After being forced to meet the tenth total and complete asshole your parents had wrangled out of the sea of partygoers, you weren't even sure what kind of violence to threaten. No, no, you would be a pacifist today. Meaning you'd already hatched an escape plan.

The moment your mom turns to greet another couple, some aging, well dressed WASPs that had owned the vacation home next to yours, you haul ass (calmly and carefully walk) to the backyard, seeking shelter in the one place you've always been able to.

It's a bit tighter now, fitting your knees through the opening between the wooden slats and the metal rungs of the ladder, but soon enough you were in, taking stock of your treehouse. There was no way you could stand up straight, you hadn't been able to since you were 16, but it didn't matter. As long as you could sit in relative silence and lean your head back, which is exactly what you did.

A few minutes later you heard clanging- the sound of dress shoes on the rungs. Shit, you didn't think anyone saw you, and how were you going to talk your way out of this, and a thousand other thoughts stormed through your head until you saw a familiar mop of dark curls, your treehouse roommate since kindergarten.

Leaning your head back again in relief, you couldn't help but smile at the smirk Patrick was already wearing. "No interest in being shown off at the marriage market this year? You're gonna be an old maid pretty soon."

You huff a laugh, watching as he leans against the opposite wall, his feet stretching out to where your hips were, and lights a cigarette. "Who would've known, 'neighborhood potluck' is code for black tie and husband hunting in my parents' book."

Now it was his turn to laugh, coughing out a little smoke as he holds out the cigarette in offering. "You're just lucky your parents aren't trying to set you up with a girl. The moms really are vicious this summer. I'll be lucky if I don't have a Mrs. Zweig by September."