Page 67 of Do You Ship It

Fine. Let him think what he wants. Let him hate me. See if I care.

But I amnotgoing to let him spoil my night any more than Jake and Anissa and evenDaphnealready have. Eventually, they’ll run out of steam and come hang out with us again, and I don’t want to be in a foul mood when they do.

For now, I’m stuck with him. I guess I have no choice but totryand be civil, if I want to salvage this night.

Max, it seems, has the same idea, because although he leans against the counter a safe distance from me, his frown looks more perturbed than annoyed now, and I get the sense he’s trying to think of small talk that’s safer ground.

If that even exists; I don’t think we’ve managed to have anything resembling a normal conversation since we met.

This time, it’s me who breaks the ice.

‘You’re not drinking?’ I ask, nodding at his own glass.

Max shakes his head. ‘I drew the short straw.’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his car keys, gives them a little jangle, then puts them away again. Then he tilts his head in the direction of a few other people clustered in the kitchen. ‘Just wait til later, I’ll suddenly be everybody’s best friend, even if they don’t remember my name and call me “Matt” half the time.’

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

He locks eyes with me, and it’s so piercing that I almost flinch. ‘Should it?’

I think about Anissa, about my conversation with Jake in the Discord channel, about how desperately hardI’vetried to fit in.

It’s definitely a lot easier to chat behind the safety of a screen with the OWAR fandom as a shield, but I swallow, my mouth dry, and dare myself to ask, ‘I get that “finding your people” is important, but … You don’t think it gets lonely, alienating yourself like that? Being …’

Max waits for me to finish that sentence, and I cringe.

Altering course slightly, I say, ‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’

His lips curve into a wry smile. ‘I do okay. Why? Do you get lonely,notalienating yourself all the time?’

Yes. That’s why I can’t afford to lose what I do have.

I take a fortifying sip of cider and fight back a grimace at the sickly-sweet taste. Gross. How does Jake enjoy this stuff? I wish Ginny had made it home for reading week; she would’ve given us some of that cheap rosé I actuallydolike. I don’t much fancy minesweeping any of the open wine bottles scattered around the kitchen.

I tell Max, ‘Sure, when my best friend is replacing me. But I do okay, too.’

Mostly. Sort of.

At least, I thought I did.

Max, as if knowing there’s a lot more I’m not really saying, huffs a small laugh, and clinks his drink to mine. ‘Here’s to doing okay.’

Drinks in hand, we leave the kitchen and go to the living room. I check there’s no sign of Daphne before deciding to stay. There’s a big group involved in a noisy card game at a coffee table, with even more people clustered around to watch. There’s a vile-looking mixture in a pint glass in the middle of the table, and as we find a spot behind a sofa on the edge of the crowd to watch, someone pulls a card that makes everyone howl and jeer, and they slosh some of their own drinks into the pint.

I wrinkle my nose, watching the liquid turn an almost purplish shade of brown. Even justlookingat it threatens to turn my stomach. Surely nobody has to drink it?

I don’t realize I’ve said that last part out loud until Max says, ‘You’ve never played Ring of Fire before?’

‘What?’ Then I blink. ‘Andyouhave?’

‘Like I said – I do okay. This isn’t my first houseparty.’ He lifts his Coke slightly. ‘And I’m not always the one driving.’

‘But …’

Butwhoinvites him anywhere? He said himself, most of these people don’t even get his name right. Who does he have parties with, playing drinking games like this? I have so many questions, but I’m aware how not-civil they all sound, so I keep my mouth shut.

Max must be secretly cooler than I give him credit for.

As we watch and people take turns pulling cards from the pile surrounding the gross pint glass, Max explains the rules to me. He’s stood close – my shoulder grazing his chest, his mouth near enough to my ear that he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard over the shouting and the music. His breath tickles at loose strands of my hair and the edge of my neck, and a shiver threatens to roll down my spine. Someone bumps me and makes me spill some cider over my hand and shoes, and my mind goes completely blank at the sensation of Max putting his arm around me – wrapping it solidly around my lower back, his hand resting on the back of the sofa just by my hip, like a shield between me and stumbling partygoers. The heat of his arm seems to burn right through the thin fabric of my borrowed dress, my attention zeroing in on my shoulder against his solid chest, his breathskating across my skin and justhowclose his face is to mine.

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