I think we can all agree New Year’s Eve is an overhyped holiday. The notion that this one night is somehow symbolic of the next twelve months is absolutely ridiculous.
And yet.
I’d be a bit more optimistic about my future if I wasn’t about to crash Webster Casey’s party.
This whole thing was Reese’s idea. I was perfectly content with our original plan to eat popcorn for dinner and lounge in our pajamas and mock all the people freezing their asses off in places like Times Square. But Reese is still in the hearts-for-eyes phase of her newest relationship. As soon as the boyfriend texted to invite us (but really just her) to Webster’s and the words midnight kiss came out of her mouth, I knew our girls’ night was a lost cause.
And since Reese could sell a hot dog to a vegan, I regret to admit it took her less than twenty minutes to talk me into tagging along.
See, in the version of tonight she painted, coming here was a giant eff you to Webster, proof that I am completely over what he did to me junior year. But now that I’m standing on his front porch, I find myself simultaneously sweating through my clothes and shivering. Though that’s also partly because, at Reese’s urging, I skipped snow boots in favor of stilettos, paired with my favorite high-waisted jeans to make my legs appear significantly longer than they actually are.
“Okay, you look miserable,” Reese says with her finger poised over the doorbell. Her hand drops to her side. “We can bail if you want. Just say the word.”
The thing is, Webster has always had the upper hand. He was never able to pin the tire incident on me, but he’s found so many small ways to make my life miserable since then. Constantly slamming my locker door closed when I’m still using it, or the time he “accidentally” dropped his basketball on my lunch tray. It’s been over a year and I still leave for school fifteen minutes earlier than I need to, just so I won’t run into him.
But as I look at the driveway where we spent hours shooting hoops that first summer, it doesn’t feel like so long ago that Webster was grilling me about the social scene at school, about how the cafeteria food was and whether the majority of kids wore backpacks.
It doesn’t seem so long ago that Webster trusted me with his biggest secret.
“It’s going to be weird, not knowing anyone at school,” he said one day while we were sitting in the shade of his backyard.
I picked up a helicopter leaf from the maple overhead and twirled it around by the stem. I tossed it in the air and watched it spin back down to my lap. “Well, you’ll really like Reese. Everyone does.” Reese had been gone practically the entire summer, first on vacation with her family, and then at cheer camp. I’d told her all about Webster already, but it was so weird that my two best friends hadn’t met yet. I was dying to introduce them. “And you’ve got me.”
“True. But...” His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “The thing is, we haven’t actually known each other that long, and there are things—it doesn’t get easier, even if you know you can trust someone, because every time it’s like starting over, you know?”
“Um...not exactly.” I shifted to face him. “Sorry, you kind of lost me...”
He licked his lips and looked down at the ever-present basketball in his hands. Back up at me. “I’m bisexual.”
“Oh.” Yes, good, give the most inadequate response possible. But the thing was, no one had ever come out to me before. I only knew one openly gay kid—Phil Marlow—who was a grade below us and had been out since before high school, so everyone was just kind of aware. But I didn’t know what would be the right thing to say. I didn’t want to come off like it changed the way I felt about him, but I also didn’t want to sound like I was brushing past it when it was clearly a big deal for him to tell me. I swallowed and put on a shy smile and finally managed to add, “Okay.”
He scratched his temple, then raked his hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah. So. That’s a thing no one here knows about me. And I don’t think... I’m not ready to go through it all again. To be out at school. So will you keep it between us?”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise. And...thank you. For telling me.”
Now I shift my gaze to his car, to the Pride bumper sticker he put on after coming out at school at the beginning of senior year. A lot has changed since we were juniors, for both of us. And Reese was right, I shouldn’t allow Webster—or the past—to have this power over me anymore. “No, it’s fine. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
I reach around her to hit the doorbell in response.
“Listen, Kevin said there are a bunch of people here,” she says, talking fast. “So chances are you won’t even have to interact with Web. Plus, it’s not like we have far to go if the party ends up sucking.”
Inside the pocket of my coat I start fiddling with my ChapStick, nudging the cap off with my thumb and then pushing it back down until I feel the satisfying click.
Mrs. Casey opens the door. “Hi, girls, come on in!” She steps to the side to let us pass. “The kids are all downstairs. And, Aubrey, I think your mom is in the living room if you want to say hello.”
