Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(77)

Miles rises, makes a show of stretching. “Oh man. I’ve got serious candy mouth. I’m gonna get a seltzer. You want anything?”

Chloe holds his gaze for a moment, then says, “Sure. Seltzer would be good. Thanks.”

“’K. Don’t eat any razor blades while I’m gone,” he says. “Quality control!”

She stares out at the fog and the strange creatures inhabiting it.



* * *



Miles threads his way through the revelers. It’s late. The party has gotten looser. In one corner, a girl dressed as some form of Kardashian is crying about a breakup to her friends, who, from their expressions and phone scrolling, suggest that this is not the first time this has happened. A stoner dude dressed as Brad Pitt in Fight Club is holding court around the coffee table and passing a bong. The air is thick with smoke. Miles is pretty sure he could get a contact high if he stays longer than ten seconds.

“I’m just saying that it’s hard for guys like us now,” Fight Club Dude says. “Like, I’ve got a four point oh, but all the scholarships are for, like, bisexual giraffes of color with Tourette’s, you know?” He leans his head back against the sofa as Miles passes behind it. “You feel me, right, bro?” He offers his fist for a dap, which Miles ignores.

“Actually, I am a bisexual giraffe with a full ride to Harvard, so sucks to be you.”

“All right! Good one,” Fight Club Dude laughs. “Like the sad clown costume, man.”

“Welcome to Douchetown,” Miles mumbles, and heads into the kitchen.

He rummages in a cooler till he finds two LaCroix cans at the ice-water bottom. When he turns around, Daria is sitting on the granite countertop drinking from a red Solo cup. She offers it to him. “Want some?”

“They literally made that punch in a trash can. I’m gonna pass.”

“You’re funny,” she giggles. Her Catwoman outfit has been unzipped to showcase her cleavage, which Miles is doing his best to pretend not to notice.

“You’re Chloe’s friend, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yeah. She’s told me about you.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you’re a really good guy. That you got her through a rough time when she had to go on meds for depression.”

“Girls really do talk about everything in the bathroom,” Miles says. He’s a little jealous that Chloe shared something so personal with Daria, who doesn’t seem like a super-close friend. And he wants to know if Chloe said anything more about him.

Daria bites her lip, then says, “She said you’re really sweet.”

“Thanks.”

“You remind me of that guy from that show.”

“Could you be more specific?”

She sips her punch. “I don’t know his name. It’s a cop show? With, like, ghosts? It’s set in Hawaii.”

Miles knows the show. The actor is also half-Filipino and light-skinned, like Miles. “Cool. I guess? I mean, unless he’s seventy-five and has wooden teeth.”

“Oh my god!” Daria laughs and slaps his arm playfully. “It’s a compliment! He’s, like, really hot.”

Miles pops the top on his seltzer and leaves the other can on the counter. In the other room, someone DJs from Billie Eilish to Lizzo. The crowd erupts in cheers. People push furniture out of the way to make a dance floor.

“Oh my godddd! This is my song!” Daria pulls Miles by the hand toward the dance floor.

“Ah, nah. I’m good,” Miles says. His body feels like an awkward house whose rooms he hasn’t fully moved into yet, the dancing room being near the top.

Daria doesn’t let go. “Sorry, but you have to dance to Lizzo. It’s a rule!”

She presses the Solo cup to his lips. Miles drinks the rest in three gulps. It’s high proof and burns on the way down. Someone hands Miles more punch, which he drinks. Daria puts her arms around his neck and presses up against him while she dances and Miles prays his body doesn’t react. To be safe, he steps back a bit and places his hands at her hips. They sway like this while around them, everyone does their best hair-toss-check-my-nails and sings along loudly. Before long, even Miles is singing. He feels loose and wanted by the hottest girl in the room. The music shifts to Megan Thee Stallion. The living room dance floor is packed and sweaty, despite the late October cold. Miles and Daria dance to this song and the next and then they are making out, lips and bodies mashed together. Miles is oblivious to the others cheering them on and to the shift when Chloe comes in, wondering what has happened to Miles that he’s been gone so long. He looks up just in time to see her expression—the cold-water shock of discovery followed by the hurt before it quickly slipstreams into a face-saving coolness. She grabs somebody’s unopened seltzer and heads out the front door.

“Are you two…?” Daria asks.

“No,” Miles answers. It is both the truth and a lie in one.

It’s a week before he and Chloe talk. They meet in Prospect Park, where the trees are giving their last hurrah in golds and reds. They sit on their favorite hill overlooking the meadow where parents chase after wobbly toddlers and dogs trot in between strollers and picnickers.

“I guess I shouldn’t have had the punch,” Miles says by way of shitty apology.