Page 83 of Detour

Decked out in more glow paraphernalia, Beckett grabs my hand, leading me to the makeshift dance floor otherwise known as the grass. We dance together, mostly trying to outdo the other’s embarrassingly bad moves, until a couple of girls try to steal him away. Coty’s familiar hands grab my hips from behind and our little dance battle is quickly forgotten, Beckett moving onto better prospects.

I lean my head on his shoulder, close to Coty’s ear. “Hey.”

“Are you having fun?”

I arch back to slowly roll my hips. “Yeah. You?”

His hand slides around to my bare stomach, pulling me further into him. “I am if you are.”

We continue to dance dangerously close—considering he’s in shorts and only my important bits are covered—until we break to rehydrate and eat.

I’m leaning against the fence when I see Marc slip out of a door that isn’t his.

Is that? Yep, that’s Kary’s apartment. The manager.

And it all falls into place. Where I saw him coming from that one time. The parties, the loud music, how they get away with it all. How they’re getting away with this now.

I watch as he makes his way through the party, bumping fists with different people as he approaches.

“Neighbor girl,” he greets quietly, tapping Coty’s fist. “What did you think of your sign?”

My eyes shoot over to it before meeting his again. “You made that?”

“Fuck no. That shit’s all Beck. I supervised.”

“Which means he barked orders the entire time causing Beck to quit from the pressure, and I had to finish the damn thing myself,” Coty supplies, making the group laugh. This still doesn’t solve the mystery as to where the other half of the L went though.

“Well, thank you for helping make today so special for me.” I glance up to Kary’s place, letting him know that I know. What exactly I know, I don’t know, but I thought he should know all the same.

“No problem.” He nods, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I’ve been dying for one of these for hours.” Coty frowns, glancing up at Kary’s, too. “Enjoy the party.” And with that he walks off into the throng of people, grabbing a girl to dance with on his way.

“What just happened?”

“I…don’t know.” He shakes his head, ditching our plates. “Should we take another shot?”

“One more, then I’m done. I don’t want to puke at my first party.”

“Bullshit.” His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “This is your first party? Ever?”

I nudge a wad of grass clippings with my Adidas slide, avoiding his questioning stare.

“Shots!”

No further prompting required, Marc and Beckett leave their companions to meet us at the table. Marc pours the shots then the three roommates hold them out, so I follow suit.

“To Angela, congratulations, babe.”

We clink glasses, shooting them back.

Beckett pours another round, ignoring my protests, then lifts his, saying, “To more nights just like this.”

“Cheers!” we shout in unison, before I attempt to down the fiery drink. Most of it “spills” into the grass though.

And despite more groans, Marc dispenses a third round. I only quiet when he grows serious. Well, more serious.

“To family,” a scowl settles on my face before I can stop it, but Marc presses on, “the one that makes you, not the one that tries to break you.”

This one I do drink to, albeit much slower than my neighbors. It’s clear these guys not only treat each other like family, but genuinely believe it. I observe them in their natural element joking, laughing, watching each other’s backs out of pure instinct. It’s inspiring, yet fills me both awe and sorrow. Awe that three rebels looking for a place of their own found each other to lean on when they needed it most. Sorrow at never having found my own spot amongst a family, whether by blood or otherwise.