Author's Note: I'm back! Sorry a thousand times for the long wait. Long story short: was unsure about the chapter and plot/was abroad on vacation for two months with family. Good news: working on chapter 7 today. Bad news: no guarantee when it'll be published-but be assured that I haven't stopped writing.


It's after school and through the doors of the choir room, I can see that the halls are starting to clear. School ended five minutes ago and Glee club doesn't start for another ten minutes, but the choir room is already near half full. Kurt and Blaine are here...Artie—Finn just walked in...Mike and Tina...Mercedes is lingering outside with her boyfriend...Rory...and—

"Sorry I'm late, everyone! My locker was jammed and I know I should be setting a better example than this. As—not to put myself on a pedestal, but—an essential member of New Directions..."

Rachel Berry.

As is customary, Tina and I exchange looks. I don't even roll my eyes, no matter how much the situation bothers me—it happens too often to put effort towards. I'll admit it flat out: I resent Rachel Berry. Every day that she's in the choir room means that another solo is taken away from me, with another chorus line shoved at me. I like singing, but I want to be heard; like everyone else, I want to be more noticed and given the opportunity to really shine. Unlike Rachel, whose stupid golden stickers shine all the time...

"So, how do you like working at the Lima Bean?" I snap my head around and am momentarily surprised, having all but forgotten that Kurt is sitting a chair away from me. Blaine leans over, resting his hands on his crossed legs.

"Um...good—good. It wears you out, but I'm getting the hang of it." If you can count waddling home on sore feet any improvement.

"At least you get free coffee, right?" Kurt grabs my knee and shakes it, smiling wide and tersely laughing like some psycho. He cocks his head and looks at me, while Blaine rolls his eyes and cups his chin in his hand.

Oh, I see...I take my phone out and presumably appear busy, going through my contacts, my messages. Nonchalantly, I say, "Oh, not exactly free. But we do get discounts.." I leave Kurt hanging, and resist the urge to look up at him. Friends with benefits, I should have seen this coming from miles away. I actually don't even mind giving discounts on orders, especially with Kurt or Blaine—any of my friends really (suck it Rachel Berry). But when I know I'm being played, the tables have to turn. So let Kurt suffer, if only for a few minutes.

He must have been waiting for me to say something else, but when I don't, he says, "That's great! The Lima Bean is such a...fine establishment, the best in Lima. Their coffee is the perfect fix for a cold and...harsh, winter evening." I'm still diddling with my phone, so he reluctantly continues, "Blaine and I go there so often that," he puts his hands up, "it's like we're being robbed. Isn't that right Blaine?" He turns to Blaine, but I guess he must have been rolling his eyes, because Kurt turns around to me and says, "Yup, money can't last forever...," shaking his head.

I hold back a snort of laughter and finally decide to look up. Kurt smiles widely at me and it's hard not to scoot back a few inches. I see Blaine behind Kurt shaking his head and shrug his shoulders, as if to say he's sorry. I give him a small smile and turn my attention back to Kurt. "Do you want a discount?"

Seeing Kurt act is like seeing a turtle try to get off of it's back—funny, yet sad. He widens his eyes and mouth, placing a hand over his heart, blinking his eyes as if he possibly could not believe it. "Me? That is so kind of you—"

"If you don't want it, I could just give it to Puck—"

Kurt blurts out a ridiculously horrendous laugh, "HAHA! No, I'll take it," he says, feverishly nodding his head.

"Great..." I reach into my purse and take a plastic card out of my wallet, and place it in Kurt's grabby hands. He looks over it eagerly and as he's putting it in his wallet, he nonchalantly asks, "Sebastian hasn't been around, has he?"

The first thing I do is smirk. It's been two days since the encounter at Dalton but I still recall it fondly. The look on his face—priceless. I still have the button I ripped off of his blazer, sitting on my desk at home. I've taken to twirling it around in my hands when I'm bored or am thinking, and no matter what, it always manages to give me a great sense of satisfaction. Would calling it a "victory token" be too much? I'll admit, his bipolar attitude still freaks me out, but what can words do? He was trying (and almost succeeded) to put me down, but only because he felt bitter that his menacing antics weren't working on me. He couldn't get me to spill the beans about Kurt, and boo hoo for him. He's just bitter and pathetic, and somehow...I thought he would at least be above that.