We shrug off our coats, and I scan the rooms full of boozy adults for my parents. A bunch of people are clustered around the dining room table where the food is set up, but in a sea of balding heads, my father’s is nowhere to be found. Through the sliding glass door in the kitchen, I spot another group of men outside smoking cigars. Dad hates the smell of tobacco in all forms, but he’s a sucker for anything he thinks men are supposed to enjoy, so I’d be willing to bet he’s out there drinking scotch and discussing his golf game.
Reese points her chin to a spot over my shoulder. “Behold your future.”
December 31 has always brought out the worst in my mom, same as when she decides to go on one of her diets and spends the whole day before bingeing on ice cream. As if tomorrow she’ll miraculously wake up as the person she’s always wanted to be, so what’s the harm in making a few terrible choices tonight?
I know better. I know you can’t just wish for something to change and expect it to happen. Change requires actual work—a concept lost entirely on the woman currently belting out an old Prince song with her champagne flute raised overhead.
“I’m going to assume that was in reference to getting our hands on some alcohol, and not a broader commentary on my genetic makeup.”
Reese bites down on her grin and kindly refrains from pointing out I inherited my mother’s nose and that we both stopped growing at five foot four. “Of course it was.”
She threads her arm through mine and steers me toward the door off the kitchen that leads to Webster’s basement. I let her pull me along because, despite the very real concern that I will in fact turn out like my mother—who is now urging those around her to sing along—I’m sick of being the only sober person in sight.
We descend into the finished basement, and I check to make sure my nose isn’t running after coming in from outside. My stomach doesn’t feel right. I’m coming down with something—the flu, probably. Plus, my parents rarely leave the house together anymore, so I should really go back and enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts. But before I can offer up an excuse and bail, we reach the bottom step.
The first thing I notice is a bed set up in one corner of the basement. Navy comforter, plaid sheets, drunken classmates clamoring for a spot on the end closest to the TV. A ton of people are packed into this tiny area, but unfortunately Reese was wrong when she claimed it would be easy to avoid Webster. He’s standing right next to Reese’s boyfriend, and both of them beeline over the second she locks eyes.
“Aubrey.” Webster slings his arm around my shoulders and squeezes my neck a little too tight. He’s drunk. And as big an asshole as ever. “Good of you to take a night off from polishing your rock collection to join us.”
My skin tingles in the spots he’s touching. I shrug his hand off me, but he keeps on grinning like he just unearthed a photo album filled with old pictures of me, all braces and the unfortunate cowlick I tried to pass off as bangs until I met Reese and she talked some sense into me.
I automatically finger comb the front of my hair—which I made the grave error of chopping into a short bob at the end of last summer. It looked great for about two weeks, and I’ve been waiting for it to get long enough to fit into a ponytail again ever since.
“Already moved into your mom’s basement, I see. Should be really cozy down here by the time you’re thirty-five.”
He sucks his teeth in mock regret. “Yeah. Guess you’ll have to find another use for that telescope now that our bedrooms aren’t facing each other.”
“And how does Webster define creeper?” I ask. “With a self-portrait, perhaps?”
“Okay, let’s all play nice.” As a cheerleader, Reese seems to feel a moral obligation to keep spirits high in situations like this. But as she is well aware, Webster is about as likely to play nice as a grizzly bear.
“Why don’t we get you ladies something to drink?” Kevin asks. And aside from the obvious fact that she’s finally found someone as enthusiastic about watching random documentaries and attending trivia nights as she is, I’m starting to see why Reese likes him so much. He’s got great ideas.
He leads us away from Webster, around the stairs and past a folding table to a little bar area packed with sports memorabilia. The bar top is scattered with the usual flimsy decorations—cheap cardboard glasses shaped into numbers and plastic noisemakers that will just end up in the trash tomorrow—and the drink selection is limited to bourbon and a vanilla-flavored vodka presumably smuggled in by someone with a fake ID or an older sibling.
I’ve met Webster’s mom numerous times, and while she’s a nice woman who doesn’t come off as particularly oblivious, she does seem to have her head in the sand when it comes to Webster. Then again, so do the majority of my classmates. I look forward to the day he’s no longer a basketball star and the realization dawns that he actually has nothing else going for him. But until then, as our resident golden boy, he gets away with murder.
