

She looked up across the counter, one eyebrow raised, then went back to her sandwiches.

"What? What are you going to say? That I don't count?"

"See? You're getting angry again. This is why we agreed to stop."

"I seriously do not remember being a part of that conversation."

"You were probably drunk at the time."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest. Nina didn't say things like that very often. When she did, it was a niggling reminder that I hadn't changed in years. I hadn't gotten any better. "Do you think less of me? Because of the drinking?"

She met my eyes, relaxed the muscles in her face. Sympathy. "Yes."

My eyes drifted to the window, suddenly finding her gaze too confronting. A patter of rainfall beat at the glass. "Are you only saying that because you think it will help with my recovery?"

"No. You become a different person when you drink for days in a row. I don't know if I like that person so much."

Nina walked around the counter and kissed me on the cheek. I thought about swiveling my head and pecking her on the lips instead, but she had a boyfriend. I respected the rules. "I have to pack my bag. Be a dear and wash the dishes."

And then she left. And now I'm alone in the apartment, I've washed the dishes, I've vacuumed the floor, and there's nothing left to do. It is only 2 P.M. Beth is working at the diner today, in my place, because she swapped her Sunday shift for mine. Wendy is visiting her brother at the University of Oregon, trying to relive her days as a college student, I suppose.

I decide to go for a run, as I told my AA group I would this morning. It was met with an appropriately patronizing response, of course. Apparently, oohs and aahs and well-dones were how they were going to encourage me to speak up more often. I can't get behind that. I need somebody to flip a chair and tell me I'm not good enough. I need somebody to follow me around everywhere I go, somebody that can tap into my thoughts and ring a little bell whenever I think of absorbing another drop of poison. Alcoholics Anonymous: Hard Mode.

The rain gets heavier, but I don't mind. It keeps people inside - less bodies milling around the pavement for me to shove out of the way. Once I'm in the woods, kicking up mud with the heels of my sneakers, I listen to the raindrops hammer at the canopy of leaves arching over the trail. Sometimes this, and the fresh air gathering in my lungs, is enough to convince me that everything is okay. But often times not.

The abandoned fishing dock passes me by to my left, on the edge of the woods, where Mabel and I spent many an afternoon baking our skin in the sun. The forest has started to reclaim it, weeds creeping up through the gaps in the wooden planks, the far side obstructed from view. I force myself not to stop and think about it.

I take this route often, past the places that used to be ours, but until she showed up in the diner last week I had severed the mental connection between them and her. I've been walking around town all week with dread in my gut, because with any corner I turn I could come face to face with the past, but it's starting to settle down now. It's plausible that she came up for the weekend, accidentally wandered into my workplace, and now she was back home with her boyfriend, spending her summer in California as she has for the last few years.

I'm not even going to address the tiny voice in the back of my head that says I want to see her again, because I shouldn't. I absolutely shouldn't.

When I get back to the apartment I slump onto the couch with a bottle of water from the refrigerator, drink half of it, and pour the rest on my overheating head. An unnerving silence falls over the room. As much as I hated living in my old house, at least there I could hear birds in the trees or cars driving by, some kind of ambience. Here, my neighbors downstairs were an ancient old couple that only made noise when they killed spiders on the ceiling with their walking sticks (we knew that's what the banging was because they always apologized to us the following morning). Apart from that, it was like this room existed on another plane. Every time I stepped inside and shut the door, I was cut off from the outside world and all of its sounds.

With nothing better to do and a lack of imagination, I drift to sleep, and wake up as the sun is setting. I shove a frozen pizza in the oven and spend eighteen minutes sliding around the kitchen floor in my socks and crouching in front of the oven window, peering in, watching cheese melt.

I decide to eat it at the counter off of the little throw-away tray; less dishes to wash later. I log on to Facebook with good intentions, I swear, just to see what Nina or Wendy are up to, or if any of my high school classmates have popped out a baby this week. But I should have known I would have landed on a party invite. A guy I do not know but whose name I recognize is having a bash for no discernible reason at his house five minutes from here.