"Not since last wee—" I stop myself. I still haven't told Kurt or Blaine about my chance meetings with Sebastian and damnit, I didn't want it to be like this. In a desperate move, I go back to my phone, but I can feel the burn of Kurt's gaze boring onto my shoulder. Tentatively, I look up. Kurt's lips are pursed, with dagger-like eyes beneath an arched eyebrow. Amazing how he can go from friendly to hostile in less than a second. I gulp, whether because I'm in trouble or of my newly acquired thirst. Kurt narrows his eyes, locking onto my throat.

Well, there's no use in beating around the bush.

I try sounding nonchalant but I can't tell if it's working, "Um, yeah...so...," I uselessly clap my hands together, "I mean, Sebastian's been to the Lima Bean...a couple of more times ."

"From when you started at the Lima Bean, I presume?"

I look back and forth from Blaine and Kurt; puppy dogs eyes and the infernos of hell. I feel so guilty, and I am sure they can see it on my face. Crap. But they don't know the right reasons for why I feel like this. My heart starts racing—do I tell them about what happened between Sebastian and I? The Lima Bean stand-offs, the mess/victory at Dalton, the texts? I start to rationalize; what should I? What does it mean to them, anyways? When they're concerned with Sebastian, it's about keeping their relationship intact, not about me. And besides, I haven't told Sebastian anything at all concerning them, so big deal...right?

I look Kurt in the eyes and try my best not to flinch. "No...from since when we saw him there last time." Kurt opens his mouth but I cut him off. "Look, you might be mad at me, but what do you expect me to do? Tell you how he takes his coffee or how he's assaulting the chairs? I just didn't think it was a big deal so, sorry..." I give my best convincing I-didn't-do-anything-wrong-but-sorry shrug and hope for the best.

"There's no need, Anne. Kurt's just overreacting as always," reassures Blaine, and gives Kurt a pointed look, raising his eyebrows towards me. Kurt's head is tilted away from me, and he's looking down his nose, no doubt contemplating whether or not to stay/be mad at me. He sighs and turns to give me a small, tired smile. "Just stay on the lookout...maybe he's got a Pumbaa."

"Don't ruin Lion King for me..."

"He can ruin a lot more than that..."


We can hear the music from across the street, and it seems as if the car itself is shaking from the bass. I clumsily push myself out of the car, unsure on my legs at first, but gain balance. The last time I wore heels was when my cousin got married six months ago, and even then they weren't so high. I admit they're cute but god, does looking pretty always have to come with a price? Sonya said that they nicely "accentuate" my calves and make my butt look nice, but I can only feel pain.

"You'll get used to it, just don't think about it, okay?" Sonya rolls her eyes as she auto-locks the car, and goes to stand by me on the sidewalk. Together, we look at the house across the street.

One thing that instantly stood out as we entered the neighborhood were the cars: Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, and maybe some Porsches, but we weren't sure in the dark. Point of the fact is, we stand out like sore thumbs in Sonya's 2008 Honda. Maybe when go inside it won't matter at all, but standing outside, in front of what can only be a minimum one million dollar house, it's hard not to feel insignificant and out of place. We're in Dalton territory—prep school, collar popping, skiing in the Alps, Ivy League land. As a group of girls walk by us, I can't help but look at what I'm wearing. A white lace top, with a white tank top underneath; a black peacoat; skinny jeans; pink high heel pumps; a bracelet; some eyeliner and lip gloss; and my phone, since I have nowhere to put it but in my hands. I look up and Sonya and I exchange nervous looks.

Before accepting Rutherford's invitation as his plus twos, Sonya and I were hesitant. On a norm, we usually don't go to high school parties anyways—cheap drinking, snorting crack, getting laid, etc., aren't our type of thing. But for this party—not only that—Sonya and I would be in an...uncomfortable setting. How do we fit in, or act—will we stand out? We dream of the high life, but no way can we actually fit in. After seeing the girls that walked by, our insecurities may just have risen by tenfold. How do we match up to them? I start to feel nervous and am growing impatient—the longer we wait out here for Rutherford to take us in, the more I feel like driving away.

