"I said you were late," Mateo repeats, slower this time, like he's speaking to someone who's hard of hearing or just incredibly stupid. Then he adds, with a grin that sends a chill down my spine, "And I wanna know why."
His fingers casually reach up and begin to fiddle with the collar of my shirt. He's not even looking at me now, like toying with my personal space is just something he does between sentences. I freeze up completely, stuck somewhere between terrified and flustered beyond belief.
"I… um… I didn't leave early enough," I stammer. "I had to work."
Why do I sound like I have a speech impediment? I don't at least, not normally. But with him standing there, looking like sin in human form and acting like he owns every molecule of air around me, I can barely string a sentence together. My anxiety is doing cartwheels, and my mouth is no longer taking instructions from my brain.
Finally, Mateo lifts his gaze, locking his eyes on mine. There's something unreadable in them, amusement, curiosity, a bit of mischief and it makes my stomach twist into knots.
He reaches out and tilts my chin up gently with his fingers. The touch is surprisingly soft, almost careful. My breath hitches.
"You look good with makeup on," he says, voice quiet but clear, like he knows exactly the effect he's having on me.
And then, as if that wasn't enough to send me into cardiac arrest, he leans in even closer, so close I can feel his words as they brush against the shell of my ear.
"I bet you'd look even better in a skirt."
He pulls back slowly, grinning at my wide-eyed expression like he's just casually commented on the weather. His fingers drop from my chin, and he steps away, finally giving me some space to breathe again.
"Go get a drink," he adds, still wearing that smug, maddening smile. "It'll calm you down. You look like you're about to pass out."
Oh, do I? Gee, I WONDER WHY.
I nod.
It's a small, pathetic movement barely noticeable enough but somehow, it's the first real, non-mumbled, non-stuttered response I've managed since this whole weird, heart-pounding interaction with Mateo started. Honestly, it feels like a victory. A shaky, microscopic one. But still.
He finally lets me go, stepping away like he hadn't just cornered me and short-circuited my entire nervous system. Without another word, he vanishes into the crowd, melting into the sea of limbs and sweat and thudding bass. I watch him disappear, feeling both relieved and disappointed, which is… confusing.
The living room is packed—bodies swaying and grinding in what can only be described as a high school version of an orgy. No one has any shame here. Everyone's sweaty, over-perfumed, underdressed, and in various stages of intoxication. There's definitely more than just our school here. Mateo must've spread the invite far and wide, because the faces around me are a blur of strangers—some girls, some guys, some in-between. It's a beautiful kind of chaos, and I feel wildly out of place.
Some song I don't recognize is blasting through the speakers, the beat pulsing so hard it feels like it's trying to replace my heartbeat. I start weaving through the mass of dancers toward what I hope is the kitchen.
On the way there, I pass a group of teens lounging on an old couch and two upside-down milk crates. One of them is lighting up a joint, another is carefully heating the bowl of a bong like this is a science experiment. Mystery solved—the weed smell that hit me earlier? It's coming from this little stoner circle. Of course it is.
I finally reach the kitchen, only to be greeted by a whole countertop covered in bottles—some labeled, some suspiciously not. A stack of red and blue Solo cups sits nearby, as if daring me to figure it out on my own.
The problem? I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing.
I stand there awkwardly, trying to look casual while clearly radiating I've never had a drink in my life's energy. Just as I consider picking up a random bottle and winging it, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I turn, and suddenly I'm face-to-face with a girl.
She's striking. Her pastel blue hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and her green eyes almost identical in shade to mine sparkle with amusement. The color pops beautifully against her deep brown skin, and I can't help but feel like a faded photograph standing next to her. She's shorter than me by maybe an inch, which only serves to remind me of how annoyingly average I am in every possible way.
"You look lost," she says, flashing a knowing grin. "Want me to make you a drink?"
I nod again, because apparently that's my only reliable form of communication tonight. "Y-yeah. Yes, please," I manage to say, followed by an awkward laugh that sounds like it escaped without my permission.
She raises an eyebrow, already reaching for a Solo cup. "You looked like you were about to pour mouthwash into soda. Thought I'd save you the embarrassment."
She starts pouring a variety of unmarked liquids into the cup with surprising confidence. "I'm Jade, by the way."
"I'm Philip," I say, watching her work like she's some kind of chaotic mixologist. "I, uh… don't really drink."
"Polite, hesitant, and not an alcoholic. That's a rare combo around here." She gives me a teasing glance as she stirs the concoction with a straw. "So, how do you know my brother?"
I blink. "Your brother?"
She hands me the drink. "Mateo."
Oh. Oh.
I should've guessed. There's a definite resemblance now that I'm looking. Same jawline, same confident air. Though Jade seems more approachable, less… intense. Still, that catches me off guard.
"Oh, uh… from school," I answer quickly, sniffing the drink and immediately regretting it. The fumes singe my nose, and I'm pretty sure my lungs are angry at me.
I take a small, brave sip. The burn starts instantly and spreads like wildfire down my throat. I cough, eyes watering.
"First time?" she asks with a smirk, clearly entertained.
"That obvious?" I croak out, half laughing through the residual cough. I've never felt more exposed in my life.
"Painfully." Jade sips her own drink like it's water, completely unfazed. "Here's a tip—don't sip like it's tea. Just down it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, but it burns."
I stare down at the blue plastic cup in my hand, then back at her. "That sounds like terrible advice."
"Maybe," she shrugs, "but it works."
And God help me, I'm seriously considering it.