3.

The entire house is lit up. Hannah’s parents aren’t home; they’re spending their anniversary in the mountains—or, as Hannah calls it, a screwcation. She’s convinced her parents are making up for what they don’t do all year in those two nights. Amber is happy for Hannah. It means a lot to know that things are fine between parents.

The smell of weed hangs in the air. In the living room, a small crowd is already waiting. As soon as Amber steps inside, beers are cracked open and champagne bottles pop.

“Happy birthday,” some shout. Others seem to realize only now what kind of party this is. Amber looks into the grinning faces, and all she can think of is turning around and walking out. A long walk in the dark, a gentle breeze on her face, crickets chirping in the grass—that’s what she needs right now. Half-baked words of condolence—she can do without.

Thudding beats throb from the speakers. A hand on her back urges her forward. When she turns her head, Isi meets her eyes with a nasty smirk. Glasses are raised. And before Amber knows it, she’s in the middle of it. She laughs when the others laugh and keeps it to yes-or-no when people come up to her with worried faces. Faces that haven’t bothered with her in weeks. She can see it in their eyes, in the way they keep searching her features. Sizing her up like jurors, measuring every blink, every flinch. They think it’s stupid she’s been hiding this long, acting this hurt.

How long were you even a couple—four weeks? Six? Amber waits for someone to say it. But no one does. No one dares. By her third drink, she’s already wondering what they’re even toasting to. Her birthday? The weekend? A third possibility flashes uncomfortably in her mind, glowing like the hazard lights of a car wrecked in a ditch. Maybe they’re toasting to finally burying Erin for good, and never speak of her again.

Amber retreats to the kitchen. The front door isn’t far. No one would notice if she slipped out now. But then she sees someone unexpected. Melissa is sitting on the couch with her legs crossed. In her tight high-waisted shorts and satin mint-green top, she looks completely out of place among the guys in baggy pants and oversized hoodies. Right now, a scrawny guy with acne is trying to impress her with a joint.

When was the last time Amber saw her? It must’ve been in the kitchen of that little apartment Melissa and Erin shared. It feels like a lifetime ago. Their eyes meet briefly, impersonal, like headlights passing each other on a dark road. Melissa takes a drag on the joint and laughs, smoke curling from her mouth. The boys will realize soon enough that they still have a lot to learn from Melissa, Amber thinks, her mind drifting back to simpler times.

Empty bottles pile up on the coffee table. Beer, champagne, and now shots. Hannah is glued to Calahan. She’s really come into her own. At the start of last school year, Hannah was still wearing oversized clothes and daydreaming about boys. Now, the captain of the football team is swirling his tongue around her ear, and soon, probably around other places too.

Amber raises her glass. Here’s to a short, quickly forgotten night.

It’s her fifth or sixth drink—of something—when the voices start to blur, like waves crashing onto the shore. A pulsing pain bores into her temples. Her ears burn with heat, like they might carry her straight up into the cool night sky. Like Dumbo’s. That makes her chuckle for a second. The ground sways beneath her. First wine, then champagne, and now? She peers into the paper cup, which seems to split into three in front of her. Could be whiskey and Coke, she guesses, closing her eyes.

Erin is waiting in the darkness, waving at her. She’s smiling, water and algae spilling from between her teeth. Amber claps a hand over her mouth, trying not to gag. The earth on Erin’s grave hasn’t even settled yet, but here they are, celebrating like nothing happened.

She feels sick. She needs to get out of here, but Isi grabs her arm and pulls her along. Seconds later, someone shoves a chocolate-frosted cupcake in her face. Not someone. Hannah. A candle is stuck in the middle.

“Baked it myself,” Hannah announces, grinning. “Completely cruelty-free.”

More shots make the rounds, and someone even starts singing for her. Amber taps her Converse together, wishing to vanish. To Kansas, or anywhere really, but it doesn’t work.

Then Melissa shakes her little metal tin.

“Anyone ever tried X before?” she asks the group, holding up a pink pill. She grins conspiratorially. Amber hates it when Melissa does that. But for Melissa, it’s part of her business model to always have something fun to sample.

Melissa places the pill on her tongue and turns to the skinny guy next to her. After showing him how to smoke a joint properly, she now slips her tongue into his mouth. The guy doesn’t know what to do, but he’s into it. If he passes this final test, he might just earn a spot in Melissa’s exclusive client roster.