Though I’m not particularly mad about it as I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour a healthy dose into my cup. I mix it with some Coke and sip my drink while Reese makes hers, and then we start to mingle. And by mingle, I mean I follow Reese around while she does her social butterfly thing, greeting every single person we pass. She has this innate ability to make conversation with literally anyone. It’s partly her personality, and partly because Reese’s interests are ridiculously varied—her bedside table is always piled high with library books covering everything from philosophy to fashion design, and she’s changed her mind about what she wants to major in next year at least a dozen times.
Most of the guys she’s dated have been popular, or at least popular-adjacent, but I have to hand it to Kevin—he’s the first one who can keep up with her, both in terms of her subject-hopping and her inclination to say hello to everyone she sees.
She waves at another cheerleader, Sam Palmer, and her boyfriend, Mike Chen. Sam’s sweet, and one of the few cheerleaders who actually acknowledges my presence whenever I’m shadowing Reese like this. Her boyfriend seems like kind of a douche, but to be fair, I’ve never actually talked to him. And I guess he must not be all bad, since the two of them have been together since they were fifteen, which—side note—is incomprehensible to me.
“Hey, Dan!” Reese nudges my rib cage while Kevin does a complicated handshake with Dan Epstein. “You guys know each other, right?” she asks as she looks at me.
“Um...” If seeing him throw up in fourth grade gym class and then picturing that every time I’m in the same room with him counts as knowing each other...sure.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around,” he offers.
“Did you know Dan plays point guard?” Reese asks with a suggestive lilt.
“No, but...good for you, Dan.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He promptly turns to his buddy, making it clear he doesn’t find me any more interesting than I find him.
We end up standing near the table, which is being used to play flip cup. I stash my coat under the table and scan the basement again. The countdown in Times Square is playing on the big screen by Webster’s bed, and I try to catch Reese’s attention with a smirk, but she’s wrapped up in what Kevin is saying and doesn’t notice.
To her credit, Reese never actually ditches me for the guy she’s dating. She makes every attempt to loop me into the discussion over the next half hour. It’s just, there’s only so much I can contribute to a conversation that revolves around basketball (a sport I know next to nothing about) and an essay assigned before break in AP French (a class I don’t take).
I turn back to the TV and note the time. Another hour until midnight. I’m not convinced I’ll last that long.
But going home now would just mean watching some movie I’ve already seen a million times, and then tomorrow Reese will call and tell me what a great time she had and probably lecture me about how people would really love me if I just put myself out there a little more.
All the guys standing on our side of the table let out a collective yell and start jumping around, sounding entirely too pleased with themselves, considering the object of their game is literally to drink fast and flip a cup over. It causes a tidal wave, a ripple of bodies pushing back until someone gets shoved into me—and spills his entire drink down the front of my shirt in the process.
I gasp and lift my hands like a shield, though of course it’s too late to do anything except die a slow death while everyone around me makes ooh sounds under their breath. I can’t tell if these noises are born out of sympathy or because they’re laughing at me. The guy jumps into action, hands fluttering as he searches his pockets for...I’m not sure what, exactly. Presumably a tissue, which wouldn’t do a hell of a lot of good at this point.
“Oh, god. I’m so sorry. Here, let me—” He thrusts his empty cup at me, which bounces off the back of my hand. I try to catch it and end up sloshing the contents of my own cup onto my arm. He freezes, eyes wide.
I lick my lips and blink up at him. “Seriously?”
He stands with his mouth open like a fish, and behind him, I catch a glimpse of Webster—an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eye. Pressure builds in my throat and I lift my gaze to the ceiling and blow out a big breath. Screw this. Screw New Year’s and screw Webster Casey most of all.
“I’m out.” I hand my cup to Reese and go to get my stuff. I’m on my hands and knees, digging through the pile of coats under the table, when someone crouches beside me.
“Hey.” I turn to see the spiller gripping a stack of New-Year’s-Eve-themed cocktail napkins. “I’m so sorry about before.”
I finally find my coat and push to my feet. The spiller follows suit and holds the napkins out to me. I don’t really want them at this point, but I take the pile because it seems more awkward not to. His hands dive into the front pockets of his jeans.
“It’s fine.” I blot my shirt with one of the napkins, try to squeeze the moisture out.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time Reese sidles up to me and blurts, “No way!”
She flashes him a smile. “Well, Aubrey was considering leaving, but I think if we work together we can convince her to stay.”
