Walking Disaster

but her eyes softened.
    “You don’t really hate me . . . do you?” I asked.
    Abby turned away, putting more distance between us. “Sometimes I wish that I did. It would make everything a whole hell of a lot easier.”
    A cautious, small smile spread across my lips. “So what pisses you off more? What I did to make you wanna hate me? Or knowing that you can’t?”
    In a flash, Abby’s anger returned. She shoved past me, running up the stairs to the kitchen. I stood alone in the middle of the floor, both dumbfounded and disgusted that I’d somehow
managed to reignite her hatred for me all over again. Trying to speak to her at all seemed futile, now. Every interaction just added to the growing snowball of clusterfucks that was our
relationship.
    I walked up the stairs and made a beeline for the keg, cursing my greediness and the empty bottle of whiskey lying somewhere in Sig Tau’s front lawn.
    After an hour of beer and monotonous, drunken conversation with frat brothers and their dates, I glanced over at Abby, hoping to catch her eye. She was already looking at me, but looked away.
America seemed to be in the middle of an attempt to cheer her up, and then Finch touched her arm. He was obviously ready to leave.
    She drank the remainder of her beer in a quick swig, and then took Finch’s hand. She walked two steps, and then froze when the same song that we had danced to at her birthday party floated
up the stairs. She reached out and grabbed Finch’s bottle, taking another swig.
    I wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey talking, but something about the look in her eyes told me the memories the song triggered were just as painful for her as they were for me.
    She still cared about me. She had to.
    One of my frat brothers leaned against the counter beside Abby and smiled. “Wanna dance?”
    It was Brad, and although I knew he had probably just noticed the forlorn look on her face and was trying to cheer her up, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Just as she shook her
head to say no, I was next to her, and my stupid fucking mouth was moving before my brain could tell it to stop.
    “Dance with me.”
    America, Shepley, and Finch were all staring at Abby, waiting for her answer as anxiously as I was.
    “Leave me alone, Travis,” she said, crossing her arms.
    “This is our song, Pidge.”
    “We don’t have a song.”
    “Pigeon . . .”
    “No.”
    She looked to Brad and forced a smile. “I would love to dance, Brad.”
    Brad’s freckles stretched across his cheeks as he smiled, gesturing with his hand for Abby to lead the way to the stairs.
    I staggered backward, feeling like I’d just been punched in the gut. A combination of anger, jealousy, and sadness boiled in my blood.
    “A toast!” I yelled, climbing onto a chair. On my way to the top, I stole someone’s beer and held it out in front of me. “To douche bags!” I said, gesturing to
Brad. “And to girls that break your heart.” I bowed to Abby. My throat tightened. “And to the absolute fucking horror of losing your best friend because you were stupid enough to
fall in love with her.”
    I tilted back the beer, finishing what was left, and then tossed it to the floor. The room was silent except for the music playing in the basement, and everyone stared at me in mass
confusion.
    Abby’s quick movement drew my attention when she grabbed Brad’s hand, leading him downstairs to the dance floor.
    I jumped off the chair and started for the basement, but Shepley put the side of his fist against my chest, leaning into me. “You need to stop,” he said in a hushed voice.
“This is only going to end badly.”
    “If it ends, what does it matter?” I shoved past Shepley and down the stairs to where Abby was dancing with Brad. The snowball was too big to stop, so I decided just to roll with it.
There was no shame in going balls out. We couldn’t go back to being friends, so making one of us hate the other seemed like a good idea.
    I pushed my way through the couples on the dance floor, stopping beside Abby and Brad. “I’m cutting in.”
    “No, you’re not. Jesus!” Abby said, ducking her head with embarrassment.
    My eyes bore into Brad’s. “If you don’t back away from my girl, I’ll rip out your fucking throat. Right here on the dance floor.”
    Brad seemed conflicted, his eyes nervously darting from me to his dance partner. “Sorry, Abby,” he said, slowly pulling his arms away. He retreated to the