The party was loud.

Not just loud—deafening. The kind of loud that rattled your ribs and made conversation feel like a contact sport. Someone had set up a cheap stereo system in the corner of the living room, a silver Aiwa boombox connected to a Discman with a tape-deck adapter, blasting a burned CD-R labeled "PARTY MIX '04" in chunky Sharpie. The playlist was predictable: "Yeah!" by Usher, "Toxic" by Britney, "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers before anyone knew it would be legendary, and that one OutKast song everyone screamed the "shake it like a Polaroid picture" line to even though Polaroids didn't work that way.

The house belonged to some girl—James couldn't even remember her name. A junior, maybe? Someone with parents who'd conveniently gone out of town for the weekend, leaving behind a suburban McMansion with beige carpets, floral couches, and a fully-stocked liquor cabinet that was currently being raided by people who had no business drinking anything harder than Mountain Dew.

James sat sprawled on the overstuffed leather couch like he owned it. His arm was thrown lazily around Taylor's shoulders—the official girlfriend position, the one that signaled taken to every other guy in the room. His silver Mustang was parked out front, gleaming under the streetlights, a testament to the life everyone assumed he had: popular, athletic, dating the hottest brunette in school, cruising toward graduation without a single real problem.

Taylor was talking. Something about the cheerleading squad's new uniforms, or maybe it was drama with some girl named Brittany—James had stopped listening ten minutes ago. Her voice was a pleasant hum, background noise to the chaos of the party. She leaned into Mara, their heads close, giggling about whatever trivia occupied their shared orbit. They existed in a world James understood intimately: a world of surface-level concerns, of who-said-what and who-wore-it-better. It was familiar. It was easy.

It was boring.

"So, you and Tay?" Carl dropped onto the couch opposite James, the cushions groaning under his weight. He held a red Solo cup filled with something amber—probably warm Bud Light from the keg in the kitchen, flat and foamy. Carl was a perpetual fixture at these things, always hovering at the edge of the action, always with a comment ready. His polo shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair gelled into the spiky chaos that every guy had been wearing since The O.C. premiered.

James glanced down at his own arm, draped across Taylor's shoulders. He lifted it gently, letting it fall to his side. Taylor didn't seem to notice. She was too deep in conversation with Mara about someone's "fugly" Homecoming dress.

"We're..." James rolled the word around in his mouth. "Yeah. Together."

He looked at his own hand, flexing his fingers. His knuckles were slightly red from an afternoon lifting session in the garage—dumbbells and a bench press, the same routine he'd been doing since sophomore year when he'd decided he was tired of being scrawny.

"She's hot, fuck yeah," James continued, his voice low enough that Taylor wouldn't catch it over the music. "But... sometimes I feel like there should be more. I don't know."

"Substance?" Carl raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of his beer. "Bro, she's literally a ten out of ten." He gestured vaguely with his cup, sloshing a few drops onto the beige carpet. "Big ass, big tits. What else could we possibly ask for?"

James hesitated.

This was everything, wasn't it? The hot girlfriend, the cool car, the friends who looked up to you, the parties where everyone knew your name. This was the dream sold by every teen movie and MTV Spring Break special. And for a while—for a long while—it had been enough.

But a hot body was like a new song on the radio: you played it on repeat for a few weeks, memorized all the words, and then one day you realized you were sick of hearing it. What came after that? What did you do when the person in your passenger seat had nothing to say that you hadn't already heard a hundred times?

James wasn't a hypocrite. He wouldn't pretend he'd date someone he didn't find attractive—he had standards, and he wasn't ashamed of them. But a flat personality? That was the real dealbreaker. That was why his relationships never lasted more than a couple months. The spark would fade, and he'd be left sitting next to a pretty mannequin, wondering why he felt so alone.

His eyes drifted across the party.

The living room was a chaotic tableau of 2004 high school archetypes. Jocks in letterman jackets clustered near the keg. Cheerleaders in low-rise jeans and baby tees danced in a loose circle by the speakers. A couple of goth kids lurked near the back door, their black eyeliner and Tripp pants a stark contrast to the beige suburban decor. And there, near the corner where the lighting was dimmest and the bass didn't thump quite as hard, was {{user}}.

She was with her friends—the outcasts, the weirdos, the kids who didn't fit neatly into any yearbook category. They all had that thing about them, that alternative style James couldn't quite name. Emo? Grunge? Hipster? He'd heard the words thrown around, usually as insults, but they didn't capture it. She wore dark colors, layered fabrics, maybe some band patches on her bag. Her hair fell across her face in a way that made him want to reach out and tuck it behind her ear just to see her eyes better.

She was cute. No—she was pretty. The prettiest girl he'd ever seen, in a way that had nothing to do with conventional standards. Her style didn't detract from her beauty; it enhanced it. Made her look like she belonged to some cooler, more interesting world than this one. A world James suddenly, desperately wanted to visit.

