Noelle’s POV:

I’m just drunk enough that the bottle of Malibu coconut rum doesn’t taste like sunscreen anymore.

“Another,” I say as I lift my red cup.

Harlowe flips her hair over her shoulder and grabs the bottle. “I need at least three more shots before I’m ready to make any bad decisions tonight.”

Amelia’s apartment feels lived-in. It’s the kind of space that’s already absorbed the personalities of its occupants. A string of fairy lights hangs above a collage of polaroids. The bookshelf holds textbooks and, inexplicably, a Minecraft creeper head repurposed from a cereal box. The rum is making everything feel softer around the edges and makes it feel like the world finally turned down in contrast.

Cesar, Amelia’s boyfriend, sits hunched at the kitchen table. He’s highlighting his open textbook and wears noise-canceling headphones that barely contain the classical music he’s blasting to drown us out. He looks up periodically to shoot a glance our way, especially when Amelia cranks the volume up and yells, “Shots!”

“Cesar! Shot?” Harlowe waves the bottle at him.

He slides one headphone off with a sigh. “Some of us have molecular biology homework due Monday.”

“Don’t bother. He lives with a stick up his ass,” Amelia says as she blows him a kiss that he pretends to dodge.

She takes the bottle from Harlowe and tops off our cups. The smell hits my nose, cloyingly sweet, but definitely better than the cheap vodka we started with. I’ve been nursing a knot in my chest all week. It’s tight, insistent, the kind that comes from trying to be someone worth knowing. But it’s finally starting to loosen.

“We’re gonna get fucking wrecked,” Harlowe announces.

Amelia raises her cup. “To the first week done, bitches”

We clink plastic against plastic and drink. The bass from the speakers thrums through the floorboards as Harlowe pulls me up from the couch. The alcohol makes everything feel a beat slower but, also, somehow better.

I let myself be dragged to the middle of their dancing. I sway awkwardly at first, then I let my body find the rhythm. It feels good to be silly, to be stupid, to be young with people who want nothing from me except my presence. No critiques, no evaluations, no disappointed sighs when I don’t live up to expectations.

“So,” Amelia shouts over the music, “rumor has it that there was an orgy after the party last semester.”

“Fucking theater kids,” I laugh.

“Speaking of people who get around,” Harlowe says as Amelia refills her cup, “I heard this one TA, the one always around the tech booth, is like a sex god.”

“Which one? The one with the crocs?” I ask.

“No, that’s a different TA. This one has the forearms,” Harlowe says as she gestures to her own arms. “I’d let him adjust my lighting any day.”

“You say that about every guy,” Amelia snorts.

“Not Jason,” Harlowe retorts.

Amelia snickers. “God, I that movement class is burned into my memory. Who does jazz hands during serious improv about child soldiers?”

Cesar finally removes his headphones completely. “I won’t be able to support your acting career if you three keep cackling."

Amelia turns down the volume on the speaker. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you,” he corrects, but there’s a smile beneath the words.

“You love me,” she insists, walking over and kissing his cheek.

“Debatable tonight,” he mutters, but he pulls her onto his lap for a real kiss.

She heads back to us and we collapse on the couch and pass a bag of chips between us. It’s strange how comfortable this feels already, like we’ve been friends for years instead of a week. My phone buzzes with a text from my mom asking if I’ve started working on the monologue assignment yet. I silence it without responding.

“You guys are the best thing about this program so far,” Harlow says suddenly; her eyes are a little glassy from the rum. “Like, I know we barely know each other, but this feels right.”

Amelia and I smile at her.

“I think it’s just meant to be,” Harlowe says, suddenly getting serious. She reaches for both our hands. “You guys are already my best friends here. Anyone else would have judged me for nearly setting my hair on fire with a candle earlier.”

“To be fair, I did judge you,” Amelia says. “I just didn’t say it out loud.”

But I know what Harlowe means. There’s something about finding people who get your weird, laugh at your jokes, who pour you another shot instead of telling you to slow down. There’s something magic about friendship that forms in the pressure cooker of a program where everyone is simultaneously your peer and competition.

“I love you guys,” I say, the alcohol making me feel braver with my feelings than I’d normally be.

“Love you too, you sappy drunk,” Amelia responds, but she squeezes my hand.

“I love you both,” Harlowe says. “Which is why I need to tell you something. She pauses and takes a giant gulp of her drink. I think I’m really into Elliot.”

My stomach drops so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t make a sound when it hits the floor.

“Tell us everything,” Amelia says and scoots closer to Harlow.

I force my face into what I hope reads as excitement and not the sudden nausea that has nothing to do with the run. My brain is a tractor as it flashes back to the electricity of the Zip-Zap-Zop exchange, the way his voice dropped when he said my name, how he leaned in when he mentioned coffee. Had I imagined all of it?

Harlowe falls back against the cushions with a dreamy expression. “We were paired up for that projection exercise in Bell's class yesterday, and I don’t know. There's just something about him. He’s not like the other guys who think they’re god’s greatest gift to acting. He’s…quieter. Kind of intense.”

“And those shoulders don’t hurt,” Amelia adds.

“Definitely doesn’t hurt,” Harlowe sighs. “But it’s more than that. He actually listens, you know? Like yesterday, he asked about my undergrad thesis project and didn’t try to immediately one-up me with stories about his transformative experience as Mercutio.”