It's pathetic, really. I have so many opportunities to turn back on my decision and stay indoors. When I'm in the shower, when I'm changing into a black strapless dress, when I'm looking myself dead in the eye in the mirror, applying mascara, and I don't have the balls to tell my reflection to stop.

And then I'm reaching into the cupboard under the kitchen sink, past the bleach and the laundry detergent. The bottle I'm after is lying sideways behind the first aid kit, because Nina already knows all of the hiding places in my bedroom and she doesn't think I'm dumb enough to hide anything here. I bring it up to the counter, next to a clean glass.

I hate scotch. This is supposed to be it, the last line of defense. I squeeze the bottle to still my trembling fingers, and clench my eyes shut. Lindsay and Nina and Wendy and Sarah all pop into my mind. But none of them are here. Only the scotch is here.

I pour a glass and take a sip. Fourteen days ticks over to zero.

Two drinks later I'm out the door, carefully treading the narrow staircase in my heels. I walk out into the street, under the twilight sky, and hiccup all the way to a house in the center of town.

It's a three-story building with all of its windows illuminated, even in what looks like the attic. That unavoidable sense of déjà vu creeps up on me. So many Saturday nights in my last few years have begun just like this, a sinister building looming over the street, inviting me in to start my descent into disorder.

The front door is shut but the garage to the side of the house is wide open. Three guys that look my age are standing around the lifted hood of a car, talking under their breaths like they're actually staring down into an open coffin. If it weren't for the music thudding beyond the wall, I would think I had come to the wrong place. They turn out to be really nice, one of them hands me a beer out of a cooler and shows me inside, even gives me directions to the bathroom.

Don't read this as me bragging, but I'm aware that I'm very attractive. I inherited good genes, and growing up I had access to a wealth of beauty products and a closet the size of an average girl's bedroom, so I've had plenty of time to figure out what makes me look my best, and I try to look my best all of the time. It therefore does not surprise me that heads turn when I saunter into a party.

Now, I know what you're thinking - if that wasn't bragging, why bother telling you? Well, this is an important first step in my method to make the most out of an evening and preferably go home arm in arm with another lady.

I start by scanning the room and taking note of the guy that ogles me for longest, and it's always somebody new. It always surprises me how many new faces I find week to week, considering I live out in the ass-end of nowhere. I have this theory that somebody keeps sending in busloads of tourists just to keep the town's inhabitants occupied, maybe a social experiment, to see if we ever notice, Truman Show style.

I then either approach the man, or stand on the edge of the room looking bored so he comes over and talks to me. Tonight, it's a guy in his late twenties with glasses and a scruffy goatee. I let him regale me about his life while I use the time to switch on my gaydar and scout for any women that might be batting for the same team. Sometimes it's dead easy, and there'll be somebody wearing a novelty t-shirt, like NOBODY KNOWS I'M A LESBIAN, or the guy I'm talking to will tell me about his gay younger sister, she was around here somewhere, let me go look for her, and I'll be like, see ya! And I'll go and look for her myself.

Other times, like tonight, nobody is giving off any telltale signs, so I'll see what other information I can coax out of the boy, or I'll start looking for the younger girls, the kind that haven't decided who they're going to be for the rest of their lives.

And then, rarely, there will be times that a giant wrench is thrown into the works, and the whole plan crumbles to pieces before it has a chance to begin. It's one of those nights, I realize, because I just saw my ex-best friend's boyfriend, the one with the beard and the flannel shirt, the one that looks like he owns a coffee shop with a chalkboard menu and has a burning hatred for Starbucks. I spot his smug face moving through the crowd, appearing and reappearing behind clusters of heads.

And if he is here, she is here. She has to be. It's just a matter of finding her.

I don't even consider it - I excuse myself away from the nameless man, tell him I'm going to the bathroom. Hey, he was only talking to me because he wanted to hook up with me, anyway. At least, that's what I always tell myself. I meander about the room with my arms folded, trying to see over people's fat heads, but I'm not tall enough. Not really looking where I'm going, I breeze through the kitchen and pick up another beer, I do a lap of the back yard and avoid being dragged into beer pong, and when I've mentally mapped out a floor plan of the entire building, I spot her in the room I started in, not ten feet from where I was standing before.

