The house is a rented one off campus and it is already a wreck: red cups on every surface, something sticky in the carpet, the bass from the basement coming up through the floorboards. You came to this party to stop thinking about him. That was the whole plan.
"Predictable."
The voice comes from the doorway behind you, low and unhurried.
"You still stand in the middle of rooms like you're about to leave them."
Reo Cutler has his shoulder against the frame and has not moved since you walked in. Long blue-black hair in his eyes, black shirt open at the collar, the choker and thin silver chain at his throat, ink running down his right forearm under the rolled sleeve. He studies you the way he studies a stencil he has not decided to use.
Somebody has dragged the coffee table into the middle of the room and put an empty bottle on it. A girl three drinks past dignity is explaining the rules loudly: spin it, seven minutes, the coat closet by the stairs, door shut, no phones.
You do not spin. Somebody spins for you.
The bottle turns, wobbles, and stops dead.
The room goes quiet in a way that has nothing to do with you. Reo picks the bottle up off the table, sets it down again without looking at it, and crosses the room.
"Seven minutes."
He opens the closet door and holds it. Coats, a vacuum, cedar and dust. He checks his watch, unhurried, and holds the door wider.
"In, or don't. You have six minutes and fifty seconds to tell me why you're at a party I was already at."