I’d ask what the hell she’s doing, but I’m all too familiar with the routine at this point. Every time Reese starts a new relationship, she decides I need someone to date, too. So she gets super aggressive in her matchmaking pursuits, despite how many times I’ve told her I don’t want a boyfriend.
Reese is cursed with a romantic streak, and she seems to think I’ll change my mind if I meet the right guy. She thinks I’m ridiculous for ruling out the possibility of falling in love, for believing love doesn’t actually lead to happiness—at least, not forever. But it’s not like I pulled this theory out of thin air. Living with my parents has provided all the evidence I need to back it up.
“That would be fantastic actually, because I’m told I make a great second impression.” He sticks out his hand again. “I’m Holland, by the way.”
I’m still not sure why he wants to prolong this interaction, but I stop fiddling with my wet shirt and wipe my palm on my hip, which is about the only dry spot of clothing I have left, then shake his hand. “Aubrey.”
Reese takes the napkins from me and gestures to the bar. “I’m just going to get us some fresh drinks. Back in a flash.”
I try to grab Reese’s arm, but she slips away. I huff and offer Holland a flat smile. “Look, no hard feelings or anything, but my friend was a bit overly optimistic just then. I really do have to take off.”
He squints at me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s too bad. This has the potential to be a pretty epic meet-cute, don’t you think?”
I swallow a comment about how I’m pretty sure it doesn’t count as a meet-cute if you’re immediately irritated by the other person.
Reese reappears holding two cups. She hands one to me and the other to Holland, then takes my coat and spins away again, ignoring me when I call after her.
Holland holds his cup up. “Cheers.”
I shake my head before ultimately caving and tapping my cup against his. I take a sip and eye him over the rim. I’m 99 percent sure I’ve never seen this kid before. And while I’m nowhere near as popular as Reese, I do think I’d at least recognize him if he went to our school. Especially since he’s not terrible looking. He has cropped dark hair and blue eyes with a ring of golden brown around the pupil. He’s also ridiculously tall. I’m tempted to ask his height, but then I decide I don’t care. “So, Spiller. Is there a reason I’ve never seen you around before?”
He gestures for me to come in close, like it’s a secret. “Since we’re already such good friends, I guess I can tell you... I go to West Rochester. I play basketball over there, so I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Ohh,” I say dramatically. Clearly I’m supposed to care that our teams are rivals, but we’re halfway through senior year and I’m fresh out of school spirit. “So in other words, you couldn’t find anyone from your own school to hang out with?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his heart, but a smile takes his face hostage, cuts parentheses into his cheeks and crinkles the edges of his eyes. “That hurts, Aubrey. Especially since I’ve been working up my nerve all night to come talk to you.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I was hoping for a smoother introduction.”
“What were you going to lead off with?”
He gives an easy shrug. “Probably a picture of my dog.”
I sip my drink and lift one eyebrow. “Well, let’s see it, then.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows me the wallpaper. It’s a picture of an adorable pit bull with a pink rhinestone collar.
“What a good girl!” It rushes out without my consent. But this dog, though. I need her in my life.
“See, I knew that would have worked.” He grins and tilts the phone back toward himself. “She is good. Her name’s Lucy. I’m fostering her for the next few months, getting her healthy enough to be adopted. Though I’m kind of hoping my parents will fall for her and want to keep her.”
“Wait,” I say, making myself sound super impressed. “You play basketball and you foster puppies? Swoon.”
“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m kind of a catch, Aubrey.”
I take another drink. “Clearly.”
He laughs and shakes his head, all self-deprecating. “I do love animals, though. I’m actually thinking about becoming a vet.”
I nearly choke on my next sip. “Wait, really?”
My smile must be weird, because his expression suddenly turns self-conscious. “Yeah. Why?”
“No, just...that’s what I want to do, too.”
This gets a reaction—his whole face lights up. “Wow. Who knew we’d have so much in common, am I right?”
To curb his excessive enthusiasm, I pretend to be interested in something across the room. But he keeps watching me, his mouth turned up in a pleased little smile. I roll my eyes and shift my gaze back to him. And I can’t explain it, this sudden urge to find another common interest.
I notice the design on his T-shirt. “Are you a Janelle Monáe fan?”
“Huh?”
I point to the logo on his chest.
