*Lily*

The aftereffects of last night's party clung to me more stubbornly than the smell of spilled beer on my jacket. Rachel was seated across from me, her eyes alight with the kind of fervor that came only when she sensed a good story brewing.

"Spill," she ordered while leaning across the table, her salad untouched and her gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made evasion seem impossible.

I poked at the limp lettuce on my plate, the plastic fork ...