The Night That Would Haunt Me Forever: Part 2
The Party
Hi friend! This is part 2 in this mini-series. In Part 1, I shared how my mom unexpectedly volunteered me to host two high school boys for the weekend. I said yes, reluctantly, but had a gut feeling from the start that something was... off.
Friday arrives faster than I expect.
My roommates and I are crammed into our tiny apartment’s laminate-floored kitchen—margarita blender whirring, Katy Perry blasting.
Getting ready has become a ritual—a solid two-and-a-half-hour event filled with outfit changes, makeup swaps, and impromptu dance breaks—part of the sacred pre-party phase that, honestly, is almost as fun as the night itself.
We’re laughing over YouTube videos when the doorbell rings.
My stomach drops.
Great. Fun’s over.
I’m not exactly thrilled to be hosting my mom’s best friend’s son and his buddy—a babysitting gig I did not sign up for. My mom had conveniently “forgotten” to tell me until two days ago.
I plaster on my biggest, warmest smile as I swing open the door.
“Hiiiiiii!” Maggie and I say at the same time as we launch into an awkward hug, our arms somehow ending up around each other’s necks.
“I’m so glad y’all are here!” I lie effortlessly, channeling my best Southern hospitality. “Okay, remind me of your names—I’m so bad at remembering!”
I scan the boys quickly.
One of them—Matt—is covered in prickly acne, trying to look cool but not quite pulling it off. The other—Collin—has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking like he’s never been in the presence of a group of pretty college girls before.
Then I realize—he probably hasn’t.
“Omgosh, awesome!” I chirp, stepping aside. “Come on in. Do y’all need anything?”
“We just had dinner,” Maggie says. “So they should be fine.”
Then, with a way-too-obvious wink, she adds, “They may want something to drink.”
I stifle an eye roll.
My mom already warned me about this—Maggie wants them to get a "glimpse of college life," some twisted logic about letting them party now so they won’t go wild later.
“Definitely,” I say, ushering them inside. “Maggie, do you want anything? A beer? A margarita?” A reason to stay?
“Nope, I’m good.” She claps her hands together. “I’m just gonna sneak out and head to the hotel—I’m exhausted from the drive.”
She glances down at her phone.
“You have my number. Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be back at 7:30 a.m. sharp. The tour starts at 8, and we’ve got to be at the Old Well to check in.”
The whole thing feels like a mom dropping off her kids with a babysitter.
I force a cheerful, “Okay, see you later!!” as she closes the door behind her.
I turn back to the boys and clap my hands together.
“So!” I say brightly, determined to make this less awkward.
“I’m Sarah-Frances. Come meet my roommates. Beer? Margarita?” Maybe something stronger to survive this night?
I lead them toward the kitchen, where Ashley is already waiting, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Soooo," she purrs, "who are these cuties?"
I suppress a smirk.
Ashley is gorgeous, and she knows it. She also knows exactly how to make boys nervous—a well-timed glance, a little too much proximity, just enough teasing to leave them squirming.
Matt and Collin stiffen like deer in headlights.
"This is Matt and this is Collin," I say casually, enjoying their discomfort just a little too much.
"Hiiiiiiii, Matt and Collin!" Ashley coos, as she plucks two beers from the fridge and hands them over like she’s hosting a cocktail party.
“So, tell me," she says eagerly, resting her chin in her hands like she’s hanging on their every word, "Where y’all from? Where else y’all applying?”
I shoot her a subtle thank-you glance—she’s making this whole thing feel less excruciating.
However, I can tell she’s secretly enjoying this and I can’t blame her for being amused.
The boys look ridiculous—like miniature dads. Not even the cool, laid-back kind, but the type in crisp button-ups and too-tight khakis, shoes laced within an inch of their lives, ready to sell you an insurance policy at any moment.
One of them even has croakies around his neck, his sunglasses dangling like some 40-year-old man on a golf trip. For a moment, I consider telling him how insufferably cringey it looks, but I bite my tongue.
Bless his heart.
I decide I need reinforcements.
