Best Served Fake

thirty-nine // getting railed on a balcony

"Why doesn't Jameson just throw parties all the time?"

It was Saturday night, two weeks after the swimming carnival. Settling into normal routine—with friends, work and school—had been surprisingly easy, and instead of having Sydney or Tommy installed cross-legged on my bed, I'd grown accustomed to Kai's gang clustered on any available surface.

Will and Isabelle were squished next to me on the bed, passing a bottle of tequila and a salt shake between them; they were diligent enough with it that I couldn't spot any spillage. I was sitting between Kai's legs, wine glass in hand, enjoying the feel of his long fingers passing absently through the strands of my hair. Cora was crouched on my desk chair, legs tucked beneath her for the convenience of her occasional spin; she only had a bottle of water. Madeleine and Isabelle's friend Zara were sitting on the floor, backs pressed against the wall, sharing a cocktail pitcher that Madi had made downstairs. Seb had already arrived at Jameson's house to help set up, but Jamie had told us we were all spared from duty, so the rest of the gang were gathered at mine to drink before Mum drove us to the party.

Isabelle and Zara were still underage, but Mum was willing to turn a blind eye. Which was ideal, because Izzy was downing her tequila like she had a personal vendetta against it.

"Because Isabelle's liver would never recover," said Will, gently prying the bottle from her hands. Izzy grinned vacantly at him, and tried to snatch the bottle back. "Easy, tiger."

I knew that Jameson had the flexibility to throw as many parties as he liked. I'd slept in that massive, empty house, impersonal to the point of pain, with its white walls and conspicuous lack of knickknacks or photos. And Jameson was bitter enough about how often he was left alone that it was a palpable thing. But I'd never been to a party at Jamie's house in all my years of high school; in hindsight, that was almost surprising.

"He does, actually," said Kai from behind me, his words a rumble I could feel. "You just weren't invited because he hates Sydney. And Tommy."

"Boo." I pouted, and Kai tapped the bottom of my glass in a peace offering, guiding it toward my lips for a hearty gulp. I turned my attention to Cora. "Was that the super exclusive knitting class you used to go to at 11PM on a Saturday night?"

Cora grinned. "Well, I sure as shit can't knit, so you tell me."

I gaped, and Isabelle patted me sympathetically on the back. With far more force than was warranted; the alcohol had clearly soaked in.

Madi averted her gaze and sipping guiltily at her mojito. I pointed at her accusingly. "Did I cover your shift so you could go to these parties?"

"Once or twice," she said. At my expression, she shrugged. "We were having very good sex."

"Shameless hussy," I muttered.

Kai wrapped an arm around my collarbone, pulling me further toward him, ducking his chin to rest it in the juncture of my neck. I liked having him so close. The press of our bodies together—the casual touching, the familiar cuddling—was so natural at this point, so far from the forced, fake interactions that had permeated our relationship when we first tried it.

It just... didn't feel quite so fake anymore. And I didn't think that was just me.

"If it makes you feel better, Valerie, you were at least top 10 on the guest list this time!" said Isabelle brightly.

It did make me feel better, actually.

Though that wasn't even a surprise at this point. I knew where I sat with Jameson, and even though we hadn't been close for long, it was a fast friendship. And Jamie wasn't very good at hiding how he felt about people; convenient when he liked you, and brutal when he didn't.