Never Getting Back Together

ONE

I cringe as Liv whirls around. Her blue glare is glacial enough to give a person frostbite despite the humid air. She clocks my YouTube-tutorial-worthy makeup. My shimmery gold eyeshadow is the exact same shade as my ponytail. And I ironed the paisley shirt dress I'm wearing precisely seven times before setting foot outside the door.

Liv raises an eyebrow in an arch so fierce it manages to communicate all the many words she'd be saying—nay, yelling—if the entirety of Rosedale High's class of 2020 wasn't standing in our yard.

Sorry, I mouth and grimace apologetically. Liv just shakes her head before turning her attention back to Kallie, who looks like she's about to go in for a roundoff.

I press a hand to my neck, which I'm sure is going all red and splotchy like it does anytime I feel upset, embarrassed, or, yeah, guilty. If I were Liv, I'd be mad too. This isn't the first time I've been late to something because I was attempting to vanquish any potential flaws in my appearance. Which, believe you me, is not a personality trait I'm proud of.

But the way I look is one of the few things in my life I can actually control, so control it I do. Especially when I'm stressed or something unexpected happens, i.e., my ex-boyfriend randomly coming back to our small town for summer break.

"So, did you fall into a sinkhole on your way to the party?" Liv strides over to the table, hand popped on the hip of her romper. She always dresses head-to-toe in black in this witchy, cowgirl aesthetic that I wish I could pull off.

I sigh, fiddling with the hem of my dress. "N—"

Liv doesn't let me finish. "Have to sacrifice a virgin to the Dark Lord before you could leave?"

"Well—"

"Accidentally flood the pool house again? Because I know you have a really good reason for being over an hour late."

"Okay, that was one time. And Liv, I'm so sorry. It wasn't intentional. I just—" I sputter, heat searing up my chest and neck again. "You know, with him coming back to town. I got...stuck in my head." I bite the inside of my cheek because my eyes are burning now too, and I am not about to get emotional in the middle of this party. Not over a guy I broke up with literal years ago.

Liv scrunches her lips to the side, fire fading from her eyes. If anyone understands why I'm the way that I am, Liv does. "Fine. But you're making me a very, very big batch of brownies tomorrow."

I raise my hand. "I swear. I'll even use real sugar."

This is truly a selfless act since chocolate is my life's blood, and I can't eat sugar. A lick of that batter would mean spending the rest of the day with a migraine and  a glorious collection of hives. Thank you, food allergies.

Liv's mouth kicks up in a smirk. "You drive a hard bargain, Quinn Kelly. Now make yourself useful." She jerks her chin toward the massive—and nearly empty—jug of jungle juice. "Apparently, everyone's chosen binge drinking as their major." She rolls her eyes.

Liv takes her education seriously. She's getting her degree in psychology, so she can become a relationship counselor after she graduates. I have no doubt she'll be running her own practice in no time.

I grab one of the bottles of rum Liv "borrowed" from Aunt Betty's liquor cabinet and start glugging it into the pitcher.

"Quinn's drinking now? Alright!" A pale, freckled hand plants itself in front of my face for a high-five. I glance up to find Chance Sparrow squinting down at me, eyes struggling to focus. He's paired his old Carhartt jeans with a University of Tennessee T-shirt, which he's already spilled something on. His tomato-red hair is a hot mess.

My stomach dips, and my eyes flick past Chance's shoulder to the group of guys standing in a drunken cluster next to the table. The tall, dark, and infuriatingly handsome face I'm looking for is notably absent. I release a breath, and my internal organs manage to right themselves.

"Still not drinking. Just playing bartender." I force myself to smile even though my jaw is clenched hard enough to crack. Having to constantly explain my diet to people is exhausting. It's not like I have any choice in the matter. And seeing Chance when he's home for break is like sprinkling salt over a years-old wound that won't heal. He played a big role in the fight that ended my relationship with Ty.

The song changes to "Dancin' In The Country" by Tyler Hubbard. Chance whoops, turning back to his bro squad, who start jumping up and down.

The lines once so strictly drawn between cliques have been magically erased since we graduated. Kelvin—football star—gives Evan—debate club president—a hearty clap on the back, sending him stumbling. Evan ricochets off the table, taking out one of the legs in the process, and landing in a giggling heap on the cement.

Bowls of chips and Hot Cheetos go soaring as the jungle juice tips forward, toppling from the table and shattering against the pavement. Squealing, I try to jump out of the way, but there's no avoiding the remaining alcohol as it splashes over my feet, probably ruining my favorite boots. The sharp, acrid smell of it burns my nose.

"Kelvin, you idiot!" I yell, smacking him on a bicep that's only gotten meatier since the last time I saw him.

"What did I do? Harper's the one who knocked it over." He jerks his chin toward Evan, who's still curled in a ball, laughing while I'm trying and utterly failing to see the humor in the situation.

"Yeah, because you were acting like a goon like always," Liv snaps. She bends down and carefully plucks pieces of glass off the concrete before depositing them in the garbage can.

"Aww, don't be like that," Chance slurs, coming to Kelvin's defense as per usual.

I roll my eyes. There's no point talking to Chance and Kelvin basically ever, but especially after they've engaged drunken-dope mode.

"I'll go get the broom," I mutter to Liv.

She nods, shooting another death glare in Chance and Kelvin's direction. They're standing next to the pool, whispering to each other like preteens at a sleepover.

Fuming, I turn toward the kitchen, but Chance lunges forward, stumbling into my path. "Quinn, don't leave like this."

"Move." I give him a flat look.

"Let us make it up to you," Kelvin calls from behind me.

"By actually cleaning up after yourselves for once?" I sidestep Chance, who tries to block me but trips over his own stupid feet, almost face-planting.

"Oh, we'll help you clean up, alright," Kelvin says.

Before I can ask what he means by that, his arm is clinched around my waist, hoisting me into the air and over his shoulder.

"What do you think you're doing?" I shout, flailing my legs wildly and kicking at him. He might be wrecked, but he's still maddeningly coordinated, easily holding me at an angle so I can't inflict any damage. I can't tell if the pounding in my head is from all the blood rushing to it or my fury over Kelvin picking me up without my permission.

"We're helping you wash up." Kelvin struts across the patio. His heavy footsteps rumble through me, making my teeth clatter.

"Put me down!" I hammer his back with my fists.

"You asked for it." Kelvin takes a running step forward. I realize what he's going to do a second before it happens.

"Kelvin, don't you da—" My voice cuts off in a shriek as Kelvin launches me into the pool, flawless hair, pristine dress, boots, and all.