She's leaning against the fireplace in a green satin dress, her hair tied up in a neat bun.

My heart just melts on the spot, like four years of absence meant nothing. My eyes threaten to gush with tears, but there would be time for that later, not here, not while I'm surrounded by a hundred emotionally stable people.

Move, feet. Move. Forward, five spaces. Why won't you move?!

As if she can sniff out my agony, her eyes rise from the beer bottle in her hands and connect with mine, from across the room. Her foot stops tapping to the music. She looks about as mortified as I feel.

Maybe the fact that neither of us have taken a single step towards one another is a sign that we shouldn't do this. We don't need to. I'll just go home and not leave the apartment until September, assuming she'll be gone by then.

I take a swig of Budweiser and set out on my trek across the living room. A couple of people cut in front of me, and I get this horrid feeling that when they shift out of the way Mabel will be gone, replaced by a dusty fireplace that I have no history with. But she's still there.

She's right in front of me now, actually. I clear my throat. "Hi."

It wouldn't be Mabel without one of those sweeter-than-candy smiles. "Hey."

We reach a stalemate in the conversation. I consider running. The words that I always imagined saying circle my head like vultures, but I land on, "it's so good to see you," and my body, clearly possessed, leans in for a hug.

I touch her shoulder blade and my body surges. It's one of those awkward one-arm hugs where our bodies don't meet, but she at least reciprocates. "Oh. It's great to see you too," she chirps. "How have you been?"

"Good, good," I say. "Yeah, just good. Not much else to say. How about you?"

"Yeah, I'm doing good. I, um, I'm sorry I didn't say anything in Greasy's the other day. I think I was kinda shocked to see you."

"Oh, yeah, me too. You may have noticed."

She smiles again, but mine is getting harder and harder to fake. I keep becoming acutely aware that I'm forcing it, and that makes my lips twitch. Why do we have to smile, anyway? It would be much easier to just pat each other on the head to show affection.

We play that old game of pretending to be absorbed in the music and the atmosphere, to avoid talking. I focus on a nice lamp over by the doorway. But then I chance a look at her out of the corner of my eye, and she glances over at the same time, and we both avert our eyes, and I wonder how it ever came to this.

"How long are you here for?" I ask her.

"In Gravity Falls? All summer, actually. I'm here with my-"

Somebody grabs her around the waist and she jumps out of her skin - it's flannel guy. They laugh with each other and he kisses her cheek. I sip my beer and wonder whether her skin feels gross when his beard gets all up in its business.

"Pacifica, this is Jason."

"Your boyfriend," I add, for no readily apparent reason.

"We're engaged, actually," Jason says, holding up Mabel's ring finger. Something in my throat lurches.

"Congratulations," but the word tastes toxic on my tongue.

"Hey, you work at the diner, right? You couldn't put in a good word for this one, could you? She's looking for a summer job, aren't you babe?"

"Well, yes," she says, as he kisses her neck, "but it's not up to Pacifica to find me one, is it? And I'm sure the diner already has a queue of people wanting to work there."

"We're understaffed, actually," I tell them.

Mabel's mouth opens and closes, opens again. "Really?"

"Yeah. We have Lindsay, the owner, and two waitresses including me. We had a third but she quit a couple of weeks ago. Lindsay was going to start looking for a replacement next week."

What are you doing. What. Are. You. Doing. Stop.

"That's perfect," Jason says.

"Okay. Um, I'll have to think about it," Mabel says.

"Think about what? We need the money, and you could make a shit load in tips."

"Yeah, well, I still want to think about it."

"Just pop into the diner if you're interested," I tell her. "I'll let Lindsay know you might drop by."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Right, babe, we'd better head off," Jason says, talking into the crook of Mabel's neck, which is getting fucking irritating.

"Already? It's only ten-thirty."

"Yeah, but we're up early tomorrow and you know how grumpy you get when you don't get enough sleep."

"I do not get grumpy," Mabel murmurs, but her fiancé is already on his way to the door.

