_________________________________________________
June 20
"Boys will swear they love you, then ruin you with the same mouths they used to beg for
nudes,"
Freda said as she walked into the party through the back gate like she owned the place, red
Solo cup in hand, crop top cutting sharp lines across her shoulder blades. Her voice
carried, not because it was loud, but because it didn't need to be. It was the kind of line
that landed hard and sank deep.
The backyard was a mess of heat and humidity, teenage sweat and spilled liquor, fairy
lights tangled in a palm tree that leaned slightly left. The grass, trampled from flip-flops and
bad decisions, was yellowing in patches. The music, loud, bass-heavy, and heartless
pulsed through the floorboards and into her bones and Someone was already passed out
by the pool. Classic Eastbridge energy.
Freda didn't come to dance. She came to be seen. To remind herself again why she hated
boys. Boys were dopamine in disguise. Fleeting. Addictive. Dangerous.
Her words cut through the party like glass on tile. A few heads turned. One girl choked on
her seltzer. And somewhere behind her, a guy laughed.
➢ "Damn," came a voice from across the room, cool and careless,
"You could've just said your dad was a dick. No need for a full-blown TED Talk."
She turned her head slowly.
Paxton Reeve.
Leaning against the doorframe, fork in hand, stabbing into his mashed potatoes like they
owed him rent. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed to his elbows, revealing veins and
tattoos that looked a little too intentional. His dark hair was messy in a curated way, and he
wore that smirk, the one that said "I dare you to hate me, it'll only make things more fun."
Freda's eyes lingered for a second. Just a second. Then she turned away with the precision
of someone trained not to feed stray dogs.
By midnight, the air had shifted. The sweat in the air turned sticky. The music got louder.
The bad choices got bolder.
➢ "C'mon," Sarah said, dragging Freda toward the patio table, "beer pong or social
exile. Your choice.""That's not how exile works."
"It is in Eastbridge."
The table was already surrounded by a half-sober crowd yelling about house rules.
Someone handed Freda a ping pong ball. Someone else poured shots in the cups instead
of beer. She tossed, she drank, she laughed too loud.
Cup after cup blurred the edges. Her face flushed. Her limbs softened. Her filter broke.
Somewhere between her fourth and fifth loss, she leaned into Sarah's shoulder and
whispered,
➢ "Remind me why I came here?"
"To fall in love with someone you'll regret by July."
"Ugh. Sounds like a disease."
Meanwhile, above them, Paxton sat on the roof, a flat stretch of tar paper outside the
second-story window, rimmed with string lights and cigarette ash. The stars overhead were
barely visible, drowned out by light pollution and the haze of vape smoke.
He was half-listening to a group of guys and girls playing Truth or Dare, laughing too hard at
their own dares, fumbling over words. Most of them were already drunk or too high to
remember anything tomorrow.
➢ "Reeve," someone said.
"Truth or dare."
He didn't look up. Just flicked ash into the wind.
➢ "Dare," he said without hesitation.
➢ "Okay," said a guy with a smug grin. "Here it is:
You've got 92 days. Sleep with Freda Lawson before summer ends. "
Someone choked on their beer. Another girl gasped, then laughed.
Paxton finally looked up, jaw twitching slightly. His eyes scanned the backyard, the string
lights casting gold halos on drunk kids and bad decisions. Then he spotted her, stumbling
onto the porch couch, head tipped back, Solo cup dangling from her fingers.
➢ "Deal," he said, voice low. "Starting tomorrow."
It was nearly 2:45 a.m. when he came back down and saw her.Freda was lying on a frayed gray couch, legs curled slightly, one sandal missing. Her hair
was a mess of curls spread like wild ivy over the cushions. She wasn't passed out,
just…fading. The music inside was a distant hum now. The lights were dimming. People
were peeling off in groups or pairs, and only the drunkest remained.
She muttered something when he crouched in front of her.
➢ "Don't touch me unless you mean it," she said, slurring the words, and then turned
her head away.
Paxton didn't answer. He just scooped her up gently, one arm under her knees, the other
beneath her back. She barely stirred.
His car smelled faintly of leather and cedar. He drove in silence, windows cracked just
enough to let the night air filter in. The sky was a deep navy by the time he parked.
His house was tucked on a quiet street where the lawns were manicured and the
streetlights hummed. The exterior was painted a deep charcoal, with white trim and black
shutters. Clean. Unbothered. The kind of place that felt more like a hotel than a home.
Inside, it was colder. The air conditioning whispered.
The hallway walls were a slate-blue, interrupted by framed prints of old jazz records and
minimalist art. His bedroom door opened with a soft creak.
The room was dim, just enough light from the hallway to make out the shape of a neatly
made bed. Grey sheets. Dark wood furniture. One window cracked open. The candle on the
nightstand still carried a trace of sandalwood.
He laid her down gently.
She mumbled again. Nothing coherent. Her skin was warm. Her lashes fluttered. Paxton
stepped back, ran a hand through his hair.
He opened a drawer, pulled out one of his clean T-shirts, soft, oversized, black, with a faded
Fleetwood Mac logo on the front. The cotton felt worn and smooth, like something lived in.
He helped her change, careful, respectful. Then pulled the covers up to her chest and
stepped out of the room.
A few minutes later, for reasons he wouldn't examine, he came back and laid on the
opposite side of the bed, still dressed, still distant. The mattress dipped slightly beneath
him. The silence between them was soft, almost sacred.
Freda woke up to pain.A dull, nauseating headache bloomed just behind her left eye, radiating out like a migraine
dipped in regret. Her mouth was dry, her throat raw. The air smelled unfamiliar, woodsy,
expensive, and masculine.
Her head was swimming as she sat up slowly.
The room was too neat. Too dark. Too not hers.
The walls were blue-gray. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a sliver of morning light. A
record player sat in the corner. The sheets were soft, cool cotton, maybe Egyptian, maybe
not, but definitely not Target.
Then she looked down.
She was wearing a man's T-shirt.
Black. Faded. Soft. It clung to her like memory.
Panic flared. Her chest tightened.
Then she turned her head,
And there he was.
Paxton.
Sleeping beside her, shirtless, one arm flung over his eyes. The early light cut across his
torso in angles. He looked… peaceful. Unbothered. Like he hadn't just thrown her entire
world into question.
➢ Where the hell am I?
What happened?
Why him?
The pounding in her head had nothing on the sudden rush of questions in her chest.
And summer hadn't even started yet.