Page 130 of Even Beneath the Stars

She is up in the sitting room by the boys' rooms. "I thought we were through with this nonsense," Rita says, her mouth pinched with disapproval as she gathers her things.

"You and me both." I sink into the couch. At least Finn's fast asleep—I checked on him the moment I got up here. If Xavier had Finn up and hanging around at this party, I swear I would've drowned him in his own stupid swamp water. I still might.

"Thanks for staying late, Rita." I sigh.

"That boy…" She shakes her head, shouldering her enormous purse. "Sometimes I think he's come around, and then…" She waves her hand at the throbbing bass filtering up through the floor.

After she leaves, I clip the monitor to my jeans and head back down the hall. The hurt sits heavy in my chest.

I don't get it.

It's like Xave's deliberately pulling away, piece by piece. Like he's consciously reverting to his old detached, party-boy ways. And if he was totally overwhelmed or stressed about all the changes, I'd get it. But for the most part, he's been happy lately—at least when it comes to the band. His whole face lights up when he talks about their recording sessions in New York. The tracks they laid down are incredible. Raw and honest andreal. I got chills listening to them.

The first two days after he got back, Xave walked around with this perma-grin plastered on his face. Like he couldn't quite believe it was all happening. And now Salt Vein's less than two months away from playing on the main stage at their first festival outside Boston. After that, they'll be opening for one of the biggest bands in the country all summer long.

Their album is set to drop in the fall, right before their own headlining tour kicks off.

Everything's falling into place for Xavier. For all of them. The music, the touring, the future spreading out bright and endless before them.

So why is he acting this way?

It's obviouslyme.

I exhale a long, shaky breath.

The bass drops, making the floor shake beneath my feet. Somewhere in this chaos, Xavier's playing fortune teller in a fake swamp. Meanwhile, I'm standing here trying to figure out when exactly things started turning to swamp water.

I head back downstairs, push past the growing crowd, dodging a guy with a handle of vodka and three girls taking selfies on the stairs. The bass vibrates through my ribcage as I follow the sounds of laughter and cheering to a rounded dimly lit alcove under the ornate curved marble and gold staircase at the other end of the West Wing.

I stop at the edge of some sort of half-assed Everglades re-creation, taking in the ridiculous scene. Stretched across the huge expanse of marble flooring across the entire entrance to the alcove, is Xavier and Beck's makeshift "swamp".They've unscrewed the legs from a small backyard trampoline, flipped it over so the frame acts as a border, and used the taut black surface as the "swamp" basin. The murky liquid inside looks like a science experiment gone wrong—a soup of everything they could raid from the kitchen and… everywhere else. Through the dim lighting, I spot chunks of cake, a slice of pizza, and Lucky Charms marshmallows. Someone's Nike. Solo cups and crushed beer cans and islands of soggy oats and random socks. Also, floating lily pads cut from foam pool noodles, and fairy lights wrapped around potted plants they've dragged in from somewhere, casting eerie shadows across the alcove ceiling.

"For the love of…" I mutter, wrinkling my nose at the brown sludge. The whole thing reeks of stale beer and something vaguely sweet and rotting. A few Brussels sprouts bob past like tiny green buoys in this sea of terrible decisions. This thing has Beck Travers written all over it.

Sure enough, he sits cross-legged on a giant inflatable frog on the other side of the “swamp”, wearing a flowing purple robe covered in gold stars that has to be from Finn's dress-up bin, and waving his hands over a crystal ball that's definitely an antique globe.

Beside him is my lying boyfriend, looking far less invested than his buddy—no costume or crystal ball—but his willing sidekick, nevertheless. Because that's the thing about Xave; he doesn't go seeking chaos and mischief the way guys like Seb Murdoch and Beckham Travers do. It's not what drives him or fills him up. People assume because he's the perpetual party host—renowned even, for his wild, unhinged ragers—that he enjoys the chaos and socializing and revelry. But he's actually a really chill guy. Possibly even an introvert. The parties and chaos, I suspect, have never been about having fun—they're about filling a void. Filling his house with people instead of loneliness.

Right now, he's lounging languidly across a sideways giant inflatable pool chaise, looking every bit the future Rock God in worn black jeans and black T-shirt, his hair all tousled waves and preppy-meets-grunge. A half-empty Solo cup dangles precariously from his right hand, and his flushed cheeks tell me he's downed more than just the one.

A line of giggling girls and a few guys wait their turn as Beck calls out, "Step right up folks! Fortune telling's free but donations to the swamp fund are always welcome!" He motions to the gloop soup. "Only those brave enough to traverse the swamp barefoot may speak with the Swamp Oracles."

The next girl in line, who has already removed her shoes and socks, wades across the murky depths to the cheers of everyone else in line.

Once she has reached the other side, Beck waves his hands again over his crystal ball. "The spirits are strong tonight," he announces in an awful mystical voice, complete with terrible accent. "They tell me you will meet a tall dark stranger…"

The girl getting her fortune told squeals with delight while her friends film the whole thing on their phones.

Beck glances over at his lethargic sidekick and calls out, "Bro! Hey, Swamp Oracle!" Then he adds, "We've got a lineup here, man. These fortunes aren't just gonna tell themselves."

My stomach twists as Xavier tosses back whatever's in his red cup before beckoning the next girl forward. His eyes are glazed, movements loose and exaggerated. I hate seeing him like this… the hollow version of Xavier Rockwell, going through the motions, playing his part—when he doesn't need to anymore. He's found his part; his passion for music. People who fill him up better than any of this bullshit does.

I know the real Xavier.

And I know that the wild grin he wears when he's just come back from band rehearsal, or playing Hungry Hippos with Finn, laughing until our bellies ache on one of our goofy adventures, or explaining how 'Betelgeuse will explode someday, but probably not tonight'—the smile that means he isgenuinelyhappy—isn’t the same as this one. That's the smile he wears in a world where he feels seen.

This—the neon-soaked, booze-drenched chaos—is something else entirely.

I duck and wrench off my boots. When I straighten, my breath catches in my throat… Then I swallow asilent cry.

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