The house is packed. Sticky with heat and the smell of cheap beer and someone's vanilla perfume. Bodies press together in the living room, a mass of moving shadows under the strobe of multi-colored party lights.

You spot Allie immediately. She's on the makeshift dance floor between the coffee table and the couch, a red Solo cup in one hand, her other arm thrown around a girl you don't recognize. She spots you and waves so hard she nearly spills her drink.

And then you see Dean.

He's across the room, leaning against the frame of the doorway that leads to the kitchen. A girl is talking to him—dark hair, tight dress, leaning in close so he can hear her over the music. He laughs at something she says, head tilting back, that easy, practiced grin spreading across his face.

His hand rests casually on her waist.