“Lucky for you, we’re in the right place for that.” I lace my fingers in his. I’m sorry.” He leans to drop a kiss on my forehead. “And even if it’s not, there’s nothing you can do now. I mean, if you don’t get in, what hope is there for the rest of us? I’ll be sweeping floors at Boston Community College.” I laugh, but Tate still looks distracted. “They have to take you.” I grin, teasing, “You’re the chosen one. I let my hand stay there, resting against his cheek. His blond hair is mussed, so I reach up to push it out of his eyes. Everyone said Yale would get back to me before-” I slide closer, kissing him until I feel the tension in his shoulders. She grinds above him like a lap dancer, laughing, until he finally catches her around the waist and follows her into the dark, one hand draped possessively across her shoulder. He peels the label from his beer bottle as Chelsea, who left the dance floor, tries to tempt him out. Lamar sprawls on the other side of the booth, the lights hitting blue and deep indigo against his dark skin. Max’s fair hair and AK’s black curls are bent close, to hear the girls or check out their cleavage, I don’t even have to guess. Chelsea’s twin brother, Max, is already off bro-ing it up with AK by the bar, trying their luck with a pair of Swedish-looking blondes. They dance and whirl, swallowed up into the tight press of sweaty bodies. She grabs Mel and Chelsea and heads for the dance floor, her hips already moving to the thunder of bass. “And you need to loosen up!” Elise shimmies, blond hair flying out around her bare shoulders. I shiver at the touch and playfully shove her away. “Bottoms up, babe.” Elise grins, but instead of shaking the salt out on her hand, she sprinkles it on my neck, leaning in to lick up along my collarbone before downing the shot. She ignores him, turning to me with a wicked smile. “Easy, girl,” Tate says, and laughs to Elise, one arm slung around my shoulder. Melanie screws her face up, gagging Max and AK pump the air and howl, but Elise is already reaching for another, plain tequila this time, with a side of salt and lime. “Spring break!” The group whoops, and then I’m gulping down the drink, shuddering at the sickly bittersweet taste and the familiar burn that snakes down my throat. “Aruba, bitches!” Elise raises her shot in a toast, lights splintering off the glass, golden in her hair.
It’s our first night on the island, and the music is almost too loud for me to think some European dance-pop thing that shakes the crowded beach club, making the glasses quiver and the blood vibrate in my chest. The dreadlocked waiter pours a row of something lurid, neon blue. We yell it together, slamming our hands on the sticky wooden table.
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