Chapter 25 Lottie
We reach the frat house just as the bass drops hard enough to rattle the porch beneath our boots.
The place is one of the oldest fraternity houses on the outskirts of campus — a sprawling, three-story relic with wide wraparound porches, sagging white railings, and tall windows glowing molten gold against the dark. Bare winter trees crowd the yard, their skeletal branches clawing at the night sky, half-hiding the weathered brick exterior. Decades of parties, storms, and questionable decisions have left their mark on the place. Even from outside, you can feel it — the low, constant vibration of music traveling through the walls, through the ground, through us.
The whole structure seems alive.
It started snowing halfway there. Sharp, glittering flakes that stung my cheeks and clung to my lashes. By the time we climbed the steps, Sandy was shivering violently, her bare legs goose-pimpled and glowing pink from the cold.
She looked like a vibrating chihuahua in a crop coat.
I almost laughed — not because it wasn’t brutal (it was), but because she refused to admit defeat even as the wind cut through her halter top like it had a personal vendetta.
“I’m fine,” she insisted through chattering teeth.
“Your soul is leaving your body,” I told her.
Now, the second we step inside, warmth slams into us like a wave. The air is thick and humid, heavy with sweat, cheap beer, overly sweet cologne, and something unmistakably human — pheromones and heat and anticipation.
Sandy exhales dramatically, peeling off her coat and rubbing her arms.
“Oh my god,” she groans. “I thought my spirit was about to detach and float into the snow.”
I snort, shrugging out of my own coat and cramming it onto the already overcrowded rack. “You chose that outfit.”
She flips her hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Beauty is pain.”
“Beauty is also hypothermia.”
She elbows me, grinning. “Worth it.”
Inside, the living room stretches wide and chaotic — scuffed hardwood floors, mismatched couches shoved against the walls, a coffee table that has clearly survived more than it should have. The ceilings are high, amplifying every laugh and shout until the whole room echoes. Colored string lights snake along the crown molding, casting everything in gold and soft red shadow.
People are already dancing — not coordinated, not graceful, just moving because the music demands it. Someone nearly spills a drink. Someone else yells lyrics off-beat. Laughter erupts from the kitchen like it’s competing with the bass.
It’s loud. Chaotic. Alive.
And for the first time in weeks, the noise feels like permission.
Sandy grabs my hand, her eyes glittering almost as much as my top. “Come on. Let’s make an entrance.”
We don’t. No one notices.
The music swallows us whole.
The bass hits first — so strong I can feel it vibrating in my lungs. The air presses warm and damp against my skin. The sequins on my top catch flashes of light as we move, scattering reflections across the walls.
Someone shouts Sandy’s name from across the room. She lights up instantly, waving like she’s greeting a lifelong friend, even though I’m fairly certain she met the girl twice.
She turns to me. “I’m going to say hi. You good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m grabbing a drink.”
She grins. “Loosen up. I’ll find you.”
Then she disappears into the crowd.
I make my way toward the kitchen — the gravitational center of every frat party. The living room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies swaying in loose rhythm. The kitchen is crowded too, but less suffocating. People lean against counters, perch on barstools, cluster around the island like it’s a bonfire.
The makeshift bar is a chaotic lineup of bottles and half-empty mixers. I pick them up one by one, barely registering the labels.
Whiskey. Vodka. Rum. Something neon blue that looks mildly radioactive.
I chose the whiskey.
It feels safest.
I pour a splash into a red cup and top it off with cola. The soda fizzes sharply, and I take a cautious sip.
It burns a little, but it's smooth.
It spreads through my chest like a controlled flame — steady, manageable.
Behind me, someone bursts into loud laughter. A cabinet slams. The music pulses through the walls and up through my shoes.
For the first time in weeks, the noise drowns out the constant hum in my head.
No careful breathing. No measured distance. No rigid professionalism.
Just sound and warmth and motion.
I take another sip.
Maybe tonight I can let go. Maybe tonight I can forget what I’m not allowed to want. Maybe tonight I can just exist — glittering top, drink in hand, surrounded by noise and possibility.
“Lottie!”
The voice cuts through the haze before I can brace myself. Charlie barrels into the kitchen like a gust of familiar air, scooping me up in a hug and lifting me clean off the ground. He spins me once — the same way he used to when we were kids — and sets me down, grinning.
“Lottie! I’m shocked you’re here.”
His smile is bright and unfiltered. Effortless. The kind that makes everything feel lighter for a second.
I smile back. “Hi, Charlie. Long time no see.”
The words are easy. The truth behind them isn’t. The distance between us is my fault. I’ve been dodging him for weeks — skipping shared meals, claiming late study sessions, disappearing into excuses. Because if anyone can look at me and see straight through the carefully built walls, it’s him.
And I’m not ready for that.
He studies me for a second before softening his grin. “Not for lack of trying. What’ve you been up to?”
“Busy,” I say lightly. “Classes. The TA position. Haven’t really had time to relax.”
He tilts his head slightly. “The TA position keeping you busy, huh?”
There’s something subtle in his tone — not accusation, but curiosity. A thread pulling gently at the seams.
I roll my eyes, deflecting. “What about you?”
He lets it go — for now — and gestures around us. “Same old. Keeping up with work. Showing up to the occasional party.”
His gaze drifts back to me.
Taking in the sequined top I never wear. The way I’m holding my drink just a little too tight. The tension I can’t quite hide.
Charlie has always read me too well.
I take another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread and steady me.
I smile — bright, uncomplicated, telling him without words not to ask questions.
He nods slowly, accepting it. For now.
But I know him. He won’t forget the look in my eyes. He’ll circle back when I least expect it.
And when he does…I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep pretending everything is fine.