Amber stares at the boy in the oversized football jersey and suddenly realizes she knows his name. Tim Miller. The class clown from grade school. Back then, he always had a clever joke ready. Always laughing—at least at school. Tim had a loyal little pack of fans who trailed him across the schoolyard, so they wouldn’t miss a single quip. But what Amber remembers most is the dark house with its narrow, damp-smelling wooden hallways. There, cheerful Tim was a hunched figure, head down, eyes shadowed. No trace of the boy who cracked jokes all day. When his father came, and he always came, Tim would curl in on himself, screaming, as the buckle cut through the air and struck his back. Again. And again. She needs to draw him as soon as she gets home.

Amber shifts her focus back to Melissa. The pill moves from mouth to mouth. When it reaches Hannah, she turns to Amber with an apologetic look and parts her lips. Hannah’s mouth is warm, tasting bitter. Amber takes the pill off Hannah’s tongue and turns back to Melissa, who holds out her hands, inviting. Amber grabs her by the neck and presses the pill onto her tongue, holding it there until it dissolves. The group cheers—all except Melissa, who wipes her mouth in disbelief. Then she shrugs.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to lock me in the bathroom for the next two hours.” She smiles, almost pleased. Credit where credit is due, Amber thinks. The bitch has nerve.

She turns and slips into the kitchen, straight into another drink. Coming here was a bad idea. She gets half of it down, then leaves the cup on the table. One hand finds the wall. She feels her way forward. There’s the door. Somehow, Amber manages to pull it shut and turn the key. She sinks onto the toilet lid. Finally alone.

The tiles on the floor in front of her spin slowly, like records on a turntable. The light grows brighter, then darker again. The poison takes hold. Amber closes her eyes. Her stomach roils as if she’s swallowed dishwasher tabs. Someone laughs somewhere. But the voice isn’t coming from outside. It’s in here. With her. Close. Too close. She should’ve ignored the chime and stayed in bed. Instead, she’s hiding on the toilet at her best friend’s house on her own birthday. With a ghost. Henry Smith. He’s laughing at her. Of course. He’s always there when things are really going to shit for her. It’s high time she got out of here.

She pushes up from the toilet lid, instantly losing her balance. Her hipbone hits something. Cold porcelain. The sink. A clean, brutal pain snaps through her side. She curses under her breath, knocking back against the door. The thud is loud. Unimportant. She tugs her shorts down a little, fingers clumsy. She can feel the two hearts crying out—hurt and indignant. How awful it would be if a scar ruined her tattoo. She checks for blood. There isn’t any. The two intertwined hearts are unscathed.

Amber thinks of Erin’s blue eyes. She doesn’t want to. Not here. Not now. But she can’t stop it. Getting inked while Erin watched—half curious, half in disbelief—was exactly the kind of proof of love that had felt right in the moment. The little pirate key charm from Pirate Ink still hangs from her bedside lamp. She glances at the clock on the wall, painful memories slicing through the haze. The ticking reminding her of when Erin and she used to lie in bed and watch the first rays of sunlight slide across the ceiling. Erin’s fingers on her skin, exploring without needing permission. Amber had thought nothing could stop that tall, gentle girl.

Amber folds in on herself, hand pressed hard over her mouth, crying into her palm so no one can hear. Her shoulders shake. The tiles keep turning under her. Turning, and turning.

Eventually, the shaking eases. She drags herself up and wipes her face with the back of her wrist. Disoriented, she steps into the hallway and scans her surroundings. It’s darker now. The large living room seems far away, illuminated only by a few candles on the table. Where is everyone? This feels like a cave. Bodies are sprawled across the floor. Melissa is the only one sitting on the sofa, perched there like a queen, legs crossed. She seems both miles away and close enough for Amber to see her dilated pupils in the candlelight. Melissa’s gaze calls out to her, a siren in a sea of bodies. She needs to draw her face too.

Amber turns. Her eyes find the front door. She staggers forward. Her pocket buzzes.

“Amber? Are you okay?” A familiar voice in her ear.

“Vincent?”

“Where are you?” Vincent asks.

Where am I? The answer hovers before her in the dim light, like cold smoke.

“On my way to Erin,” she says—and disconnects.