Broken Compass

“It’s not that. Dad isn’t even here tonight. But with West not talking to me and all, I just… I don’t give a shit about the party.”

Dammit. I spin around to face him and jab a finger into his chest. “I’m sorry your little bromance isn’t going so well, man, but you don’t get to chicken out on me now. I took the night off for this. We’re going.”

“Nah, I dunno…”

“Yeah, you do. Come on. It will be great.”

“Jesus, what’s with the fucking sudden enthusiasm?” he grumbles as I all but haul him out of the apartment. “You didn’t even wanna go when I first asked you last week.”

“Changed my mind. Guess you were damn persuasive.”

“Didn’t you hear me just now? Sydney and West aren’t going. Why the hell would I wanna go?”

“Because it’s a party?”

God, the guy’s got it bad for the girl. For the guy, too, no clue. Sydney’s fault for mentioning a kiss to make up and putting ideas in my head. Nate and West never gave me the impression they’re anything but straight as arrows, but hell, you never know.

Whatever this is, it’s fucking complicated, and if I’m as smart as I want to think I am for having survived so long, my next move should be to leave.

I ask for an Uber on my phone and wait in the warm summer night for our ride to arrive, Nate scowling beside me, arms folded over his chest.

Hey, all this was his

idea.

Plus, I’m fucking doing it for him. I hope later he appreciates it and loses the murderous look.

Dickhead.

I’m such a stupid moron for doing this for him. A fucking idiot. What am I trying to prove with this? That I’m in control? That I can save others from themselves when I can’t save myself?

Screw this shit. I’m about to stomp back to the apartment, and to hell with it, when our ride arrives, and somehow I find myself inside the Uber with Nate beside me, heading to this goddamn party.

He’s glaring out the window, and I’m sweating and uncomfortable, and still pissed.

Fun…

The party is at a house in the ‘burbs. Did I say a house? It’s a mansion, really, and the street it’s on makes ours seem like a back alley.

Here the houses rock the faux-Victorian look, with sloped chocolate roofs and turrets and porticos, or whatever they’re called. There are beautiful trees, trimmed hedges, perfect lawns, lights in the windows and if the scent of water in the air is any indication, swimming pools in the high-fenced yards.

After the Uber spits us out, both Nate and I stand on the sidewalk, staring. I have no idea what’s going through his head, but I know what’s going through mine.

Déjà vu.

“That’s the place,” I eventually say, to break the silence. “Friend of yours?”

“Not really. Just some girl from school. Didn’t know her folks were millionaires.”

“I don’t think they are millionaires, just… rich. I mean, I guess. Come on.”

I really need to stop slipping around these guys. Sooner or later I’ll say something I can’t unsay or take back.

Nate is lagging behind, and I turn to see what the hold-up is. Is he seriously still having a tantrum over my insistence to come to the party? If so, fuck him.

What I don’t expect is to find him limping, a grimace on his face, and it strikes me then that a bad mood wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to go to the party.

“Are you okay, man?”