Vilde runs a hand through her blonde locks to smooth them out. "I couldn't get anything from my mum's, sorry."
"I got a bottle from my parents, it's cool," Jente-Chris says, showing us the top of the bottle she's cradling inside her jacket. "No problem."
"Great," Vilde nods. "Thanks."
We're walking up Chris' driveway, and I can hear the drunk people slurring all the way from here. As we get closer, I spot someone in a Penetrator hoodie stood hunched over, steadying himself against the wall.
My first thought is that it's Chris.
But when the guy turns around and I gasp for a breath, I'm met by a blue pair of foreign eyes. A stranger.
I get a sudden feeling of wanting to turn around. To run. Far, far away and to never have to see these people ever again.
But there is something I have to do first.
I'm not here to drink. I'm not there to have a good time. I'm there to see Chris. To confront him about being back with the Penetrator guys. Honestly, what the hell?
Vilde puts her hand on my shoulder, gently brushing her cold fingertips over my boiling skin. "Eva, you look like you're about to punch someone. Are you sure it's a good idea to do this now? Shouldn't you just talk to him in private?"
And that's when I realise I've been grinding my teeth.
"I have to do this tonight. You guys go inside, I'll be there in a sec," I say, watching as Vilde and Jente-Chris take turns to drink from the bottle.
The two of them sway through the door together, and I'm left on my own. I drag in a breath of cool air, and I wish it could calm me down, but all it does is make me cough. The smell of cigarettes, vomit and liquor stings my nose.
I want to go home.
"Eva."
The voice coming from behind me makes me shiver.
"Chris." I try to keep my voice steady, but I'm trembling.
"You're here."
I turn to look at him and expect his usual grin. Maybe a wink; the flirty look he usually has on his face when he sweet-talks me. But this is not the case. His eyes are steady on me, but far away.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm great," he says, head tilting to one side.
He doesn't sound great. He doesn't look great, either. His face is paler than usual, and his hand is shaking as he brings the plastic cup he's holding to his lips.
"Why are you back on the bus?" I stare at his face, looking for some kind of truth. "Please explain, because I just don't understand. I just don't," my breath gets caught in my throat, "understand how you can pretend to care about me and then go back to being best friends with the guys who helped Iben spread that picture of me."
The tears are burning in my eyes, threatening to spill over any second. I lean my head back to make them go away, but instead, they roll down the sides of my face.
I know I shouldn't expect the drunken boy in front of me to say anything profound, or even anything that makes sense. But I still hope for something that would make me understand why.
"I don't know."
I'm disappointed. I want to grab him and shake him until he gives me a logical answer. But there's no point.
"Bye, Chris. Enjoy your damn party."