Chapter 3: Party Games and Second Chances

"Rach, what do you mean it’s too late?"

"You haven’t even had much to drink. Come on, have another glass."

I was jolted from my memories by someone calling my name. The sound of laughter and music crashed over me, dragging me back to the party, to the here and now.

It hit me then—the music, the party, the same old house. I was back, right where everything started. The air was thick with anticipation and the cheap citrus tang of boxed wine. The house was alive with voices, red Solo cups, half-eaten pizza, and the distant thump of a playlist someone made for the occasion. Red Solo cups littered the kitchen island. Someone had started a beer pong tournament in the living room, and the air smelled like pizza and cheap perfume.

The quarterback was the host, inviting all our classmates to his family’s empty suburban house to celebrate graduation. I remembered the way the porch light glowed against the dark sky, and the way everyone kept glancing at the swimming pool out back as if the night might end with someone thrown in.

For others, graduation night might be the start of a new life. For some, the last taste of freedom before real jobs and real problems.

But for me, in my last life, it was the gateway to hell. The memory felt like a bruise, always just beneath the surface.

The one who just spoke was the prom queen, Emily. She floated through the party in her shimmery gold dress, the sort of girl who could get away with anything and make it look like an accident.

Her voice was sweet and coy. There was always a lilt to her words, like she was sharing a private joke.

Jason always wanted me to learn from her, even telling me to act cute when I was angry—hardly anyone could resist her. He’d once said, “You should smile more, Rach. Try being a little fun.”

I never could handle alcohol, but since the prom queen toasted me, if I didn’t drink, people would say I was ungrateful. There’s always that pressure at parties—don’t be a buzzkill, don’t make a scene.

Unfortunately, I was reborn at the wrong time. I’d already had a glass and was starting to feel dizzy. The room felt like it was spinning, just a little, the music vibrating in my chest.

So no matter how much Emily coaxed me, I didn’t take another sip. I just held my glass and pretended to be tipsy. Sometimes the best way to survive a party is to play along.

After all, I still had things to do later—I couldn’t really get drunk. I glanced around, looking for Jason, looking for exits, always one step ahead now.

Seeing this, Emily’s eyes flashed with calculation. She leaned in a little closer, her lashes fluttering, her lips curling into that perfect prom queen smile.

Holding her wine glass, she announced to the table:

"Come on, Rach, you’re not even buzzed! Just one more—don’t wimp out now."

I lowered my head, the corners of my lips curling into a cold smile. It was such a classic Emily move—make herself look selfless, and me look like the party pooper.

She was clearly drinking her own glass, yet claimed she was drinking for me. The crowd ate it up, laughing and cheering, not noticing the way she watched me from the corner of her eye.

In my previous life, how could I have matched her scheming? I was book smart, but she was street smart—always two steps ahead in the game of high school politics.

She was a better talker than a car salesman. She could talk her way into (or out of) anything, and everyone loved her for it.

I poured myself a glass of plain water, sipped it, and quietly watched Emily’s performance. The ice clinked against the glass, cool against my palm.

At this point, Jason had already helped Emily get Tyler drunk and sent him upstairs. And Jason himself was also drunk, resting in the room next to Tyler’s. I kept track of everyone’s movements the way you’d keep track of chess pieces in a match you refused to lose.

Emily was putting on such a show—she must have another plan. Her cheeks were flushed, her laugh just a little too loud, but her eyes were clear and focused.

Soon, Emily drank until her cheeks were red, her eyes hazy as she leaned on me. The room was starting to feel stuffy, the air thick with perfume and sweat.

She spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear:

"Rach, I’ve drunk so much for you. You have to send me upstairs to rest."

"My life is in your hands."

"Rach, you have to keep me safe."

In my previous life, I was already drunk by the time Emily said this. I probably thought she was just being dramatic, as usual.

Of all she said, I only heard the part about going upstairs to rest. So I went, just trying to help, never realizing how it would look to everyone else.

Then, in a daze, I let her take me upstairs. The stairs creaked beneath us, the music and laughter fading behind.

But after being reborn, I realized Emily’s words and actions were especially cunning. She was playing to the crowd, planting seeds in their minds.

She said everything out loud. There would be witnesses. She was building her alibi before anything even happened.

It was my fault she drank too much. I had the responsibility to send her upstairs safely. She’d made it sound like I was the only one she could trust.

And with those words, she planted a seed in everyone’s mind—

No matter what happened to Emily that night, it would all be my fault. The blame would follow me, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

Plus, her drunken, leaning-on-me posture painted her as completely harmless. Just two girls, friends since freshman year, nothing to see here.

But no one knew—

From an angle no one else could see, Emily, who was taller than me,

Her hands, which seemed to be draped limply over my shoulders, were actually gripping them tightly, dragging me along. Her nails dug into my skin, just enough to hurt but not enough to leave marks.

The pain in my shoulders made me frown, so I pretended to be drunk too. I slumped against her, letting my legs go a little limp.

I took off my glasses, using the motion to shake off her grip. The world blurred a little, but I felt lighter.

Then I slumped into Emily’s arms. Half a head shorter than her, with a flushed baby face, I used a soft, spoiled tone and hugged her.

"Emmy, I’m so dizzy. I can’t walk anymore."

No one expected me to react this way. The crowd quieted, a few people glancing up from their phones.

After all, in their eyes, Emily and I were love rivals. The tension was as thick as the scent of spilled beer on the carpet.

Because Jason liked her. Everyone knew it—even if they pretended not to.

And just now during truth or dare, when asked who I liked, I’d said Jason. It was the sort of confession that would echo for the rest of the night.

Very soon, someone exclaimed:

"Oh no! The quarterback is really drunk."

Hiding in Emily’s arms, I said nothing, just kept pretending to be drunk. I let my head loll against her shoulder, my eyes half-lidded.

From an angle others couldn’t see, I curled my lips in a faint smile. Sometimes playing the fool is the best defense.

Emily was startled by my move, her eyes instantly clear. But she still needed me to take the blame for her tonight, so she could only grit her teeth and endure, not daring to push me away.

And to make the act convincing, she really had drunk a lot—she was at least eighty percent drunk now. Her breath smelled like sweet wine, her steps just a little unsteady.

With her hair a mess, I blinked up at her.

"Emmy, let’s sleep together tonight."