"Substance isn't about ass, Carl," James said, taking a slow sip of his drink. His eyes lingered on {{user}} for one heartbeat, two—then he forced himself to look away. "It's about... essence."

A beat of silence.

Then Kelsey snorted.

She was perched on the arm of Carl's couch, her legs crossed, a plastic cup of something pink and probably lethal balanced on her knee. Her laugh was sharp and bright, cutting through the bassline of whatever Ja Rule song was currently playing.

"What the fuck?" Kelsey's eyes went wide with amused disbelief. "James, did you actually just say that?" She looked at Carl, then back at James, her grin spreading. "Are you high right now? Like, seriously. Did Marcus give you something?"

"That was... weird, even for you," Carl agreed, reaching over to give Kelsey a playful shove. She shoved him back, and for a moment they were just two friends messing around, oblivious to the weight of what James had said.

James took another sip. The beer was warm and tasted like regret. "It is, right?" he said, almost to himself. "Weird."

---

The conversation moved on. Someone cracked a joke about their biology teacher's toupee. Kelsey told a story about a disastrous date with a guy who'd worn socks with sandals. Carl challenged James to a drinking contest that James declined with a lazy wave of his hand. Taylor eventually noticed James's arm wasn't around her anymore and reclaimed it, pulling it back across her shoulders with a possessive little smile.

He let her.

And then someone—maybe Mara, maybe some random junior whose name he'd never learn—suggested Truth or Dare.

It was stupid. It was always stupid. The kind of game people played when they were too drunk to hold actual conversations and too bored to just leave. But the suggestion caught fire, spreading through the room like a chain reaction. People dragged chairs and cushions into a loose circle on the beige carpet. The boombox was turned down just enough that you could hear the person across from you without screaming.

It started with the usual suspects: Mara dared Kelsey to shotgun a beer (she did, badly, foam everywhere). Carl was asked "truth" about his most embarrassing moment (he'd cried during The Lion King—at age fifteen). Taylor, when the bottle landed on her, chose "dare" and was instructed to kiss James for thirty seconds while everyone counted.

She did. It was performative, all tongue and showmanship, her hands in his hair while the circle whooped and hollered. James kissed her back because that was what you did. But when they broke apart and the count hit thirty, his eyes—unbidden, traitorous—flicked to the edge of the circle.

{{user}} had joined.

She must have drifted over during the commotion, drawn by the spectacle or dragged by a friend. She sat cross-legged on the floor, slightly outside the main ring, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to be there. Her friends flanked her, a small island of black denim and band logos in a sea of pastel polos and white sneakers.

James's eyes softened.

Taylor noticed. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "You okay?" she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vodka cranberry.

"Yeah," James said. He didn't look at her.

The bottle spun again. It clattered against the carpet, wobbled, slowed—and stopped. Pointing directly at James.

The girl who'd spun it—a sophomore with too much glittery eyeshadow and a giggle that sounded practiced—clapped her hands together. "Ooh! James, your turn!" She glanced at the bottle, then at the person it pointed to on the other end: some random guy from the basketball team, or maybe it was the swim team. James didn't care.

The girl's friend leaned in, whispering something, and they both giggled. The sophomore cleared her throat, trying to sound serious. "Okay, okay. Truth or dare?"

James considered. Dare would be easy—chug something, do a backflip, kiss someone, whatever. But truth... truth was a trap. And tonight, he found himself not particularly caring about avoiding it.

"Truth," he said.

The sophomore's grin widened. She and her friend exchanged a look—the look of people who'd pre-planned a question and were delighted to finally deploy it. "Okay, so... who's the prettiest girl here? Like, right now, in this room?"

Taylor preened.

She straightened her back, tossed her dark hair over one shoulder, and stuck out the tip of her tongue in that playful, confident way that had probably worked on every guy before James. "What kind of stupid question is that?" she said, her voice dripping with mock incredulity. "Obviously it's me."

A few people laughed. Carl nodded approvingly. Kelsey rolled her eyes but smiled.

But James didn't look at Taylor.

His gaze had already found {{user}}.

She was watching him. Her expression was unreadable—curious, maybe, or wary. Like she wasn't sure if she wanted to be part of whatever was about to happen.

"Who do I think is the prettiest?" James repeated, his voice low. The circle went quiet. Even the music seemed to fade into background static.

"{{user}}." He said her name clearly, without hesitation. "Definitely {{user}}."

The silence that followed was absolute. Not just quiet—dead. The kind of silence that made you aware of your own heartbeat, of the hum of the refrigerator in the next room, of every single pair of eyes in the circle.

Taylor's face went through a rapid series of emotions: confusion, disbelief, and then something harder. Sharper. "James?" Her voice was tight, controlled in a way that suggested she was one wrong word away from exploding. "Is this a joke? Because I don't think it's funny."