Kirk. She’s talking about Kirk. But I can only focus on the sick feeling spreading through my chest. Maybe it’s just the alcohol making everything feel heightened, sharpened. Maybe it’s because for days I’ve been secretly cataloging every time Elliot’s eyes found mine across a room, every absentminded question he’s asked me when he missed something in class, every time his shoulder has brushed mine as we shuffled between seats.

“You should go for it tonight,” I hear myself, almost mechanically.

“Really?” Harlowe sits up straighter, eyes brightening. “You don’t think it’s too desperate? First week and all?”

“Please,” Amelia snorts. “Half the program is already playing musical beds. May as well get in the game early.”

I try to remember if I’ve mentioned anything about Elliot to either of them. If I’ve let slip how my pulse still races every time I see him, how sometimes I find excuses to linger after class, just to catch a few more moments of his presence. I don’t think I have. I’ve been careful.

“If he’s at the party, I’m making a move,” Harlowe declares and taps her cup against mine.

“I’ll be your wingman,” I offer, the alcohol apparently making me a masochist.

“For real?” Harlowe throws her arms around my neck. “Fuck, I love you. Seriously.”

She smells like coconut rum and vanilla perfume, and I hug her back because what else can I do? Tell her I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about a guy I’ve barely interacted with? Jeopardize our friendship over something over what might be nothing more than basic attraction?

“Let’s do one more shot,” I say, reaching for the bottle. “For courage.”

We each take another pull from the Malibu. The music shifts to something with a heavier bass, and soon we’re dancing again–spinning, laughing. Harlowe teaches us a ridiculous TikTok dance that none of us can actually master. For a few minutes, I forget about Elliot, about the knot of jealousy in my stomach. I’m just a girl at a pregame with her friends who can’t shake ass to save her life.

Amelia checks her phone. “It’s almost ten. We should head out.”

“Shit,” Harlowe says, suddenly panicking. “Do I look okay? My mascara always smudges when I drink.”

Without waiting for an answer, she rushes to the bathroom to check her makeup.

“You good?” Amelia asks quietly.

“Yeah, why?” I say a bit too quickly.

She studies me for a second, then shrugs. “Just checking.”

Cesar emerges from the bedroom and dangles his keys on his fingers. “I already know I’m driving, so don’t bother with the puppy eyes.”

“Have I mentioned you’re the best boyfriend ever?” Amelia says sweetly.

“Only when you need something,” he replies, but pulls her in for a kiss.

“But if any of you puke in my car, I’m charging a cleaning fee.”

Fair.

Harlowe bursts back into the room. “Ready.”

The drive to the party is short, just a few blocks from Amelia’s apartment. The neighborhood is full of slightly run-d0own houses rented by grad students. Secondhand anxiety of Harlowe’s mission mixes with the rum in my system and makes me jittery.

We pull up to a two-story townhome with a porch. Music pulses from inside, and clusters of people spill onto the front lawn with drinks in hand. It’s nothing like the wild frat parties from undergrad. No one is doing keg stands or passed out in the bushes, but there’s still that electric charge that anything could happen.

“He we are,” Cesar says as he pulls up to the curb. “Text me when you want to be picked up.”

Amelia kisses him goodbye, and we climb out into the cool night air. The three of us stand on the sidewalk for a moment and take in the scene.

“Wait,” Harlowe says suddenly as she grabs my arm. “Boob check.”

“”What?”

“I need you both to check if my boobs look good. Like, seriously, objectively rate them.”

I survey her chest and tilt my head. “Strong nine out of ten. Very perky. Excellent presentation.”

“Only a nine?” She adjusts her top, then turns to Amelia. “You?”

Amelia doesn’t miss a beat. “Stellar rack. Would objectify again.”

“Perfect.” Harlowe says as she squares her shoulder and looks at the door. “Let’s do this.”

We open the door. Inside, the living room is filled with blue and purple LED lights that cast the shadows of people dancing across the room. Every piece of furniture has been pushed to the walls to make space.

A second-year with a handlebar mustache intercepts us just inside the door. “Fresh meat! You look too sober.”

He produces a pitcher of something yellowish and pours us a cup.

“What is that?” I ask suspiciously.

“House special. Three types of liquor and whatever mixers were in the fridge.”

I take a cautious sip and immediately regret it. It tastes like someone melted down Jolly Ranchers and used them to mask the flavor of rubbing alcohol.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” I sputter, but take another sip anyway. I’m already here, already drinking, already pretending I’m fine with helping Harlow hook up with the guy I can’t stop thinking about.

“It grows on you.” Mustache Guy grins. “Like mold."

“My favorite,” Amelia says.

“I’m going to see what they have,” she adds as she heads toward what I assume is the kitchen.

Harlowe’s eyes scan the room. “I don’t see him yet.”

“Maybe he’s out back?” I suggest, both dreading and hoping Elliot might be here.

“I’m going to look around,” she decides. “Find me if you spot him?”

“Of course,” I promise, and then I’m alone in a sea of theater kids in various states of inebriation.

I drift toward a quieter corner, where I recognize Sammy from our track, sitting alone on the washing machine. Soon enough, I’m beside her as she rants about Supernatural and its wasted potential. I drink from my water bottle of pure Malibu.

Twenty minutes and an exhaustive breakdown of Dean Winchester’s sexual repression later, and the front doors swing open, and a new group walks in.

My attention snaps away from Sammy mid-sentence, drawn like a magnet to the door.

Elliot walks in with Danny and his guy group, and everything else fades to background noise.