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Me: Get your head in the game, Captain.

Dots appear then disappear—another message.

Ken: You dressing up?

I glance at myself.

Me: Nope.

Avery gasps from behind me as she reads over my shoulder. “Liar.”

“Shut up.”

Ken: Good.

My fingers pause.

Me: Good?

Ken: You’d probably go as a book.

I snort.

Me: Better than going as a hockey player.

“He’s flirting with you.”

“He’s insulting me.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I type back.

Me: Hope you lose tonight.

Ken: That’s not very supportive, Baby Becks.

Me: Sorrows, sorrows, prayers.

I’m still smiling when Avery catches my arm.

“Come on, Lizzy. Let’s go find your Mr. Darcy.”

The club is already packed when we arrive, with a line around the block, but thankfully, Avery knows a guy.

Music pulses through the floor, and colored lights strobe through the dark as bodies crowd the door. Someone dressed as a vampire nearly takes me out with a plastic cape before we even reach the bar. Purple lights sweep over fake cobwebs. The air smells like perfume, spilled alcohol, and too many bodies packed together.

Two hours later, I’m beginning to suspect Avery was right about needing fun. And I’m significantly less concerned about Elizabeth Bennet’s historical accuracy. By eleven, I’m warm, sweaty, and pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

Avery pushes a bottle of water toward me.

“I already have a drink.”

“Precisely why you need this one.”

I narrow my eyes.

She taps the water. “Drink up.”