Mess To Be Made

39

I made my way toward the kitchen, keeping my eyes on my shoes. One foot in front of the other.

I was so close—so close—to walking through the kitchen doorway when my curiosity got the best of me. I craned my neck over my shoulder, just enough to see him. And her.

I can't remember the last time I was jealous of a girl. Not because of how hot she looked in her outfit or how stunning her makeup was. But jealous because she had, or got, the guy—and I didn't.

I always knew what I had to offer, and I was confident in that. If it happened, it happened. And if it didn't, then it didn't. My relationship with men is probably best described as transactional. And there's no place for jealousy in transactions. Comparisons are too subjective to be a part of such an equation. And that's what it was—an equation. Not a conversation, or discussion, or debate.

But seeing Kelsey's hand grab Tyler's made my blood course through me so hard that I could feel every vein in my body.

Even though he didn't return her touch, even though his spine went stiff, even though his brows lowered in opposition as she tugged him away from the wall, heading somewhere more private...

Nothing could appease the ache that festered in the center of my lungs. Nothing could temper the heightened pressure of my pulse. Nothing could relieve the tireless thoughts of how good Kelsey and Tyler looked together. How good she probably was for him.

At least, she had to be better for him than me.

And who was I to take something good away from him.

I searched for vodka in the kitchen like a dying animal searches for water in a desert. After finding a half-drunk fifth, I grabbed a clean red solo cup from a nearby stack and filled it with an inch of vodka before downing the whole thing in a single gulp. No chaser necessary.

Then I did it again.

And one more time, for good measure.

The recognizable burn felt awfully good. It felt safe and warm. This feeling I knew well and it was comforting against the unfamiliar stabs of jealousy.

Only when the scalding pain in my throat and chest began to subside did I fully take in my new surroundings. I was at one of the countertops in a far corner. Three boys stood no more than a few feet from me, blatantly staring with unhinged jaws and raised eyebrows. Their rugged clothing and unkempt facial hair, instead of polo shirts and hair gel, immediately reminded me that I was not with my usual crowd tonight.

And fuck, were they shocked to see me.

I smirked, leaning my ribs against the counter so my hip jut out. Two of the three guys' eyes fell to the exaggerated curve of my body. "Well, hello there, boys."

Silence. Though, my voice drew the attention of the two boys' eyes back to my face. The one who'd had his eyes locked with mine the whole time opened his mouth as if to speak. Only air came out.

I stifled a laugh as I refilled my red solo cup with vodka, this time giving myself a generous amount and reaching for the Sprite, which was the closest mixer in my reach. "I'm Allie."

One of them let out an embarrassingly high-pitched chuckle.

I simply raised a brow at him. "Something funny?"

He hid his now beet-red face underneath his hair while his friend next to him stammered out, "I-I mean, we know who, you know, who y-you are."

"Right." My smirk turned into a tight-lipped smile and the energy behind my eyes dropped as reality washed back over me. Of course they knew who I was. I could only imagine the things they'd heard. The things they thought. About me.