I silently start cursing Rutherford when a car pulls up behind Sonya's, blinding us with white light. My eyes become watery, and I reach out to shield myself from the brightness. As I face away from the light, I wish with all of my gut that it's Rutherford to take us inside, and out of this miserable cold. Or better yet, that it's not Rutherford, so I can go home and read a book in the toasty comfort of my bed and blankets. The headlights turn off and I all too suddenly turn around, searching for a chestnut-haired, strong eyebrowed guy. To my disappointment, unfamiliar boys get out of the car, neither of them the face I was hoping to see.

My last remaining strength now uprooted and a sudden urge to pee, I turn to Sonya, my breath misting in the dark. "Let's just go."

"What?"

"Go, let's go! I don't want to go to the party anymore, come one..." I take a few steps towards the car, but Sonya doesn't follow. Her arms are crossed across her shoulders and she doesn't look like she'll budge anytime soon.

"Seriously? Rutherford's not even here, forget him, come on," I plead. I walk up to her and start digging in her pockets, eager to get into the warmth and comfort of the car. We fuss for a bit, totally oblivious to the group of guys standing next to the car behind us, and battle, shove and shoulder our way for the keys. Sonya steps back and fists her hands around them, another hand held out, making me step back a few paces. I hop on the balls of my feet as she talks. "What about Rutherford?"

I switch to pacing back and forth the width of the sidewalk. "Whatever, I don't care."

"Really? Because if I recall, the reason you even wanted to come—"

"Hey." My heart skips a beat and I turn around.

My face starts to get warm as Rutherford leans in to hug me, his hard muscles padded by his hoodie and jacket combo. My pulse picks up and I get squirmy, though I don't know from which more—his hug or that he might have heard Sonya and I talking. As I watch Sonya and him hug, my mind beings to race—so fast that I don't even know what I'm thinking; all I can hear is buzzing. Time seemingly stops; every breath, move and word is moving frame by frame, slower and slower. Time is dragging on, along with it my misery and humility. He can't know that I have a crush on him...

My eyes dart over him, looking for any sign of laughter, contempt, incredulity—anything that would indicate that he knows. He picks up on this and squints his eyes playfully.

"What?"

I start, and gape at him what I can presumably imagine like a goldfish, nothing coming to mind.

Sonya's eyes catch mine and I find myself saying, "You're late." I turn myself around to face him and cross my arms, hoping that I come off as sassy, upset—whatever.

Rutherford smiles and laughs, pushing the sleeves of his jacket up to his arm. "No I'm not..."

"So too. Any longer and we could have...have..."

Rutherford laughs and puts both of his hands up. "Stop talking—hey!" I don't think my punch to his shoulder could have hurt him but he makes it seem so for my sake. He rubs his shoulder, shoots me a pointed look, and walks away, towards the house. Sonya and I follow after him, his friends soon following behind us.

I wince at the sharp pain I feel on my toes, and try to discretely bend my knees to help make the walking easier. Sonya shoots me a contemptuous glare and edges away from me, hovering ahead to walk besides Rutherford. But instead, he hangs back, and soon, all three of us are more or less walking the same pace, in a straight line. Occasionally, Rutherford and I come close to brushing hands, and I jerk mine away, no matter how much I want to do just the opposite.

I shake my head, and bitterly smile at the irony.

"What," asks Rutherford, grinning.

We're almost to the door of the house, and the noise has risen exponentially. Flanking us on either side of the cement stairs are precisely cut hedges, their cuts mimicking the ascent of the stairs. Up ahead, the large circle bay windows in the center of the house create a backdrop for the large marble water fountain, running even in the night, when barely anyone cares. Well, maybe the social elite do...

Half-lying, I look up at Rutherford, "That's a really nice house, mansion-thing."

He laughs and looks up at the house. I'm staring intently at his jawline when he turns to face me, catching my eye before I pretend to busy myself with my phone, checking old messages and sliding through the menu. I think it may just be me, but I think I hear Rutherford chuckle. My cheeks grow warm, even though it's freezing cold.

We reach the front of the house and are immediately engulfed by dancers in the foyer. Strobe lights must have been setup somewhere, because the lights flicker on and off rhythmically, synchronized with the music. It's hard to get used to the lights at first—it's as if every few seconds of my life were being omitted, making my movements choppy and clumsy. Two or three times I accidentally bump into someone, but I can't see who they are because I can't find them the next. The fog takes time to get used to as well, but eventually Sonya, Rutherford and I (Rutherford and I...why is something as simple like that making me blush?) push through the crowd and into the kitchen and out of the strobe lights and fog. Though it's still early in the night, several bottles of expensive beer and vodka are empty, and even some wine bottles are open, their corkscrews carelessly tossed aside. My eyes are trained onto a neat stack of unused shot glasses when I bump into someone. I look up and it's Rutherford, but as I start to apologize (or stutter and gasp like I have a disease), I realize my words are lost on him.