I did not think I would ever again possess the ability to feel sorry for Mabel Pines, but my heart sinks a little at the embarrassment on her face.

She smiles wide, touches my arm with gentle fingertips. "It was nice to see you. I'll see you around?"

"Yeah," I breathe, watching her lean figure twirl and amble out of view.

My fingers massage my temples as my feet make haste for the kitchen. An orchestra of hows and whys and what-the-fucks starts up in my head, a concoction of emotions fizzle away in my stomach, but I won't address them right now. I swap my beer out for a stronger drink, hiding away in the corner of the kitchen, facing the granite countertop. It's so shiny I can make out a low-detail render of my reflection. Blurry me looks miserable.

I have a second drink, and a third.

And then the dance floor looks pretty enticing. It's in the gigantic dining area I passed through earlier, except the table has been pushed into the corner and the floor space has been invaded by restless feet. It starts to draw me in, but I have to stop and steady myself on the counter, my vision turning to a vague collection of shapes. I clench my eyes shut for a moment, and set off again.

I move with abandon, jerking my body to the beat with practiced precision. Everyone is packed so tightly together that my hips bump against others, my arms brush against shoulders, but it doesn't faze me. I spin, twirl, step between people, all of them a haze of faces and hair around me, like I'm on a carnival ride that moves too fast to make out my surroundings.

Incredibly, beyond the motion blur, I sense someone looking directly at me, so I narrow my eyes and focus on the very edge of the room, past countless shoulders and bobbing heads. There's a girl, sitting in a dining chair by herself, with shoulder-length wavy brunette bangs. It's a miracle that I even noticed her behind so many figures, an odd coincidence that we have a direct line of sight to one another when we're so far apart. I know she's thinking the same thing because she seems to take a long few seconds to notice I'm staring back at her, and when she does, she glances off to her right and bites her bottom lip.

That has to be a sign, right?

I don't stop dancing. I push my way through the throng, periodically going up on tiptoes to make sure the girl is still there. Finally, I reach the edge of the dance floor and get a full view - she's still gazing to the side, her hands folded in her lap, wearing jeans and a purple button-up blouse, like she's just walked out of an 80s high school movie.

My first thought is that she's too young to be here, but that doesn't stop me. A fire ignites within me, my predatory instincts wake up, and I move with intent, smoothing my hands up and down the torso of my dress, swaying my hips, feeling the friction build up in my palms.

She turns back to me, jolts her head in surprise, but holds my gaze. I take one final step to close the gap between our feet and hold out my hand. "Do you dance?"

Her mouth falls open, to pearly white teeth. "Huh?"

"Look at what I'm doing right now," I tell her. "Can you do this?"

She shakes her head, almost as if she's embarrassed. "Not really."

My hand, still extended, wiggles its fingers. "Come on. I'll show you how."

80s-girl looks around the room, uncertain. I assume that this is the end of the line because she doesn't want to be seen dancing with another woman, but she surprises me and takes my hand. I lead her back into the center of the dense mass of people, where I take her other hand and make the most of the room we have, shaking her arms and swinging her from side to side. It takes two seconds for a grin to break out on her face, and I smile in return.

I ask her her name.

"Zoey," she tells me.

"I'm Pacifica," I say, leaning closer so I can be heard over the music. There's a smattering of freckles across her rosy cheeks. "How old are you, Zoey?"

"Eighteen," she says, to which I think I breathe a sigh of relief. That could have taken a dark turn. "You?"

"Twenty-one."

It starts with me leading the way, but after a couple of minutes Zoey seems to break out of her shell of shyness and loses herself in the music. Our hands disconnect, she sways loosely in front of me, her eyes cast down, and just as I start to worry that the crowd will suck her in and I'll lose her, she turns around and presses her back into my torso.

My hands dart to her hips, literally welcoming the contact with open arms, and feel that her blouse has come untucked on one side. With a height advantage of about four inches, my chin lands on her shoulder and I inhale the scent of strawberries. Whether it's her soap, or shampoo, or perfume, I don't care, because it turns me on so much that my knees nearly buckle. I blink my eyes shut and try to remember how long it has been since I felt like this. I have lost count of the months.

