Chapter 7: Madeline
The first thing I hear when I reach the stairwell is roaring laughter.
Not like chuckle-to-yourself laughter. Not like a classy shoulder-shake or polite dinner giggle. No—this is loud, hiccuping, gut-deep howling. Like someone just told the funniest story in human history and the entire room is barely surviving it.
The sound is so unexpected, I pause with one hand on the rail.
Two steps from the bottom, I stop completely.
There’s a guy—blond, lanky, maybe a few inches over six feet—bent over just off to the right, bracing himself against the bannister with one hand while the other wipes actual tears from his face. His hair is short and slightly wavy at the top, like he cut it himself in the mirror and just decided to own the uneven parts. He’s still laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
And then he turns.
His eyes meet mine.
And suddenly, the laughter stops.
“Wow,” he says, his voice cracking a little on the word. “Uh. Hello.”
I blink.
And smile, instinctive and small. “Hi.”
He’s still looking at me like he’s unsure whether I’m real or a hallucination brought on by cheese fumes when someone behind him clears their throat—pointedly.
Enter: Guy #2.
He’s a little shorter than the first one, with dark eyes, messy curls that are too artfully messy to be accidental, and a crooked grin that shows up two full seconds before he says anything. He walks over and casually shoves the first guy’s shoulder, who stumbles slightly but doesn’t protest.
“Okay, Romeo,” the second one says, turning to me with his eyebrows raised. “You’re terrifying her.”
“I’m not—”
“Hi.” He extends his hand toward me, grin still fully intact. “I’m Finn. That’s my real name, not short for anything, but if you want to pretend it’s short for something hot like Finnegan or Finnian or—hell, Final Destination—I won’t stop you.”
“Please stop,” the blond guy mutters.
“Shush. I’m working.” Finn nods at him. “And this emotionally compromised man here is Liam. He’s not usually speechless but he is when faced with a goddess, apparently.”
Liam opens his mouth to protest again, but Finn raises a hand like let me have this.
I raise my eyebrows, glancing between the two of them, and laugh softly. “Um. I’m Madeline.”
“Madeline,” Finn repeats, dramatically. “Great name. Understated. Mysterious. Not trying too hard.”
Liam finally recovers enough to shake his head and add, “Sorry for the… reaction. We don’t usually get beautiful girls here.”
That makes me blink.
I instinctively glance over to where Charlie’s standing near the stove, now sipping from a wine glass with the most amused look on her face—one eyebrow up, smirk barely hidden. I gesture toward her like, Um?
“Yeah, okay, but Charlie doesn’t count,” Liam says quickly, waving a hand in her direction. “Charlie’s—like—a painting. You can’t look directly at her for too long or you turn into seafoam.”
Charlie snorts into her glass.
“I think that’s a myth,” I say.
Finn shrugs. “So is Charlie. Let’s eat.”
I take the last two steps down and smile again as I shake Liam’s outstretched hand. It’s warm and dry and a little tentative, like he’s not used to this part yet. Or like he’s afraid he’s going to break me.
I follow them toward the table, chatting about the lasagna like it’s a sacred rite (which it kind of is), and as I round the corner—
—I stop short.
There’s someone else already sitting at the table.
Another girl. But she’s nothing like Charlie.
Her hair is short—really short. One side of her head is shaved close, the other is longer and pushed behind her ear. She's muscular, broad-shouldered, not very tall, and she sits like she’s ready for a fight or a nap and isn't sure which she wants more.
She’s not smiling.
At all.
In fact, the moment she sees me, she scoffs. An actual, audible, unapologetic scoff.
The boys go awkwardly quiet.
Charlie, behind me, has also gone quiet. I half-turn to see her slowly sip her wine like she’s watching a slow-motion car crash but doesn’t want to get involved yet.
I blink. My stomach does a small, unwelcome flip.
But I’ve dealt with worse. Passive-aggressive aunties. Mean girls in fieldwork programs. The inner demon who says my sunscreen smells like desperation. I can survive this.
I walk over, straightening my shoulders. “Hi. I’m Madeline. Just got here. And you are?”
She looks me up and down. Not subtly.
Then shrugs. “Sloane.”
And that’s it.
No handshake. No welcome. Just Sloane.
I glance at Charlie, who raises her brows and gives a casual wave of her fingers that very clearly says: Don’t take it personally.
Finn immediately jumps in to change the subject, grabbing two plates and waving me over like a game show host. “Okay, dinner time! Who wants a corner piece? It’s the crispiest and therefore the best, don’t argue.”
Liam takes the chair beside Sloane with surprising bravery, and I slide into the one beside him, directly across from Finn. Charlie sits at the head of the table, kicking her feet up onto the rung beneath her chair and raising her glass like she’s seen this whole movie before.
“Cheers,” she says with a smirk, “to our newest victim.”
I raise my glass of water like I’m not trying to decipher if victim is metaphorical or just foreshadowing.
We all dig in.
And while I chew my first bite of what is objectively the best lasagna I’ve ever had, I glance around the table at these strangers who are suddenly my housemates. Finn is already launching into a dramatic retelling of “The Time I Accidentally Almost Married a Girl on a Ferry,” and Liam is pretending to disapprove but clearly loving it. Charlie’s laughing again, head thrown back slightly. Sloane is pointedly not looking at me.
And I sit quietly for a second longer than the others.
Because for all the chaos and awkwardness and confusion… this feels like something.
Like the very, very beginning of something.
And that’s always been my favorite part.