His back is to me and when he turns around, nonchalantly hands Sonya and I open bottles of beer. I take it gingerly in my hand and look at Sonya. To be honest, I've never had much alcohol save for the beer or wine my parents let me sip every now and then, and never have I ever drank at a party. The bitter smell stinks up my nose as I watch Rutherford take a drink, and it isn't until he points it out that I notice my mouth is gaping.

"What?"

I shake out of my daze and train my eyes away from his Adam's apple. He's leaning his back against the stainless steel counter, one hand in his pocket, the other with a beer in his hand. His chestnut hair tumbles stylishly onto his forehead, and for a moment I doubt that I'm his plus one, nevertheless are friends with him. It's sort of like a dream or a cliché high school movie...but I don't mind.

"Nothing," I say.

He nods his chin at my beer. "Aren't you going to drink...or—do you drink," he asks, his beer held mid-air.

I nod feverishly, like he's some kind of idiot and should feel stupid for it. "Not now...we've barely just come here." Sideways, I glance at Sonya, who's wiping the condensation of off her bottle. So I guess she doesn't want to tell him, either.

"Oh, so you do drink," he says, breaking into a wide smile. He laughs and almost spits his drink out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, not once leaving sight of me as he guffaws like an idiot. I should feel offended but a) he's looking at me and I like that, and b) I'd laugh at me too. I mutter and playfully shove him on the shoulder.

Sonya and I meet and talk with the rest of Rutherford's friends (most of which are from Dalton Academy for Preppy WASP Boys With Too-Much-Cash-To-Burn-But-Are-Nice-About-It), and we have a good time throughout the night. The foyer gets more crowded throughout the night as it progresses, and people often stumble out, shiny with sweat, even though it's freezing outside. I hear splashes outside and can only assume there is a heated (else they're all raging drunk) swimming pool in the backyard.

A girl walks towards me, and I move aside to let her grab a bottle from the counter behind me, but instead, she stops and talks with Rutherford. Oh, right—he knows other girls too.

I shift uncomfortably on my legs, unsure of what to do with myself. I look away nonchalantly, suddenly interested in the kitchen and my phone. I pretend to text someone and smile, as if absolutely nothing is bothering me when in actuality my heart is weeping.

Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic but anymore of this and I could go paranoid. Pretending to look around the kitchen, I quickly glance at the girl Rutherford is talking to—blonde, skinny, hot. Damnit. This bothers me—a lot. Because even though I probably have a 0:1 chance with Rutherford, he could easily end up with her. Ruthlessly—on instinct—I instantaneously go on bitch mode, devouring her with my eyes, looking for anything that would lead me to believe that she's a slut or way beneath me. A mechanism, if you will, to help make me feel less helpless and more...what? Better? Covertly, I steal glances at her. Eyeliner, blush, powder, lip gloss; a plunge top that just barely classifies as revealing; stylishly ripped jeans; heels. I knit my eyebrows, disgruntled; she doesn't even have hoop earrings. At a loss, I zone in on the bottle of beer in her hand. It's halfway empty, though from hearing her talk, I can't really say if she's beginning to get drunk or just barely started drinking.

Suddenly, I get a feeling—like a nagging—and look up and start. The girl and I lock eyes and my face grows warm from embarrassment. I meekly smile, and hurriedly look away, so to make her presume that I was only staring at her by chance. But Rutherford notices the exchange and introduces me to Helen—a dull name for a beautiful girl but yet...Helen of Troy, I think bitterly.

She smiles at me and waves her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I go to Crawford Country Day."

What the hell? I scrunch my nose and knit my eyebrows together, "Is that a...farm or...," I trail off, at a loss for ideas.

Both Rutherford and Helen laugh and I feel the heat start to rise up in my cheeks—a feeling I've all but become accustomed to tonight. Rutherford mutters "I told you" to Helen before taking a swig from his bottle. "No, far from it. It's...actually the sister school to Dalton Academy."