She leaned forward, trying to catch his eye, to force him to look at her. "James. Look at me."

He didn't. Not yet.

"It's... a dare. Kind of." He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the warm beer settle on his tongue. Then, finally, he met Taylor's gaze. His blue eyes were steady, unblinking. "She asked who I think is the prettiest. And I told her."

A muscle in Taylor's jaw twitched.

"And I'm not a liar, Tay." James's voice was calm. Almost gentle. "You're not the prettiest girl here."

The words hung in the air like a verdict.

Taylor's face crumpled—not into tears, but into something colder. Fury, maybe. Humiliation, definitely. Around the circle, people shifted uncomfortably. Carl looked like he wanted to sink into the beige carpet. Kelsey's mouth was hanging open. Mara was already reaching for Taylor's arm, a supportive gesture that Taylor would probably shake off the second they were alone.

And James?

James took another sip of his drink and let his gaze drift back to {{user}}.

She was staring at him. Eyes wide. Something unreadable flickering across her face—surprise? Suspicion? Maybe a tiny, fragile spark of something that looked almost like hope.

He didn't smile. He didn't wink. He just looked at her, for one long, quiet moment, and then looked away.

The party roared back to life around them. But something had shifted. A crack had opened in the careful façade of James Callahan's perfect life—and for the first time in a long time, he didn't care who saw what was underneath.

It had been almost a week since the party.

Seven days. James had counted them in the number of times Taylor had slammed her locker, or ignored his texts, or shot him a look across the cafeteria that could curdle milk. She wasn't the screaming type of mad. She was the quiet, toxic type — the kind that let the silence do the damage. He could still feel her nails digging into his arm as she'd pulled him aside that night, voice low and trembling: "Her? Really, James? The outcast?" And he'd just looked at her, jaw set, and said, "You asked for the truth."

The question had been simple: Who's the prettiest person here? He could've lied. It would've been easier. But James wasn't a liar. He never had been. So when the bottle spun and the circle leaned in, he'd let the name fall from his lips like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

{{user}}.

Because she was. She is. He remembered the way her eyes had widened, the faint bloom of pink across her cheeks, the way she'd glanced around as if expecting someone to shout "just kidding." In a world full of people fishing for compliments — posting duck-face selfies on MySpace, angling for top-eight spots — she was the one who denied them. Maybe that was why his gaze kept snagging on her, like a loose thread. He couldn't pull away.

But James didn't cheat. That was a line he'd drawn years ago, back when he'd watched his older brother burn through three girlfriends in one semester and leave a trail of tears in his wake. James was a womanizer, sure. He got bored, he moved on. But he never overlapped. He was loyal in his own fucked-up, transactional way. If {{user}} started talking to him, though? Getting closer? Dropping any sign of interest? Then maybe he'd have to rethink things. But he wouldn't hit on her. He'd just... be kind. Too kind. "Pretty privileges," he muttered to himself once, and almost believed it.

Betto had been curled on his chest that night, purring like a tiny motorboat, when Taylor's texts came through. He'd been staring at the ceiling of his bedroom — Linkin Park poster peeling in the corner, the glow of his Dell monitor painting the room blue — when his Motorola V300 buzzed against the nightstand.

[cutie sz]: LOLZ was pathetic u choosing her over me [cutie sz]: sketchy. [cutie sz]: :=)

The passive-aggressive smiley. Classic Taylor. He'd sighed, the weight of it shifting Betto, and typed back with careful thumbs.

[James]: Taylor, I wasn't supposed to lie. I chose truth, and I'm no liar. [James]: I'm not a cheater, either. You're pretty, Taylor. But... you were not the prettiest. Not in that circle, at least.

She'd screamed at him over the phone for a solid hour. He'd held the receiver away from his ear, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like Florida, and waited. At least now his relationship had something... interesting. A pulse. Usually, Taylor was a cardboard cutout — gorgeous, agreeable, hollow. Jealousy gave her edges. He almost liked it.

---

The hallway was the usual morning chaos: squeaking sneakers on linoleum, the metallic slam of lockers, someone's tinny discman bleeding "Helena" by My Chemical Romance. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everyone in that unflattering yellow that made Embers High look like a hospital waiting room. James walked with an arm slung lazily over Kent's shoulder, the two of them parting the crowd like a pair of sharks in shallow water.

"I can't believe you actually chose her," Kent said, his dark-blue eyes tracking a sophomore girl as she passed. He blinked at her — slow, deliberate — and she nearly tripped over her own platform sandals.

"I'm no liar," James said, voice flat. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, his letterman jacket creaking. "Besides, Taylor is pretty. I wouldn't deny that. She's the prettiest girl here..."

He stopped walking.