"Are you from around here?" the girl asks into my ear, her head tilted back.

I know that if I thrust my hips forward the proximity would be too much for me to handle, and probably render me unable to speak, so I keep the distance. "I live a few blocks away. You?"

Zoey shakes her head and murmurs something. Her bangs brush against my ear.

"How'd you end up in Gravity Falls?" I ask her, my hand rubbing her arm up and down, drawing the cuff of her sleeve closer to her shoulder with every motion.

"I came down here for the week to see my grandparents. I live up in Yakima. Tonight's my last night."

Perfect. Like, unreasonably perfect. Somebody's obviously looking out for me.

"And what brings you to this party?" I say.

She hesitates for a beat. "I want to try new things."

I feel her hot breath on my cheek, and I turn my head to find her gazing up at me. There's a fiery glint in her eyes. "Yeah?"

Zoey nods. I feel her hand creep up the back of my neck, into my hair, which sends a violent shiver down my spine.

"Then can I get you a drink?"

We practically crash through the door to an unknown somebody's bedroom, our hands scouring one another's clothes for their off-buttons. I channel all of my willpower to sever our knotted lips for a moment to lock the door behind us and remove her blouse using the buttons, instead of tearing it to shreds. Her mouth laps at my neck while I fumble with the final button and sling the shirt to the floor, then I smother her lips with my own as I work on the buckle of her jeans.

I have to help her with my dress, but once I've pulled that over my head, we're standing in bras and underwear, scanning each other's bare bodies like we've momentarily forgotten why we're here. I let her make the first move, to confirm that she wants this, and she does, stepping over the bundle of clothes and kissing me with force, gripping my hips and guiding me backwards until I fall onto the bed that I hadn't even registered was behind me.

We toss and turn on the sheets, gradually pulling at bra straps and panties, removing the final thin barriers of our most sensitive areas. I pin Zoey to the bed and raise my head for air, gape down at her face lit only by the moon shining through the window. Her hazel eyes search mine, as if imploring to keep going, so I push backwards with my knees and lower my head to her groin.

My tongue goes to work, starting slow, teasing, but soon she's clawing at my hair, moaning loudly, urging me to dig deeper. It takes a few minutes, but her body jolts to life and shudders, sinks into the sheets as I lift my head and pant, saliva and juices dripping off my tongue.

But she springs back up in seconds, kissing me and whispering, "your turn."

I roll off of her and she hovers above me, wasting no time, darting between my legs and beginning to mimic my every move.

You would have to be a real evil, selfish, moronic piece of shit to repeat what I do next.

I'm propped up on my elbows, watching her go down on me, but eventually she breaks eye contact and her face is no longer visible, buried in my skin. All I see is the top of her head. Brunette.

My head tilts back, my breaths become heavier. A thousand memories ricochet around my mind, poisoning it.

"Mabel," I moan. The sensation in my crotch lessens, her movement becomes slower. "Mabel," I whisper, and I'm about to tell her not to stop when I realize what I've done.

Zoey looks up at me, her eyebrows drawn together. Totally crestfallen. I swallow a dagger of guilt and say her name, her actual name, but she's already standing up and reaching for the box of tissues on the dresser to cleanse herself of this memory.

I sit up fast enough to trigger whiplash and call for her to come back. "I'm sorry," I tell her.

"It's fine," she says flatly, pulling up her jeans. "If there's somebody you'd rather be with right now, that's fine."

"But there isn't, I promise. Please, Zoey, I really like you, Mabel's just... someone I used to know, she doesn't mean anything." I stand up, move towards her, but she holds up her hand, her blouse half-unbuttoned.

"Pacifica, stop. I'm not- I'm not gonna be a... a prop, in your fantasy, okay? I'm sorry. I know this wasn't going to turn into anything serious, I know, but I don't want- I don't want to be that. I'm sorry."

My arms collapse at my sides as she slips out of the room, before I can tell her that there is no universe in which she should be sorry.