I tilt my head to the side and look at her as if she's batshit crazy. "That is complete bullshit."

We all laugh this time and I start to grow more comfortable around Helen. She seems alright—and she is. As I get to know more about her, I learn that she's a scholarship student at Country Day, but is incredibly humble about it, and swears that they let her in to diversify the school. But she's not a stiff either—she's written papers for the other girls a few times, "$200 each," with a tone of incredulity and condescension. As Rutherford tries to protest and justify "his people", the two of us roll our eyes and rag on him throughout the night.


I don't know how long the three of us have been standing in the kitchen and talking, but it must have been a while, because the music playlist is starting to repeat.

Oooooooooh oooooooooooooooooh, sometimes I get a good feeling...yeah...

Faintly, I remember Rutherford telling Sonya and I that this party was going to be wild, and that he's been looking forward to it all week. I look to my left and see Rutherford, standing and holding a bottle of beer as ever. I wouldn't consider that even remotely wild...But we have heard otherwise. Twice we heard people chanting "Chug, chug, chug, chug!" to the rooms left of us and a stocky brunette I could only assume as Evan came into the kitchen several times to get a large tray of colorful jello shots, and salt and lime wedges. I couldn't ask Rutherford who he was, because he and Helen were talking. Whatever crazy things Rutherford imagined doing tonight, he's wasting it away talking to us.

Not that I mind.

Rutherford and I are listening to Helen, telling us an embarrassing story about a girl in her English class, when I start to realize the amount of blush she has on. It's a bit too strong for my liking but...I lean closer, to get a better look, when instead I put my face into the crook of Rutherford's neck. Or rather, he puts his neck into my face. My heart skips a beat and flies to my throat, and I take a sharp intake of breath. I stand there, still, my heart beating loudly, like a hollow drum. He smells like cologne but underneath that, this close to him, I can smell his musk...I can smell him, the smell you get only when you're unbearably close to someone. Like now, I think faintly. I tilt my head up, maybe expecting a kiss, but as I look up from underneath my eyelashes, I see his pink cheeks, and a faint smile on his lips. He looks down at me and for an instant, our eyes are locked and all either of us would need to do, is bring our heads closer...just a little more...almost...

At the last moment, he pulls away. My eyes trail him as he pulls back to my left, and don't notice that he's holding my phone until he waves it in my face, his cheeks still flushed. I don't have time to speak or smile, or evaluate what just happened, because currently my phone is vibrating, with "Dad" displayed on the screen. Hurriedly, I take my phone and walk out of the kitchen.

"Dad?" There are open doors to my left and right, and gingerly I peek into each one of them, looking for an empty room to drown the music out.

My dad says something, but I can't hear him. I press the phone closer to my ear, and cover the other with the back of my hand since I'm still holding a bottle of beer. "What? I can't hear you."

Three doors down, to my right, I find an empty room, with only a ladder and two walls of peeled wallpaper to name as occupants. I shut the door behind me, and set the bottle of beer onto the hardwood floor. The music is still loud, but not so much that I have to cover my ears.

"...you?"

"Wait I couldn't hear you before, can you say it again?"

The static picks up on his end, until my dad says, "Where. Are. You?" His voice is strained and low, like he does when he's angry.

Knowing I'm standing on thin ice, I cautiously say, "At a party—"

"—that you never told us about. Did it ever cross your mind that first, you have to get our permission—"

"—I did. I asked Mom on Wednesday and she said it was okay." Silence on the other end. "Didn't she tell you," I ask, and almost drop the phone in haste. FUCK! Not good, not good! I was in such a hurry to fill the silence that damnit, I forgot, forgot that they're in a fight and haven't spoken to each other in a week and that our family is a mess and—

"No," my dad replies...bitterly. All I can say is "Oh."

Together, we stay on the line, in silence. After a while, he breaks it first. "How long do you plan on staying?"

"I...I asked if I could stay till 12 and...I could." I didn't want to say "Mom", but it was obvious enough.

"Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, Sonya's with me too."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Where are you," I ask.

Silence.

Maybe he didn't hear. "Dad? Where are you?"

"Don't do anything bad, understand? You're too young and too smart. I trust you, you're a good girl." And he hangs up before I can say anything else.

Normally, I wouldn't take much interest in that he rebuffed my question, but a part of me is nagging at it, tugging on the...accusation by my mother. He's with someone, it whispers. He's doing something you're not supposed to know about...