“Oh. Um. Actually, this isn’t my shirt.”
“Why are you wearing someone else’s shirt?”
He scratches the back of his neck... “I don’t want to tell you.”
I cock my head. “I think you know you have to now.”
His ears turn bright pink. He looks at the ceiling and smiles like he’s bracing for something. “I knocked over a glass of pop at dinner.”
My jaw shifts, barely containing my smile. “I’m sorry, aren’t basketball players supposed to be good with their hands?”
His blush migrates down his neck. “Anyway, my cousin loaned me this shirt.” He nods over my shoulder, to the far end of the table. Where Webster is standing. Because of course he is.
My thumb indents the side of my red plastic cup. “Webster Casey is your cousin?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell you to do all this?”
“Do what?”
My eyes narrow, and I wait for Holland to crack. But he looks completely puzzled. My paranoia is getting the best of me. “Never mind. So...you’re a Casey, then?”
He grins wide enough to hollow out dimples in his cheeks again. “Technically I’m a Sawyer? Suddenly that feels like an important distinction.”
“I see.”
His lips press together, and his eyes narrow in an amused way. “Are you at all interested in sharing your last name?”
I take another drink before answering. “Cash.”
“As in...I’m supposed to pay you for it?”
“No, as in Johnny Cash? That’s my last name.”
“Aubrey Cash. Nice. Any chance I’ll get a middle name, too?”
“No.”
“You’re right, we should save some of the good stuff for next time.” A few people try to get around us, and he gestures for me to follow him to a less crowded spot. We end up leaning against the wall by the bar. “So, Aubrey TBD Cash, it’s getting close to midnight. I think we should play a game.”
“If it involves drinking whenever someone says ‘ball drop,’ I’m not playing.”
“I was thinking more like coming up with resolutions for each other? I’ll go first. As an example, you could resolve to attend more school functions. Like basketball games. Especially when Grove Hill is playing West Rochester.”
“Under consideration.” I press the rim of my cup against my mouth, then straighten. “Okay. Your first resolution is to actually listen to Janelle Monáe.”
He laughs. “That’s fair. And if you like them, I’m sure they’re awesome.”
We go back and forth like this for a while—Holland daring me to live dangerously and order the meat loaf next time I’m at a diner we discover we both like, while I strongly encourage him to consider the rice pudding for dessert.
Then the energy in the room changes, everyone gathering closer to the TV. The clock at the bar reads 11:59. It’s Holland’s turn.
He stares down at his cup, which has been empty for a while. He’s stalling. “You could always resolve to kiss someone at midnight,” he says, and his eyes lift back up to meet mine.
A shyness has taken over his features, and he can barely hold my gaze. My heart rate kicks up. I swallow and glance around the room. “That guy over there is in my English class...”
“Sorry, that resolution was sort of vague. I actually had someone in mind already? Tall guy. Winning smile.”
“Spills a lot?”
“That’s the one.”
The countdown starts. Suddenly my head fills with all the other resolutions I’ve made lately. To get straight As. To get into college, then vet school. Find a new place to call home so I won’t have to come back to my parents’ house unless I actually want to. All the work I’ve already put toward making a change.
I didn’t see Holland coming tonight. And I don’t know if he fits into anything I have planned. But if nothing else, I’m grateful to him for reminding me it’s okay to be spontaneous every now and then. And in this moment, I want him to kiss me.
My voice comes out small. “Okay.”
The shouts and all the music around us dim to white noise. My pulse is in my ears as Holland steps closer, slides one hand onto the curve of my waist. I’m looking at our feet, because I can’t remember the last time I stood this close to a guy. And then my gaze slides up to his chest, his throat. I meet his eye briefly before turning my attention to his mouth. Holland smiles.
“Happy New Year, Aubrey.”
His hand lifts to gently cup my jaw. My fingers find his shirt, tighten around the fabric, and I lift onto my toes as his lips meet mine.
Turns out Reese was right. Midnight kisses can be sort of great.
Suddenly this whole night feels fated, and already I’m thinking about seeing Holland again, getting worked up over this...spark between us, something that isn’t even real yet.
A pinprick of hope, a tiny thrill of excitement over a make-believe future—it’s enough to ruin everything.
We pull apart, and Holland smiles at me. I don’t smile back. Instead I say it was nice to meet him. I say, Have a happy new year. And then I walk away.