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The party is loud, a haze of laughter, music, and slurred words swirling around the room. Robby stands near the edge of the chaos, his back against the wall, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. A red Solo cup dangles loosely in someone else’s hand as they stumble past him, spilling beer onto the sticky floor.
“Keene! You want one?” someone calls, lifting a bottle in his direction.
He shakes his head, forcing a tight smile. “I’m good.”
They shrug, disappearing into the crowd, and Robby exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
It’s not the first time someone’s offered, and it won’t be the last. He knows the script by heart now:
Just one drink won’t kill you.
Loosen up, man.
What’s the big deal?
But they don’t understand. They can’t.
He sees his father in every shot glass, every half-empty beer bottle. Johnny Lawrence, stumbling into their apartment, reeking of cheap whiskey and regret. The slurred apologies, the promises that meant nothing. The nights Robby stayed awake, listening to the muffled sound of his mom and dad fighting, the crash of a bottle breaking against the wall.
No. Drinking isn’t for him.
“Not your scene, huh?”
The voice pulls him from his thoughts. He turns to see Tory, leaning against the wall beside him. She’s holding a cup, but it’s filled with soda, the condensation dripping down the sides.
He shrugs. “Not really.”
She raises an eyebrow, studying him. “Let me guess. You don't need to drink to pretend to be cool?" she says, referring to the conversation they had some days before, expecting him to laugh at that.
Robby shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Not that. I just… don’t.”
Tory tilts her head, waiting for more, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“You don’t drink,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to piece it together. “Ever?”
“Ever,” he confirms.
She sips her soda, her gaze lingering on him. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for a straight-edge type.”
“It’s not about being straight-edge,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. He looks down at his hands, the way his fingers curl into fists when he thinks too hard about the past. “It’s about not turning into someone I swore I’d never be.”
Tory doesn’t ask who. She doesn’t need to.
Instead, she leans against the wall a little closer, her shoulder brushing his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s cool. Not a lot of people can say no to this stuff.”
Robby glances at her, surprised. “Thanks.”
She shrugs. “Don’t mention it. Besides, someone’s gotta stay sober enough to drag the rest of us out of trouble.”
He laughs softly, the tension in his chest easing just a little.
They stand there for a while, watching the party unfold around them. The noise, the laughter, the clink of glasses, it all feels so far away.
Robby doesn’t drink. He never has, and he never will.
Because he’s seen what’s in the glass: not just the liquid, but the anger, the pain, the emptiness. He’s seen what it can take from you, and he’s not about to let it take anything from him.
And as he stands there beside Tory, the chaos of the party fading into the background, he knows he doesn’t need it.
Not now. Not ever.