I shake my head roughly, and start walking around the room. I look at the wallpaper that is still left on the other walls, a pretty pattern of flowers that are stained by age. But not matter how much interest I take in the pink, red and yellow roses, the nagging comes back. Suddenly, I notice how thirsty I am.

Glad for an excuse, I hurriedly walk out of the room and down the hall. I haven't drank anything since we arrived at the party, my fingers cramped from holding the bottle of beer that I never took a sip of. Down the hall I walk, past rooms that are now closed, and between people straggling from them. I walk and walk and walk, thinking all the time that if only I could get a sip of water, everything will be fine. That I can think about what was happening with Dad.

I see the sink ahead and scan the room for unused cups until...I stop, dead center in the kitchen. I...

I shake my head once more and widen my eyes to get a better look, but as soon as I do, I turn around and walk back the way I had come from. I walk and walk and walk, thinking that if I go back to the empty room, everything will be better.

But it's not empty anymore. Instead, there are a group of people inside it, and when I walk in, some stop and stare at me. I look like a fool, and quickly go to the side and pick up the bottle of beer I left on the ground. Then I leave.

I continue walking to the left of the house, until I find myself in the foyer. I raise the bottle of beer to my chest so it won't spill, and I shove my way through everyone. The strobe lights are still going on and off, and the dancing is rowdy and crowded, but I manage to push through everyone, until somehow, someway, I'm outside, breathing in the sharp, cold air. I left my coat inside the house, but regardless I walk into the empty backyard, save for a group of three girls. Without thinking, or hesitating, I walk on, and finally come to a stop at the barbeque pit, and lean against the cold steel, and shiver.

I remember how thirsty I am and without a care, I lift the bottle of beer to my lips, and swallow. The taste is horrendous, a terrible bitter liquid that almost goes up my nose as I try to swallow the huge gulp. I double over and hold my head in my hand, my head slowly starting to rush. I lift my head up and think.

Bitterly, I sing to myself. Rutherford and Helen, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. The worst part isn't that he's kissing her, but that Helen is actually a good, decent, nice person. That she isn't some slut or drunk, but it's genuine and fuck everything, why am I dealing with so much shit the past two weeks? I want to throw the bottle of beer on the ground and watch the shards of glass fly through the air, but instead I take another swig.

Fuck everything, I think. I don't have to deal with this, I don't want to deal with this. This is a party and I'm supposed to have fun. Why aren't I having fun? Sonya is in the foyer dancing, having a blast and what am I doing? Standing outside in the cold, drinking beer like a fucking priss.

I smile. My head is starting to get light, and as I look down at my hand, I bitterly laugh to myself. I'm drinking beer for the first time. Well, not for the first time but, the first time I took more than a sip. I'm not sure if I should be proud of it. I don't want to get drunk...not yet, I think. For a moment, I look out into the night. The swimming pool has underwater lights, the blue chlorine lit up, surrounded by tiles of intricate design. To my right, I can see everyone inside the house. Through some windows, on the second floor, I see some couples kissing, their silhouettes against the curtains. Once more, I think about Rutherford and Helen. I think about it, hard and slow. I think about it so much, that I'm not really thinking at all, but just watching them as I had seen them in the kitchen, kissing. The more I think about it, the more I don't care. Faintly, I wonder if it's the beer, desensitizing me.

There are goosebumps on my shoulders and arms, on the back of my neck, and I start loosing feeling in my hands. I set the beer down on the brick counter and flex my fingers and wring my wrists. My breath comes out in a cool white mist. I look around me, and notice rings of mist to my right. Smoke, I realize, the red ends cigarettes bright in the dark. One of them, a boy, walks toward a group of girls at the side of the pool, waving his hands in the air. The other is standing alone, until they start walking forward. The red end bobs in the dark, but as it comes closer, I notice that it's owner is a boy too.

It's Sebastian Smythe.

Without so much as batting an eye, I reach for the bottle of beer and take another swig. As I set it down and watch him come forward, I smile wide, remembering what had happened the last time we met. That stupid look on his face. What I did. I feel myself blushing at the thought of his hands pressing on my breasts and giddy at my stupid boldness, and I know it's the beer talking when I call out to him, "Back for another feel?"

