Granted, mine wasn’t the murderous sort, and watching that movie gave me hardcore, unachievable body goals, but all that’s beside the point. I understood the power of obsession and mine started the minute I laid eyes on him.

Sure, I was only in junior high, but I’d seen The Boy Next Door. It was as if an invisible stamp came down and pressed across his forehead, a big fat red label that screamed mine. See, the day Chase and his family moved in across the street, I saw him first. Probably because I’ve had the better part of six years to perfect it. ‘Play but don’t push’ is the game I’m forced to settle for and I’m good at it. Group car rides are pretty much the only time I get to feign innocence when I lean a little further into the star player of my fantasies, more commonly known as my brother’s best friend. At least they seem to have sobered up in the last fifteen minutes, finally allowing us to turn the music up loud enough to where we can actually hear it.

We stopped seven times already thanks to Brady’s baby bladder. We learned years ago that long drives with pouty, hungover man-boys are not fun, but here we are again, willing yet slightly annoyed participants in the ‘how many times does one man have to stop to piss’ experiment. A trip that should have taken no more than three and a half hours, yet we’ve already been in this damn SUV for five. My girl Cameron and I knew better than to party hard the night before a drive, so we headed home early to finish packing for our final trip to the beach before college life begins. So out they stayed, saying drunken goodbyes to our classmates at the very last summer party to be had in our hometown. THE DRİVE to Oceanside is usually a peaceful one, but my brother, Mason, and his two best friends, Chase and Brady, came to an unspoken agreement last night that “one more,” meant one more twelve-pack.

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