Kent yawned, his jaw cracking. "See? You're lying now. So you're a hypocritical piece of shit."

"I'm no hypocrite." James's eyes had caught on something down the hall — a flash of unfamiliar style, a silhouette that didn't belong to the usual cliques. {{user}}. "I said she's the prettiest girl here... when {{user}} isn't around."

Kent followed his gaze, then snorted. "Ouch. I think I'd rather have a sneaky, cheating girlfriend than an honest one."

"Bullshit."

"Yeah, bullshit. I wouldn't date at all." Kent grinned, and they high-fived — a lazy, practiced slap of palms that had probably originated in eighth grade and never died.

Then Taylor's voice cut through the noise, sharp and unmistakable: "You've got to be kidding me."

Kent nudged him. "Isn't that Tay?"

Before James could answer, Mara appeared at Kent's elbow like a summoned spirit. She was in front of her locker — the one plastered with butterfly stickers and a tiny mirror — waving her flip phone like a distress flare. "Keeeeeeent, can you help me? Carl won't shut up about the best touchdown of the season and I'm going to literally throw myself into the fountain."

Kent's grin sharpened into something wolfish. He squeezed James's shoulder once. "Well... duty calls. Pussy, I mean. Good luck with your girlfriend." He sauntered toward Mara, already sliding a hand around her waist. She didn't pull away. Today was a good day, apparently.

James exhaled and walked toward Taylor's voice.

She was standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed, her long dark-brown hair swinging as she jabbed a finger at someone. Her blue eyes were narrowed into slits, her glossy lips twisted into that mean-girl sneer that had made freshmen cry. And there, on the receiving end, stood {{user}}.

"You should stay the fuck away from my boyfriend," Taylor spat, loud enough that a few passing kids turned to look. "I don't know what kind of emo voodoo you pulled at that party, but it's not going to happen again."

James felt something heavy settle in his chest. He stepped up beside her, his height forcing him to tilt his head down to meet her glare. His eyes — pale blue, always half-lidded — darted past her, to {{user}}. Just for a second. Just to check if she was okay.

"Taylor..." His voice came out low, steady. "Drop it."

"No, James." Taylor spun on him, her finger now prodding his chest. Her nail was painted a perfect, glossy pink. "I bet this bitch put some kind of curse on you. There's no way you'd choose her over me. Not ever."

James's jaw tightened. The hallway felt smaller suddenly, the fluorescent lights a little too bright. He could feel eyes on them — kids slowing their walks, pretending to check their phones. He didn't care about the audience. He cared about the way {{user}}'s face had flickered when Taylor called her a bitch.

"Taylor." This time his voice was flat. No warmth. No patience. "She didn't do anything. And you're being too annoying today." He reached up, gently but firmly, and moved her hand away from his chest. "Leave her alone."

Taylor's eyes went wide. The silence stretched. Then she laughed — a brittle, humorless sound. "Oh, okay. WONDERFUL! You're picking HER side?" She jabbed her finger hard into his sternum, and if he hadn't been built like a brick wall, he might've stumbled. "You know what, James? Eat shit!"

She turned on her heel, shooting {{user}} one last venomous look. "And you — stay the fuck away from my boyfriend, you fucking freak." Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd, her platform sandals clicking an angry rhythm down the hall.

James stood still for a moment, the ghost of her finger still pressed into his chest. Then he turned to {{user}}.

He saw the way her expression shifted — fear, confusion, maybe a flicker of hurt. His chest ached, just a little.

"I'll... apologize for what she said." He shifted his weight unconsciously, his right leg sliding closer to her, closing the gap by a few inches. His voice dropped, quieter now, meant only for her. "She can be... intense sometimes. That wasn't okay."

He paused, searching for words. His cheeks felt warm. Was he blushing? James Callahan didn't blush. But there it was, a faint pink crawling up his neck.

"But she's wrong," he said. "You didn't do anything to me. No curse." He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You wouldn't need one."

Her eyes met his, and the hallway fell away — the lockers, the fluorescent hum, the distant thump of a basketball from the gym. He held her gaze, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper.

"Because even if I was blind... or deaf... or if I lost my whole memory..." He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "Every time I saw you, I would still think you're the prettiest girl."

He wasn't trying to flirt. He wasn't trying to be smooth. He was just being honest. That was the truth. To James, {{user}} was. Is.

He tilted his head, his blue eyes scanning her face with an open curiosity he couldn't quite mask. "How have you been since the party? We didn't speak after that."

But I thought about you. Not in a weird way. Just... the way you smile when you drink your favorite thing. I think I know your favorite drink. The one you always have under the tree after sixth period. The one with the pink straw.

Knowing that was weird. He knew it was weird. But it wasn't on purpose — he just always walked through that courtyard with Kent and Carl, and his eyes just... landed. Every time.

She was impossible not to notice.