I watch carefully as his walk falters for half a second, until he walks up to me, and leans against the barbeque pit. Now that he's closer, I want to retch, and not because of the beer. He looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog; a red polo sweater with a stupid popped white collar, a striped white-and-blue nautical belt, and dark blue pants. His hair is stupidly quiffed and perfect. As he takes a drag on his cigarette, I can't help but be mesmerized, and even a little turned on.

Sebastian blows out smoke, and finally says, "Did your Mommy finally let you drink from the grown-up cabinet? Take it nice and slow, beer isn't like wine coolers."

Almost immediately I reply, "'Nice and slow'—that's how you like it, right? Up the ass, I mean." Sebastian turns his head around to face me and smirks.

"And how do you like it?" He brings the cigarette up to his mouth but pauses, to add, "Oh wait." As he takes a drag, he still manages to smile and doesn't break eye contact with me. I know he's gauging my reaction and for once, I silently thank the cold air for already making my cheeks a pink hue.

I want to show him up, but I can't lie to him—he'll see right through me. But I can't let him keep that smirk on his face either—it's too ugly. "Are you sure about that," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Oh wait," I put both of my hands out in front of me, "I'm a slug, no one will ever want to have sex with me. And yet..."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow and looks down at me from his nose, making a sound from the back of his throat, incredulous. "Not a chance."

I turn my body around and face him. Because he is leaning against the barbecue grill and I'm wearing heels, our eyes are almost level, save for two or three inches. I put my left hand out with three fingers, "Three truths," now my index finger, "and one lie." I don't know what I'm doing at this point, save for trying to keep balance on my heels. Sebastian crosses his arms, his mouth a set line, and raises his eyebrows, telling me to continue. I raise a finger up for each statement, "I live in Lima; I'm not a virgin; I can't swim; and I hate you."

Sebastian smiles with his mouth closed, I guess meant to be condescending but I'm way past caring. "Was this supposed to be clever? You're obviously a virg—"

"Wrong," I chime, holding the beer bottle to my lips. Looking ahead of me, I say, "I don't hate you," before taking a long, deep drink. The air outside made the beer as cold as it is, and this time the sensation of it is pleasant, though truth be told I would much rather prefer a mug of hot chocolate. I glance back at Sebastian, who hasn't changed, save for an amused look on his face. Giddy at my own cleverness, I smile wide and deliver the punch line, "I fucking hate you."

Sebastian snorts and takes a long drag on his cigarette. I watch him as he holds it up in between his index finger and thumb as his bright red lips close around it. He looks placid as he stares into the night, his eyes looking straight ahead and not straying—thinking. Faintly, I wonder why I'm still here as I trace his jawline with my eyes, faint stubble around his jaw, freshly shaved. He has several small, dark brown spots all over his face and neck; two under his left eyebrow, one right under his lips, one on his left ear lobe, two on his jaw line, two on his Adam's apple...I find myself wondering if his boyfriend ever kisses them, one by one, slowly trailing up his neck, playfully tugging his ear lobe before kissing it, trailing his jawline, teasing Sebastian by kissing just below his lips, until finally...

I shift my legs uncomfortably, my face becoming warm. I try looking elsewhere, but everything is boring and dull in comparison to him. His silver watch winks off of the moonlight and draws my eye to his left arm, hugging his chest. It's not until now that I realize the fabric of his sweater must be some type of stretch material, because it hugs his flexed bicep and tricep, huge hills of well-defined muscle that I never expected Sebastian to have. I've always assumed he was lanky—tall and skinny, with nothing to show. But looking closely at him now, past his hard arm...I think I can make out a few lumps on his stomach, abs probably. And his pants are quite skinny, so I assume those are muscle as well...He's everything a girl could want, I think—except he's a total fucking douche.

Reminded of that (did I forget it somehow?), I'm jarred out of my daze, and am all too aware that my time here is pointless. Why am I still here to begin with? Was I waiting for him to blow his smoke out and say something? Were we even having a conversation to begin with? Faintly, I think that all we do is bicker—and I'm tired of that.

Without hesitation, I start walking away towards the house. As I pass Sebastian, I feel a blast of warm smoke on my right arm. I turn my head on instinct and meet Sebastian's cool green eyes through the haze of smoke for a split second, until I look away and walk on.


Author's Note: Whether good or bad, please review! I'm always anxious to know your opinions.