Chapter 31

Chapter 31
The party wasn’t just loud, it was aggressive. The kind of loud that penetrated your bones. It punched through the walls of the cramped off-campus house and settled deep into Alexandria’s chest like a second heartbeat. The bass from the speaker was a low, insistent thrum that vibrated up through the hardwood floors and into the soles of her sneakers.

For the first time in seventy-two hours, she couldn’t hear herself think. And that, right now, was exactly the point.

She stood in the dead center of the living room, a plastic cup sweating diluted vodka-cranberry into her grip. The liquid was warm now, the ice had melted sometime during the second round of shots she definitely didn’t remember agreeing to. But she didn’t care.

The sharp, chemical sweetness had done its job. It had loosened the tight, barbed-wire knot of shame and self-loathing that had been strangling her since Wednesday afternoon.

The knot wasn’t gone now. Nothing short of a miracle or a full personality transplant could have erased it that fast. But the alcohol had muted it, it blurred its sharp edges. Turned a screaming, humiliating loop into a distant, staticky radio station she could almost ignore.

She took another sip, a long and greedy one, she let the warmth spread through her numb limbs. Her head felt fuzzy, but in a cozy way, like it was wrapped in cotton. She could almost pretend she was someone else. Someone who hadn’t fucked up in unimaginable ways.

Beside her, Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot, nursing the same warm beer he’d been holding for the past hour. He looked slightly out of place, he seemed to be lacking the confidence everyone else har. Yes, he was dressed finely, but he still carried himself like that broke nerd.

They had danced a little, of at least she'd danced; her eyes had been half-closed, arms loose, letting the beat move her hips in ways she’d normally be too self-conscious to attempt in public. Peter had mostly bobbed his head and smiled, occasionally throwing in an awkward shoulder shimmy that made her laugh so hard she snorted.

It wasn’t graceful or sexy, it was just real. And for the first time in what felt like forever, her mind wasn’t replaying the greatest hits of her recent humiliation, no cold dismissal, no feeling of him inside her, nothing at all.

She was mid-laugh at something Peter had said, something about the guy across the room attempting to juggle solo cups, but the air around them shifted. It was subtle at first, then the crowd parted slightly, and a small group of senior girls materialized in front of them.

The same ones who had invited her to the party earlier with a chorus of fake-friendly “Oh my God, you have to come!”s.
Now they had a couple of friends in tow, fresh reinforcements for whatever game they were playing.

Maya let her gaze land on Peter. She looked at him the way someone might examine a mildly interesting insect; head tilted, lips pursed, no real malice yet, just the cold curiosity of someone who had never had to worry about fitting in.

“Oh my God,” Maya laughed louldy, ensuring the people nearby could hear. “You actually brought him?”

Her friends giggled on cue.

“That’s cute. Is this, like, your charity case for the night? Or did you lose a bet?”

One of the other girls tilted her head and gave Peter an exaggerated once-over. Her nose wrinkled slightly.

“Babe, seriously. Where did you even find him? The discount rack at Goodwill?"

Peter chuckled awkwardly, but the sound was tight and hollow. He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.

“It’s fine,” he muttered to Alexandria who was being to brood, his voice was low, meant only for her ears. “They’re just bored. Don’t worry about it. I can leave if they want."

But Alexandria felt it. That alcohol-fueled fire rising up her ribcage like a lit fuse. The girls’ laughter grated against her already raw nerves, they reminded her too much of the version of herself she hated right now; the shallow, judgmental, casually cruel version that had existed before Jonathan had knocked her down a few pegs.

The version who would have laughed along with them, or at least not said anything. The version who cared more about being liked than about being decent.

She wasn’t that person anymore. Or at least, she didn’t want to be. And watching Peter stand there and take it made something in her chest snap clean in half.

“Back off,” she said, stepping slightly in front of him. Her voice came out steadier than she felt, but the vodka had sharpened her edges.

Maya raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Relax. We’re just teasing. No need to get defensive over your little broke boyfriend.”

The word broke landed like a match tossed onto dry grass.

Alexandria felt it catch. Weeks of swallowed anger at Jonathan, at herself, and at the way she had shrunk herself to fit into his indifference surged forward all at once. Her hands trembled, her face went hot, and then she knew there was no holding back now.

“Peter is ten times the person any of you will ever be,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the thumping bass. “At least he doesn’t need to tear other people down to feel important. You’re all so busy pretending to have perfect lives while hiding how empty and miserable you actually are. Must be exhausting.”

The girls’ smiles flickered before dying completely.

For a beat, there was nothing but the music and the stunned silence of the small crowd that had started to gather. Then a blonde with the sharp eyeliner stepped closer. Her jaw was tight, her eyes were flint.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she said, low and dangerous. “You’ve been here five minutes and you’re acting like you own the place. You don’t know anything about us. Plus, we invited you, bitch."

Alexandria laughed humorlessly.

“I know enough,” she said. “I know you’re the kind of girls who peak in high school and spend the rest of your lives trying to claw back the attention. I know you make fun of people because it’s the only time you feel powerful. I know you’re sad and insecure. And honestly? Pathetic. You get off on making others feel small because it’s the only time you feel big. But I'm not going to let you do that to my friend."

The blonde’s face twisted into hurt and then fury. Her hand moved before Alexandria could process it. There was no warning, no dramatic pause. Just the sudden, shocking splash of cold, sticky liquid across Alexandria’s chest and face. Vodka-cranberry dripped down her chin, soaked through her thin blouse, plastered her hair to her forehead.

The room gasped. Someone laughed nervously. The music kept pounding though, totally oblivious to everything that was happening.

Alexandria stood there for half a second, stunned. The cold shocked her system, it cut through the alcohol haze like a slap. She blinked red and tinged liquid out of her eyes. And then something inside her snapped.

She lunged.

Her hands found the blonde’s shoulders, and she shoved hard. The girl stumbled backward into her friends, arms flailing, and chaos erupted immediately. Someone grabbed a fistful of Alexandria’s wet hair and yanked. Pain bloomed across her scalp. She swung blindly, her fist connecting with something, she had no technique, no training, no idea what she was doing.

She had never been in a fight in her life, and right now, she wasn't sure she knew what she was doing. She was all elbows and desperation.

A sharp, blinding pain exploded across her left cheek as someone caught her with a solid hit. Her vision went white for a second. She heard Peter shouting somewhere behind her, his voice high and panicked. “Alexandria! Stop! It’s not worth it!”

But she couldn’t stop. The alcohol, the rage, the humiliation, it was all pouring out of her in clumsy, desperate swings. She wasn’t fighting the blonde anymore. She was fighting everything, she was back in the grimy gym.

A hard shove from behind sent her stumbling forward. Her sneakers skiddef on more spilled alcohol, or maybe, and her foot caught on the edge of the low coffee table. For one terrible, slow-motion second, she was suspended in mid-air, arms flailing, nothing to grab onto.

Then she went down.

Her head cracked against the corner of the wooden table with a sound that wasn’t loud, not compared to the music, not compared to the shouting, but it seemed to echo through her entire body.

The world tilted violently on its axis. Colors bled into each other. The bass became a distant, underwater throb. Pain bloomed bright and white behind her eyes, then faded to a dull, spreading warmth that was somehow worse. She tasted copper. Her fingers felt far away, like they belonged to someone else.

Voices blurred together. Shouting. Someone screaming for someone to call an ambulance. The music still pounding, oblivious and indifferent. Peter’s voice, closer now, cracking as he called her name over and over.