her guts out last night, you're not looking too shabby," was the first thing Sophie said to Riley when she slipped into the backseat on Saturday evening.

Viv and I stifled a snicker. Sophie's flat was a five-minute drive from campus, and Callum's was another five minutes from here. She had been waiting by the side of the road when I turned the corner on to her street, her periwinkle blue sneakers illuminated by my headlights.

As Sophie buckled her seatbelt, Riley asked accusingly, "How did you know I puked?"

"My cousins put it all over their social media," she said simply. "Close Friends, of course."

Viv, next to me in the passenger seat, slid her eyes over to mine. It looked like she was barely refraining from laughing aloud. I felt somewhat the same—I knew Riley and a bottle of soju would never turn out well—but the poor girl was still so mortified from the events of last night that we both kept quiet.

"Ugh, great. That's just great," Riley fretted. I saw in my rearview mirror that she'd buried a hand in her thick, dark curls. "My floormates will never let me live it down."

"Considering it was in Jamie's car I'm surprised you got off that lightly, to be honest," Viv attempted to make her feel better. "I thought he'd at least ask you to shout him drinks one night."

But that seemed to have the opposite effect. If anything, reminding Riley of how courteously Jamie had taken it, and how generously Jake had volunteered to help his brother clean his car, just sent her deeper into her guilt. She cried, "You're right. I feel so bad."

Sophie interjected smoothly to direct me to Callum's house, "Keep going straight at this junction."

"I saw the twins cleaning out the SUV on the side of the road when I went down to get my UberEats this morning, but they wouldn't even let me help!" she recalled with anguish. "They insisted I rest up before I made myself vomit again, as if I were still drunk or something."

"Take a left here."

"Every time I opened my mouth to say something, they would flinch dramatically, block their nose and shield their faces."

Viv and I exchanged another mirthful glance. I didn't trust myself to speak without laughing at Riley's embarrassment, so Viv admitted bluntly, "To be fair, it was pretty out of the blue."

I agreed with that. SciBall had turned out to be well worth my ticket, in the end. I had positive exchanges with my fans, slow-danced with Quen and caught up with some of my other college friends. Between all these events, I would dance or rest with my floormates.

Riley had seemed fine. Not only fine—better and better each time I returned to her, Viv and the Jays. She had sobered up dramatically from the girl who needed Jake to help her walk in heels. She had been speaking clearly, moving with coordination and aware of her surroundings.

So it was all the more shocking when, three minutes from the dorm, she had doubled over in the backseat of Jamie's SUV and thrown up her dinner. All without a word, a retch or a sound. Then Riley had leaned back in her seat, wiped her mouth and passed out.

And then chaos erupted—but thankfully not for Jake and me, who occupied the front seats.

"You know what, it's a new day. Let's put this to the side and mention none of it to Zoe, who sort of looks up to me," Riley decided shakily.

She had smartly decided to drink only a four-pack of ciders, which had an alcohol content so low that she'd hardly feel it. She had also given her liver an extra layer of protection by relinquishing the drinks to Sophie, who was instructed to wait a minimum of half an hour before giving Riley the next one.

For herself, Sophie had a bottle of wine, and Viv brought the remnants of her litre-bottle of vodka. She'd poured the vodka discreetly into an opaque thermos, which she intended to sip throughout the night. Straight. The girl was a monster, I swore. Those who could drink unmixed vodka without flinching deserved to be feared in my books.

"And especially not Callum," Riley added anxiously. "He will never let me live it down."

Sophie laughed sympathetically. "I can imagine what he'd say. You were so quiet and studious in high school, Riley," she imitated Callum's deep voice and sportive tone, "What happened? His house is number nine on this street, Krista."

Riley's voice suddenly turned serious. "Swear to secrecy, ladies."

Viv rolled her eyes, but she joined Sophie and me as we promised, "We swear."

"You know, I've heard a lot about this Callum person from all three of you," Viv piped up, "—so he better live up to expectations. At the very least, he'd better know how to host a party."

In the backseat, I saw Riley and Sophie trade an amused smile.

Sophie replied secretively, "He does. That's exactly why I requested back up tonight."