Emily and I pour shots of Fireball and throw them back. The cinnamon burn coats my throat, warming my chest. I exhale, bracing myself as the alcohol starts to kick in, dulling the edges of the situation just enough.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
By the time we arrive at the party around 10 p.m., the place is already alive.
Music pulses through the walls, laughter spills onto the porch, and people huddle in doorways—drinks in hand and voices raised over the chaos.
I greet familiar faces with dramatic hugs and excited squeals—as if I hadn’t seen these friends in forever, despite hanging out just yesterday. (Girl code: muscle memory.)
Amid the buzzing crowd, I scan for my boyfriend, Brian.
I spot him in seconds—swoopy blonde hair, a Southern drawl cutting through the noise.
I lock eyes with him and flash an SOS look: wide-eyed and desperate.
Brian immediately grins and weaves his way through the crowd toward me. He already knows the situation—I gave him the full lowdown earlier about my forced babysitting duty and my general lack of enthusiasm—he’s well aware that I need backup.
"What’s up, fellas?" Brian says smoothly, sliding into a casual handshake-dap combo, nodding at each of them with that easy, effortless charm.
I watch as Matt and Collin puff themselves up—they straighten their backs, lift their chins, and adjust their beer-in-hand stances, attempting that ever-elusive “college guy casual.”
I bite back a smile. Brian catches it too, his eyes twinkling in amusement.
The boys are way out of their element.
This became abundantly clear when I witnessed Matt’s tragic attempt at a shot of Jack Daniels just before we left the apartment. He threw it back and his entire face contorted like he’d swallowed actual poison. The cough that followed was so violent I genuinely thought he might not make it.
Brittney looked concerned. Ashley, of course, grinned devilishly, watching the whole thing like it was the most entertaining show of the night.
Determined to save face, Matt slammed his empty glass down like a champ and—before even fully recovering—blurted out, "Let’s do another one!"
I felt a small flicker of tenderness toward him.
The things we will do to belong.
Desperate for a breather, I slip out to the back porch to mingle with my girlfriends.
The cool night air is a welcome break from the claustrophobic chaos inside. Meanwhile, Brian has taken on the “babysitter” role, promising to keep an eye on the boys so I can actually enjoy the party.
A half hour later, Brian reappears, cutting through the crowd with an expression that spells trouble. He catches my questioning glance and nudges me toward the glass door, as if to say, “Come see this.”
Inside, I see Matt and Collin using the kitchen island as their makeshift stage, dancing on top of it amid a growing crowd that cheers them on. Their arms loop around one another as they clutch green jello shots like prized trophies.
“Oh no,” I murmur.
I turn back to Brian, exasperated. “Unbelievable! I leave you to babysit for 30 minutes and you let them get hammered? How is that even possible?”
Brian sheepishly looks at me and opens his mouth, but no words come out. I already know what this means— the second I left, he let them go off on their own.
I turn back to see the boys boldly inviting girls up onto the island, too intoxicated to notice the difference between laughter directed at them versus with them. I watch, mortified, as Collin’s clumsy movements send a cascade of red Solo cups tumbling, splattering liquid all over the floor.
Greatttt, I think—completely sure that people are silently wondering who these two minors belong to.
Realizing I must escape this unfolding mess, I dash over to Emily—the designated driver—and interrupt her animated conversation. “I need you. We’re leaving!”
“What, why?” Emily asks, confusion clear in her voice. “It’s only 11:45.”
I can only nod toward the debacle unfolding.
In mutual embarrassment, we watch as the boys start belting out “Livin’ on a Prayer,” completely off-tune, their drunken enthusiasm drawing even more attention.
My cheeks flame red as I silently vow that this is the last favor I’ll ever do for my mom.
Determined yet resigned, I make my way back inside, desperate to corral the boys before the next song begins.
I practically haul them out to the car, my heart pounding as I brace for the worst.
I knew this was a bad idea, I think.
But nothing could have prepared me for the storm of unpredictable mayhem that looms just ahead.
Click here to continue reading- post 3.
I'm really nervous for you reading this.