The Mitchells' backyard was packed, full of recent and not-so-recent grads in various stages of party decay. The girls leaned against one another, wilted flowers that looked on while the guys got louder, sweatier.

I craned my neck and scanned the crowd for Chris, but my wingman had disappeared.

"Shit," I muttered.

Like I needed any more confirmation of my loner status. I moved purposefully through the crowd, on a mission. The last thing I wanted was to have some drunk dude notice I was alone and try to hit on me.

A girl to my right stumbled, spilling her beer on my All Stars. I had to reach out an arm to steady her before she stabbed me in the toe with her stilettos. I sighed and shook my foot.

"Thanks!" she said, more to the air than me, as she turned back to the knot of girls beside her.

"Skylar!"

I turned around—Chris was over by the keg. When I raised my arms like, WTF, he turned over his empty cup, then made a sad face and pointed to the line of red-faced guys in front of him. Obviously he hadn't taken me very seriously when I'd said, Let's get out of here as quickly as possible.

I pulled out my phone and started texting Dylan while I made my way to Chris. Knowing her, she was probably in the back seat of her boyfriend's beat- up Chevy Malibu, but I wanted Brownie points for coming out at all. Really, I was only here to see Josh Mitchell, this Marine I used to work with who had just come home from Afghanistan. I could have waited to see him some other time, but it seemed like a dick move; someone comes back from fighting a war, you go to their homecoming party.

U still here? Looking for Josh.

No answer.

People stumbled through the Mitchells' back door, probably looking for the bathroom or somewhere to hook up. Every now and then, someone would wander out grinning stupidly from Reggie Vasquez's hastily rolled joints. Linkin Park blared inside the house, and I wondered what the night would feel like if someone switched the soundtrack from angry kick-the-shit-out-of-stuff to Ben Harper or the Chili Peppers.

I stopped by the doorway when I saw a flash of long blond hair, but it wasn't Dylan so I backed away, ignoring the what's she doing here looks people were shooting at me. They weren't mean-girl looks—I just didn't belong. Didn't want to.

Drunken laughter erupted from groups of partiers at regular intervals, but not because anything was funny. It was like laughter was just something you were supposed to do. I scanned the faces around me: the usual crew of locals from my high school. There were also a lot of slightly older faces—Josh Mitchell's friends, partying with the teenagers, doing the same thing they had done every Saturday night since they were in junior high: Drink. Smoke. Screw. Repeat.

Chris walked toward me, sipping on his frothy beer as he picked his way across the lawn. He was wearing the shirt I'd given him for graduation, the words mathematician and ninja under the heading CAREER GOALS. He held out a can of Coke like a peace offering.

"Dude, you never, never leave your wingman," I said. "Didn't you learn anything from Top Gun?"

I had this thing about Top Gun—it was my dad's favorite movie, and I'd been obsessed with it since I was six.

"I told you I was getting a beer! I thought you were behind me when I made the turnoff at the kitchen." He gave me the puppy-dog eyes that always got me laughing, and I grabbed the Coke, trying to keep my lips from turning up.

"Well, thanks for this." I hit the can against his plastic cup. "To graduating," I said.

"Hell, yeah, to graduating!"

It had only been three hours since the ceremony ended, but it looked like any normal Creek View night. I shouldn't have expected it to feel different. I knocked the Coke back like it was eighty proof, keeping my eyes peeled for Josh Mitchell.

It'd been no surprise when Josh joined the Marines two years ago. Like most of the guys in Creek View, his choices had been limited: the military, truck driving, or crappy part-time jobs along the highway. We lived in a blink town—blink and you'll miss it—off California's Highway 99. It was just a trailer park, a few run-down houses, a couple of businesses that barely made enough to keep their doors open, and the Paradise Motel (aka my part-time job).

Though we'd worked together at the Paradise and I'd grown up around him, I'd been weirdly shy when Josh came up to me in his uniform, his head all shaved, calling me ma'am. I'd asked if he was scared, and he said no, that this was as good as it would get for him. He couldn't wait. For a minute we'd just looked at each other and then I kissed his cheek—which surprised both of us—and told him good luck. Then he was gone.

"Have you seen Josh yet?" I asked.

Chris shook his head. "No, but I wasn't going out of my way to hang out with a jarhead the night of my graduation."

"Insensitive much?"

Chris snorted. "Josh Mitchell is a dick. I'm only here for the free booze."

"That's pretty much why everyone's here," I said.

"True that. Listen, since we're stuck in this backyard until the American hero graces us with his presence," Chris said, "I vote we get shit-faced and freak out the squares. We can tell our grandkids how we got all crazy when we were youngsters."

This was our little joke, calling the Creek View kids squares when I'd never had a sip of alcohol in my life and we were probably the only virgins over the age of sixteen in our zip code.

"I bet you'll look good with bifocals and a walker," I said. "Grandpa Chris." A smile sneaked onto my face.

"You having a moment?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm having a moment."

"Nice."

I'd been like this all night; we'd be doing whatever and then I'd remember we were finally getting out of Creek View. Hopefully for good. And I'd get these mini joygasms, like, yes. Even the girl throwing up into an overflowing trash can a few feet away couldn't really kill the buzz of satisfaction that had been humming inside me all day.

I took another sip of my Coke, then set it on a broken lawn chair. "But me getting sentimental doesn't mean I want to waste any more of my life at this party. Josh has gotta be here somewhere."

"Mitchell!" a voice yelled over the crowd. "Hook me up!"

Wrong Mitchell.

Blake, Josh's brother and my sort-of ex, was walking through the back gate, a twelve-pack of Bud on his shoulder and another one dangling from his hand.

Why, why, why had it seemed like such a good idea to hook up with Blake after an entire adolescence of pretty much zero boy action? And Blake, of all freakin' people!

As if reading my thoughts, Chris patted me on the back. "Hey, you could have done worse. Imagine if you'd spent spring break making out with Josh instead of Blake? You chose the better brother by far."

I glared at him. "Not comforting."

It was still hot, but a cool breeze swept through the party, and I rubbed my arms to erase the goose bumps that scattered across...