Callum answered his door without a shirt.

He also had lost one of his shoes but didn't seem to notice the difference as he leaned against the threshold. He clutched a red solo cup in one hand, while the other held the door halfway open.

"Ladies!" he beamed at us. His bare arm straightened, letting more of the pulsing music, cheers and laughter from inside his flat leak into the otherwise silent evening. "Bienvenido a mi casa."

"Where did your shirt go, Cal?" Sophie questioned archly. She clearly had experience dealing with an intoxicated Callum, from her insistence that Viv and I come, and what she'd said during the car ride here.

"My shirt?" Callum repeatedly slowly. His eyes were cloudy with perpetual confusion, but they were still warm and friendly. Then he looked down at himself, seeming astonished to see his own bare chest and navel.

His hand on the door slapped loudly against his own cheek, and he exclaimed in a suddenly British accent, "Oh, my giddy aunt! How did that happen?"

"Right. Never mind," Sophie sighed. She waved Viv and me closer, who were standing two steps lower than her and Riley. "Come on, girls. Ignore him."

Callum smiled dazedly at each and every one of us as we stepped into his house. As I passed him the unmistakable scent of whiskey caught my senses, and I instantly resolved to never let him into my car. The man was an ambitious drinker, I'd give him that, but I wouldn't bet the cleanliness of my car against his tolerance.

If I looked past the scattered clothing, pizza boxes, crisp packets and empty bottles littering the living room, I could see that Callum's house was usually clean and well-kept. The walls were stainless, and the furniture was arranged with minimalist precision. Nevermind that all the flat surfaces in the room were covered with red cups or chattering people.

Farther into the house, a group of people suddenly yelled out. My head swivelled towards the disruption, identifying a game of what appeared to be strip beer pong taking place in the kitchen. That explained where Callum's shirt had gone. Sophie, with an amused gleam in her eye, touched my shoulder lightly to gesture that we should go over there.

Callum was the challenger, and a woman who'd only removed her shoes seemed to be the defender. She was good; her cheeks, shoulders and forearms were flushed red with alcohol, but her eyes were sharp and alert. She rarely missed. A crowd of about fifteen people had already formed to spectate.

Riley and Sophie clinked their bottles together as they settled down to drink. They found two kitchen stools on the opposite side of the ping pong table, pulling them up to watch the game.

After a few rounds of the game, Riley met my eyes with a smile, giving me a thumbs up and questioning look. She was wordlessly gauging my enjoyment of the party.

I nodded in return, smiling back. I was having a good time so far.

Viv took a long sip of her vodka and abruptly decided, "I'm going to challenge the winner."

Her expression burned with hunger. My best friend had an insatiable urge for thrill and a stubborn fearlessness. Sometimes I thought that combination could only get her into trouble. Sometimes I thought she wouldn't have reached all her phenomenal accomplishments without it.

But, always, I knew it would be entertaining to watch. "You do that," I laughed. "I'll be your cheerleader."

"Thanks, babe."

In a matter of minutes, Callum only had one cup left on his side. He was left in only his boxers, and I feared for my eyes what would come next.

He was becoming rather agitated, too, taking a great deal of time before he made each shot. He would hold the ball up to his eye, hold it at length, lick his finger and point it upwards in a slapdash mockery of a barometer.

But his theatrics seemed to work. Each time he threw his ball, it landed.

The crowd cheered loudly, clearly rooting for the underdog. Callum lapped up this attention, sassing his competitor and enthusiastically talking to the crowd. She seemed to have prepared for this event, stripping off shoes, socks, scarves, a jacket, hoodie, sweater and a long-sleeved shirt to still be dressed in leggings and a singlet.

Every time Callum exclaimed victoriously, the tendons in his neck and his abdominal muscles flexed under the extreme effort he put into his voice. Somehow he managed to make his one cup last the rest of the game, triumphing over his opponent much to the glee of the crowd. When he opened his arms in search of a challenger, Viv stood up confidently and met his eyes.

