Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 11 | Saturday, 26th September

I grab as many cups as I can without dropping my phone, which turns out to be a grand total of five. As I'm about to leave the kitchen, Justin calls my name.

"Amburr!"

Well, shit.

"Hi, Justin," I mutter, turning around to face the popular gang.

Most of them are staring at the cups stacked in my hands questioningly. Some of the guys — Justin and Sean included — are leering at me unabashedly. I suppress a shudder and grin at them.

"Hey, what's up?" I say, tipping my head in their direction.

Greasy offers me a smile cold enough to freeze all the booze in this house in a second. She looks like Elsa (if she Let It Go a little too far) with her messy blonde waves and super short, off-shoulder blue dress.

"You're so hot, babe," Justin drawls, walking over to me.

"Thanks," I say, tipping the contents of one of the five cups into my mouth. "Okay, bye!"

"Whoa, whoa," he shouts, making a grab for my arm. "Where are you going?"

I pull my arm away in the pretense of raising another red cup to my lips. Another, another and another. The liquid (vodka? gin? rum?) sears its way down my throat, settling in my stomach with a buzz of warmth. Already, the lights and colors and people (so many lights and colors and people!) are starting to look prettier.

"Over there," I say in response, pointing at the space behind me vaguely.

"Screw that," Justin grins. "Come with me."

I just have enough time to drop the empty cups to the floor and grab four full ones before he pulls me away from the kitchen by my waist. Each step leading up to the first floor is a reminder.

Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan. Dylan.

We're in a bedroom now, and Justin's closing the door. Everything smells like alcohol. He pulls me towards the plush bed in the middle of the room, stumbling in the dark.

"Stop it," I shout (am I shouting?) when he tries to take my cups away. "These are for Frosty."

Justin laughs like I've said the funniest thing in the world. I guess it is kind of funny that I've brought Dylan to a party as though nothing's changed.

"Who the fuck's Frosty?" he asks.

"Dylan Frosty!" I exclaim, rolling my eyes. "You know him!"

Alarm bells are going off inside my head. I should stop talking to Justin and get back to Dylan now. But the music and booze are seeping into my bones, and everything feels liquid.

"Dylan?" he demands, looking perplexed despite his drunkenness. "Wait, what's he doing here?"

"He's here to party, you tart monkey!" I huff, suddenly angry. "Let me go."

It's a struggle to maneuver the door open with my hands full. I rush out of the bedroom, panicked giggles escaping my throat. I shut the door and run down the carpeted corridor before Justin can follow.

When I find myself in another dark bedroom (devoid of jocks, thankfully), I realize that I've gone down the wrong end of the hallway.

"Damn it," I mutter, stomping my stiletto-clad foot on the floor.

The motion causes my arms to jerk upwards. Some of the booze sloshes out of the cups and trickles down my legs. Cursing repeatedly, I rummage in the dark to find the light switch.

Help me, God, for I have seen the light of a thousand suns.

My eyes are narrowed to slits as I place the cups on a small wooden cabinet that stands beside the king-sized bed. I throw several drawers open in search of tissues. No luck in the Kleenex department, but I think I've found a photo album.

The pounding music is reduced to a distant murmur, as though even the song isn't allowed in here.

I shouldn't be in this room. I probably shouldn't look at the album, either . . .

I'll just take a peek.

Wedding photos of Mr. and Mrs. Fitch, travel pictures, pregnancy photo shoot. Infant on vacation, little girl in Halloween costume, pre-pubescent blonde with . . .

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I feel like Nancy Drew; I've cracked a big case wide open. I snap a dozen pictures of the crinkly, aging photo with my phone. But I'm laughing in a crazy, excited way that causes my hands to tremble. I keep telling myself that the pictures have to be clear enough for Frosty to see.

Jesus on a tricycle. Dylan.

Forget the tissues, shut the drawer, grab the cups, get out of here!

By the time I reach the table where I first left Dylan, I find it surrounded by Greasy and Co., their respective boyfriends hanging close behind.

"Fight, fight, fight," the crowd around me chants, their voices rising and falling in tipsy drawls.

Fight?

It's an eternity until I push my way through the circle of inebriated teenagers. Relief floods me when I find Dylan standing in the middle, looking furious but unscathed. The relief soon vanishes when I notice Summers standing directly opposite him, ready to deliver a punch.

"No, stop!" I yell, surging forward to throw myself between the two boys. "What are you doing?!"

"You brought him in here?" Greasy asks, crossing her arms over her chest with a smirk.

"So what if I did?" I retort, tightening my grip on the shiny plastic cups.

"Go home, you fucking loser," she laughs, pointing her manicured talons at Frosty.

The grape-sized ball of rage in my stomach snowballs into a watermelon. I can feel the crowd holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for me to finally do something.

"He's not the loser," I sneer, rolling my shoulders back. "You are, Greasy Bitch."

A rush of excitement makes me shudder as the crowd releases its breath in a collective gasp. It's time to make my grand exit. With a sharp inhale, I pull my arms back and hurl the contents of all four cups right onto Gracie Fitch. Everyone watches in fascinated silence as the demon drink soaks Satan's bride.

She screams bloody murder, her cronies mimicking her outrage with their indignant shrieks. Sean and Justin appear to be choking back laughter.

I drop the cups and turn to Dylan. "Run."

Never have I ran faster than I do now with Dylan's hand wrapped around mine. The crowd parts as we tear through them, the sound of my heels in sync with my hammering heart. We run until Greasy's house is well out of sight.

Heart pumping, legs screaming in protest, chest heaving. But I don't want to stop. I like the feeling of Frosty's fingers around mine a little too much.

"Let's go to our lighthouse," I shout, laughing shakily.

Dylan grins at me. And we keep running.