Ricochet

I fucked up.That’s the only thought I have when I digest my surroundings. A live
DJ blasts music from wall-engulfed amps while people guzzle colored
drinks. My youngest sister, Daisy, sips beer from a Solo cup, scouting her
model friends. I fear that she’ll pull a guy over and try to hook us up—to
take my mind off Loren Hale. Five hours ago, I believed a house party
would be a safe choice.Not true.So. Not true.I should be chastely tucked beneath my comforter, sleeping through
the New Year’s riffraff at my place with Rose. Only days ago, Lo—my best
friend, my boyfriend, literally a guy who encompasses my entire life—left
for rehab. Rose and I spent a full Monday packing my belongings. And I
sorted through pictures, knickknacks and valuables, bursting into tears in
random spurts. Besides clothes and toiletries, what’s mine was Lo’s. I felt
like I was going through a divorce.I still do.Only an hour in, Rose called movers and paid them to finish packing
my old apartment and unpacking at our new house. She bought a four-
bedroom villa near Princeton with five acres of sprawling, lush land and a
white wrap-around porch, black shutters and purple hydrangeas. It
reminds me of the southern homes in Savannah or the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
When I told her this, she stood with her hands on her hips, appraising the
building with those powerful, yellow eyes. Then she broke into a smile and
said, “I suppose so.”