Viv had been obstructing my view of the people beside her, but after she stepped up to the table and started pouring her vodka into a pyramid of red cups, I saw clearly who was in the crowd. My heart sped up as I watched Quen, chuckling at his friend.

I knew he would be here, of course, but it didn't make me react any less intensely to his presence. After yesterday, I was conflicted. It just drove home how completely uninterested in me Quen was, while reinforcing how into him I was.

I could hardly dance one song with him without wanting to apologise for being myself. Sorry that I have fans. Sorry that I'm famous. Sorry that you don't approve. That was why I should have stayed away.

Now being here, in the same room as him, was simultaneously humiliating and exhilarating. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to hide. I wanted to run, but I also wanted him closer.

When he finally spotted me, I smiled at him, my face a picturesque mask. His eyes wrinkled warmly as he returned it, weaving around people to make his way to me. For many blissful moments, we just looked at each other.

It pleased me to see him pick his way through the crowd, politely dropping excuse-me's and sorries as he went. He couldn't help bumping into people; it was prime real estate this close to the strip beer pong game.

"Hey, Krista," Quen greeted me. So friendly. Just friendly.

I nodded in acknowledgement, releasing a peal of laughter at Callum's antics. To safeguard his modesty, he'd started asking for donated pieces of clothing from the spectators. He'd armoured himself with multiple shirts, sweatshirts and a vest.

Viv looked practically underdressed in her cropped t-shirt and tulip skirt, but she didn't need safety nets. She'd been the Boston Table Tennis League's Junior Champion multiple times in her childhood. Callum was about to have his butt whipped, and he seemed to know it. I watched as he raced out of the kitchen, returning with three pairs of boxers.

I asked Quen, as Callum tried to squeeze all of them over his jeans, "Is Callum always this... um—"

Overexcited? Dramatic? I searched for a word that wouldn't insult Callum or offend Quen.

"Yes. He is," Quen chuckled at my thoughtful face. "I've known him since freshman year in high school, where, believe it or not, I was way geekier than I am now. But he's always been this... energetic."

I hummed in surprise. "I didn't know it was possible to get any geekier than you currently are."

The amused, offended expression on Quen's face was what I'd been waiting for. It felt so good to tease him because he always humoured me.

I softly nudged his arm with my elbow, "Joking, of course."

God. I couldn't stay away. So be it.

We enjoyed the game in silent company. I whooped when Viv took out five of Callum's cups in a row. When I turned my head to gauge Quen's reaction to his friend being defeated, I found he wasn't watching the game at all. He was already looking at me, eyes swimming with an unreadable emotion.

Clearing his throat, Quen dropped his gaze. He scratched at the nape of his neck absentmindedly, then noticed that my hands were empty.

"You're not drinking tonight?" he wondered. When I shook my head, he seemed to experience a revelation. "I just realised I've never seen you drink."

From the curious arch of eyebrows and his pensive expression, I could tell it was playing on his mind.

"I'm not hiding any deep, dark secret," I said wryly. "I just always overshoot my limit when I drink. And I don't want to embarrass myself. I got away with it when I was seventeen and relatively unknown, but the stakes are higher now."

"Ah, yes," Quen quipped. "Your masses of adoring fans watching your every move."

I blinked. I supposed my fans were the obvious stakeholders in my behaviour now that I had so many of them. But I was actually thinking of Quen, and how much closer our social circles had become. He'd always known Riley, but now I might also be called friends of Sophie and Callum.

The last thing I wanted was to get drunk, lose my inhibitions and tell him what I felt. Not only was there no chance he reciprocated, that would ruin our friendship beyond a doubt.

"Yeah. The fans."

"Well, tonight I will abstain in solidarity," Quen announced grandly. He met my eyes with a conspiratorial smirk, "We can suffer together. Deal?"

Sober buddies. A far cry from romance, but anything ours was immediately special to me. I had it so bad. God. Why wasn't I getting over Quen? Why wasn't I declining and spending my night far, far away from him?

I took his outstretched hand and shook it. "Deal."

Who had Riley as the one who vomited at Ball?

Congratulations to you all! This is going to sound like I can't think of original events for my story, but trust me:

Place your bets here. 

(Again! xD)