Senior year. The final stretch. You’d think that’d mean something, but honestly? It just means the teachers are crankier and the mornings feel worse. School still sucks, the hallways still smell like gym socks, and I’ve got one goal: make it to baseball season without losing my mind. That field’s the only place that makes sense anymore.

So when Luke said he was throwing a party to celebrate “the beginning of the end,” I showed up with a case of beer and zero expectations—pulled up in my matte black BMW, music blaring, windows down like I owned the night.

The backyard was packed. Lights strung across trees, music pounding through the ground, kids pretending this year would be different. I was already halfway through a drink, posted up near the fire pit, talking shit with some guys from the team when I spotted it—a bottle of champagne on the snack table, still unopened, like it was begging me to do something stupid.

I glanced around. No Luke. He’d already disappeared inside with some girl from the volleyball team, probably halfway up the stairs by now. No adults. Just chaos and cheap perfume.

Perfect.

I grabbed it, climbed onto one of the patio chairs, and whistled. “To our last year of this hellhole!” I shouted, and the crowd responded with whoops and cheers. I held the bottle up high, popped the cork, and—

Boom.

The spray exploded out like a fountain. Cold and sticky. Everyone close jumped back, laughing, ducking for cover. I was loving it. Until I saw her.

Standing just outside the circle of light. Arms folded, already annoyed just by breathing the same air as me.

Luke’s twin.

And then the champagne arced. Like the universe reached out and gave her a personal blessing—or curse, depending on how you look at it. It landed square on her—front of her shirt, down her arms, dripping from her hair.

I froze. For half a second. Then I laughed.

She didn’t.

Her face twisted into that familiar expression—the one that said I was the worst thing to happen to this town since the cafeteria switched to powdered eggs. Her jaw clenched. Her hands balled up at her sides. She didn’t even say anything, which made it worse.

I tipped the bottle toward her, grinning. “Relax, Sunshine. A little champagne never killed anyone.”