Lester looked away from Sky.
He didn't wait to see if she would glance back again.
The cold clarity that had settled in his chest after the photograph was still there, but it no longer made him want to stand in the middle of the ruined floor.
He tightened his grip on the broom handle and began sweeping the remaining plaster into a single pile.
No one came to help him.
People stepped around the white dust without slowing.
A few glanced at the blood still drying on his collar and looked away just as quickly.
Conversations resumed. Cups were refilled.
Someone turned the music up another notch.
The party had already decided the moment was over.
Lester worked in silence.
The straw broom scraped across the wood in short, steady strokes.
Every so often a drop of blood slipped from his chin and landed among the plaster fragments with a soft, wet sound. He didn't wipe it. He just kept sweeping.
Nearby, someone laughed too hard and their plastic cup slipped, spilling sticky soda across the edge of the floor he had just cleared.
The girl glanced down, then at Lester—already holding the broom—and gave a small, apologetic shrug before walking off.
A minute later a guy knocked over a half-empty beer bottle with his heel.
The liquid ran toward the plaster pile. He looked at Lester, then toward the distant bins on the far side of the room, and left it.
They weren't being cruel on purpose.
The bins were far, Lester was already cleaning, and in the moment it simply made sense that he might as well handle the new messes too.
One more person dropped a crumpled napkin. Another left a broken chip bag.
No one said anything.
They just kept moving.
Lester didn't argue. He swept the new spills into the same pile, the broom handle growing sticky under his palm.
Of course they leave it. You're already down here with the broom. Convenient. Background. That's the role.
You couldn't even walk out.
As Chase told him to stay.
Robert saw it. She was faking. You're not the monster. You're just the one still holding the broom.
He finished the floor, carried the dustpan out the side door, and dumped everything into the metal bin by the garage.
When he came back inside he returned the broom to the corner where Chase had found it.
Lester stood there a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty space where the statue had been.
Then he turned and walked toward the nearest bathroom.
The bathroom was small and already thick with someone else's perfume and spilled beer. He locked the door, set Robert carefully on the edge of the sink, and looked at himself in the mirror.
The cut above his hairline was shallow but still open.
Blood had dried in a dark, uneven trail down the side of his face and into the collar of the black polo.
He ran the water cold, cupped his hands, and washed the worst of it away.
The sting made his eyes water. He found a clean washcloth in a drawer, pressed it against the cut until the bleeding slowed, then tore a strip from a spare hand towel and tied it roughly around his forehead.
It looked stupid.
He didn't care.
While the water ran, his mind drifted back to the empty album sitting on his bed at home.
43. College party dance
Lester dried his hands, slipped the camera strap back over his neck, and left the bathroom.
The main room had thinned a little.
He found an empty stretch of couch near the far wall, dropped into it, and sat with Robert resting against his stomach.
For a few minutes people still moved around him. Then, gradually, the seats nearby emptied. Conversations drifted elsewhere.
Laughter moved toward the kitchen and the backyard. It was as if the space around him had developed a quiet radius that no one wanted to cross.
Lester didn't mind. He was used to it.
He was supposed to take pictures of people dancing, but after the incident it had become difficult.
People kept glancing at him—at the makeshift bandage, the dried blood on his collar—and the camera felt heavier than usual.
His main purpose for coming felt totally shot.
He was still sitting there, staring at nothing in particular, when someone dropped onto the cushion beside him—close enough that her thigh pressed lightly against his.
A girl. Pixie-cut golden-chestnut hair, a small silver piercing through one eyebrow, another in her nose.
Tank top cut low enough to show the top of a black lace bra, shorts that rode high on her thighs.
She held a half-empty plastic cup and looked at him like she already knew how the conversation would end.
"You're the statue boy," she said. Her voice was low, almost lazy.
Lester's shoulders tensed. "And you are?"
"The one who you collided with." She took a slow sip.
Her knee settled fully against his. Her eyes flicked over the towel strip, then the bloodstain on his collar.
"Rough night."
Lester's grip tightened on the camera strap. "You were right there. When Chase grabbed me. You could've said something."
Mira swirled the ice in her cup, unbothered.
"Wouldn't have mattered.
Chase would've just come at me next." She glanced at the dried blood on his neck. "I felt bad. You got the worst of it while she put on the waterworks. So I came to apologize."
Lester stared at her. Something bitter twisted in his chest.
"You just watched. Same as her."
Mira's expression hardened. "Don't compare me to that bitch. I didn't shove anyone, and I sure as hell didn't frame you for the statue falling."
He looked away. "Sorry."
"Whatever."
She reached out and brushed two fingers along the edge of the towel strip, the touch deliberate. Then she shifted closer, the side of her breast grazing his arm.
"You always bring the camera?"
"…Yeah."
"Name?"
"Lester."
"Lester." She said it slowly. "You came alone."
He nodded once.
"I could tell." She leaned in, resting her forearm on the back of the couch.
Her voice dropped. "The way you hold that thing like it's the only thing that won't leave."
Lester's fingers flexed on the strap. He didn't answer.
She smiled, slower this time. "Lucky you."
Her attention stayed locked on him.
At one point she brushed a speck of dried plaster from his shoulder, fingers trailing down his arm a second longer than necessary.
"You're quiet. I like that."
The album in his head had gone silent. The list, the party, the blood—everything felt distant under the weight of her stare and the warm press of her thigh.
She leaned closer still. He could smell the sweetness of her drink mixed with something warmer underneath.
"I want to apologize properly," she said under the bass. "Upstairs."
Lester frowned. "Why upstairs?"
She studied his face for a second, then stood, took his wrist, and pulled him close enough to put her mouth near his ear.
"B-L-O-W-J-O-B," she whispered, almost casual. "You coming or not?"
His mind went blank and loud at the same time.
He stood without deciding to.
She was already walking toward the stairs. He followed three steps behind, Robert bouncing lightly against his chest.
Halfway up she glanced back. Lester's hands moved before his brain caught up.
The shutter clicked once—sharp, mechanical.
She twitched.
Her head snapped around.
"Sorry—habit. "
The words tumbled out too fast.
He clutched the camera against his side.
She stared at him a beat longer, then exhaled through her nose and kept walking.
"Hurry up."
Lester's pulse spiked. He took the last steps two at a time and followed her into the dim upstairs hallway before he could talk himself out of it.
Downstairs, Chase had one arm around Sky's waist.
A white bandage covered the side of her face she had claimed was cut.
They stood near the kitchen island, talking easily, even laughing once when someone walked past with a ridiculous hat.
Chase glared at the empty pedestal, his jaw tightening.
"I still can't believe that freak dropped it. My dad shipped that from Italy. Sweeping a little plaster isn't enough—he'll be sweeping the rest of his life to pay it off."
He smirked, pulling Skye closer. "Though, watching him take that broom like a loyal dog? Total payback for the injury he gave you."
Sky's smile tightened. She looked down at the counter instead of at him.
Her fingers traced the edge of a coaster, then stopped.
Something small and rectangular was lying half under a napkin.
A black-and-white photograph. She pulled it free without thinking.
Her eyes widened.
For a second she just stared. Then she let out a quiet, frustrated breath.
"Damn it."
She lifted her head and scanned the room, fast and sharp, until her gaze locked on the staircase leading to the second floor.
Chase frowned.
"What's wrong?"
Sky's voice came out flat.
"Nothing."
She was already moving, the photograph still pinched between her fingers.