I made the executive decision to skip the after party. Hanna, who'd volunteered to help with set-up, sent me several Snapchats from Andre's saying she'd miss me but didn't try to talk me into coming. I think she understood that my absence was a necessary thing, considering the entire football team would be rolling through The Palazzo.

Besides. I was still recovering from the thralls of my hangover and, therefore, neither mentally nor physically prepared to smell alcohol again.

This left me with two options: I could either sit in the apartment all night rewatching Gran Hotel on Netflix (and inevitably diving four years deep in Yon Gonzalez's Instagram) while I nibbled on granola bars, or I could get in my car and do something productive with my night—like restock my snack stash with more exciting options.

I chose door number two.

Dressed to impress in my cleaning-the-apartment leggings and a size XL grey hoodie that Andre had made the mistake of leaving at our apartment (mine now), I grabbed my car keys and hopped in my white Corolla. The old Jonas Brothers CD I'd had in the player since I was sixteen came on automatically.

I rolled down the windows and headed to my usual destination for time-killing and snack-perusing.

Target.

Garland, California had two of them: the enormous one out by the country club, and the trimmed-down version closer to campus (which always seemed to be out of Tide pods and instant coffee). I decided to head to the one near the club, since the farther I got from campus, the less my mind ran circles around the memory of Bodie St. James stalking off the field.

The sun was going down when I arrived and maneuvered into a spot on the far side of the crowded parking lot.

I sat in my car for a moment trying to take a picture of the sunset. I was so busy trying to pick a Snapchat filter that did the pink and orange streaked skies justice, I almost didn't notice when a car pulled into the space across from mine—a black Tesla Model X crammed door-to-door with guys wearing various forms of athletic wear. Charcoal grey sweatshirts. Dark green t-shirts. Matte black jackets.

Kyle Fogarty was in the driver's seat.

We locked eyes.

"Fuck," I said aloud.

There was no way he heard me through our cars and over the bass of the music he was blasting, but he probably read my lips—or, at the very least, gathered what I'd said from context clues. I ducked my head and pretended to be searching for something in my center console. Napkins. My Ziplock bag of nickels and dimes. A melted chapstick. Actually, I had been looking for that, but it was a little late now. Bummer.

The music went silent.

Car doors opened, then slammed shut.

Part of me expected to hear someone tap on the driver's side window of my Corolla. Instead, I heard chatter and laughter fade off into the distance. I looked up just in time to see the pack of muscular bodies shuffle through the sliding glass doors and into the store.

My hand moved to jam my keys back in the ignition.

But I caught myself.

I'd already compromised to keep out of the football team's way tonight. I wasn't going to keep making myself smaller so they could have more room—especially not when Target was the size of an independent city-state.

No, I was getting my errands done.

I climbed out of my car, retrieved three reusable tote bags from my trunk, and grabbed a cart someone had left in the designated return space.

And then I marched into Target with my chin held high.

Given that there were football players in the building, I decided to stick to the departments they probably wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.

So make-up, women's attire, and books.

I stocked up on tampons and makeup removing wipes, then took the time to pop open the caps of no fewer than eight different bottles of shampoo before deciding on a chamomile-scented one that reminded me of the kind my abuelita kept in her bathroom. In the women's clothing section, I scoured the novelty t-shirt racks until I found a Wine not? and tossed it into my cart without looking at the price tag.

Last came the literature.

I read the blurbs on the back of a few romance novels before I found one that didn't seem too cringey. I tucked it under my arm and headed to the home goods department, where I tugged a kid's sized pink armchair off the shelf and settled in to read.

Hours passed before the loudspeakers crackled on and a tired employee announced that the store would be closing in ten minutes.

I checked my phone. It was almost midnight. I had several missed Snapchats from Hanna, the most recent of which had come in almost an hour ago—a close-up of what looked like Andre's left eyebrow captioned with a lone poop emoji.

I sent back a selfie from the checkout line.

My cashier told me, through a yawn, that my total was eighty-two dollars and sixteen cents—approximately six and a half hours of my paycheck, but definitely not the worst damage I could've done.

When I pushed my cart out into the parking lot, the night air was cold. All but a few of the cars had left. My Corolla was alone on the far edge of the lot.

I pushed my cart along, the plastic wheels loud enough against the asphalt to drown out my off-pitch humming.

And then, abruptly, I stopped.

It was dark, the nearest lamppost a bit too far to reach my car with its fluorescent orange glow. But my Corolla was white, and so the letters across the hood looked like they'd been drawn on with a big, black Sharpie.

But it wasn't marker. The word was etched deep into the metal, four enormous and sharp-angled letters.

LIAR.

Someone had keyed my car.

I turned in a circle, scanning the barren parking lot. Fear surged up in my throat. I scrambled for my keys, the whole time imagining that I was about to hear footsteps run up behind me.

I tugged my three bags out of the cart and tossed them through the driver's side door and into the passenger's seat. The last bag hit the far door. Bottles of shampoo and my box of tampons spilled onto the floor.

I was the kind of person who always put my cart back.

Tonight, it was all I could do to shove in the opposite direction before I dove into the driver's seat, tugged the door shut, and hit the lock.

In the quiet of my car, I squeezed my eyes shut.

Fogarty.

He'd seen me. He knew this was my car. He was a green-haired moron, but was he capable of something as awful as this?

I fumbled with my key, trying and failing twice to jam it in the ignition. My hands were shaking too hard. Finally, it slid in and the dashboard lit up. My Jonas Brothers CD started blasting through the speakers again, the familiar opening cords of the sixth track both comforting and eerily out of place.

I put my hands on the wheel to steady them.

Out through my windshield, I could see the jagged lines on the hood. My dad would know how to fix this. If I took it to the shop, he'd be able to patch it up within an hour or two. But then he'd see it. And I'd have to tell him someone had tracked down his daughter's car in an empty Target parking lot and carved the word LIAR into the hood.

He'd be horrified.

No. I wouldn't tell him. I'd buy some touch-up paint on Amazon and watch a YouTube tutorial, or something.

I could handle this myself.

But first, I was going to cry like a baby. I felt it coming—the prickle behind my eyes and the catch in my breath. So when my phone started vibrating in the front pocket of my hoodie, it was a welcome distraction.

I fished it out and blinked to clear my vision.

Andre's name stretched across the top of the screen.

I reached for the volume dial on the dashboard, sniffling furiously and clearing my throat as I silenced Nick Jonas mid-solo.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Yo," came Andre's voice a half-second later, like he'd gotten distracted right after he dialed my number.

"What's up?" I asked, my voice high-pitched and squeaky.

Luckily, Andre was drunk, so he didn't pick up on my distress.

"Can you—" he began, then said something I couldn't catch that seemed directed at someone else. "Are you home yet?"

"No," I said. "No, I'm—I'm just about to leave Target. I'm in my car."

"Perfect. Can you come over?"

"What? Why?"

"Hanna's not doing too hot. She's been in the bathroom for like an hour now, and I told her she could take my bed, but she says she wants to go home. I can't find her key."

I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my forehead to the top of my steering wheel.

"Did you ask her to check her bra?" I mumbled.

"Yeah. She took it off. Key ain't in there. Can you pick her up? My roommates already went to bed. There are like three or four guys sleeping over. Fogarty's not here. St. James is, but he's just making sure Quinton and Tores drink some water before they pass out. He'll probably leave in the next five, ten minutes. I just need you to drive her home."

Hanna never overdid it. The last time I could remember her getting sick after a night out had been freshman year, and that'd been after we binged Pepito's and then took an Uber home because we were too tired to walk.

She was going to feel rotten tomorrow morning, no matter what. But waking up at Andre's with a bunch of football players everywhere would add insult to injury—or, rather, mortification to hangover.

Hanna had carried me home when I was a drunk mess. It was my turn to do the same for her.

I sat back and buckled my seatbelt.

"Hold tight," I told Andre. "I'm on my way."

_________________

I have never—I repeat, NEVER—been so proud of a chapter title. I know it's a bad pun. I know. But I would die for this pun.

So, let's talk. Fogarty is conventionally attractive with an edgy flare (not tattoos, just green hair). He's popular, well-liked, talented. He's got a nice ride. He's funny, even if it's in kind of an immature and douchey way. The only difference between Fogarty and a true Wattpad bad boy? He's not Laurel's love interest, so we're not watching a girl "change" him.

I'll put down my megaphone now. I'm on the last 5-10k words of this book, now, and I'm alternating between being so in love with my manuscript that I could cry and so frustrated with my own shortcomings that I actually DO cry. First drafts are allowed to be messy. I know that. Doesn't change the fact that I want it to be everything I imagined. Wish! Me! Luck!

Your friendly author,

Kate