House Party

Brandy almost didn’t go. That truth sat in her chest like a second heart, heavy and thudding, as she stood just inside the doorway of a house she didn’t recognize, listening to the roar of voices and the sloppy cheer of a kegger in full bloom. The place smelled like pine cleaner trying to wrestle down beer foam, like someone had attempted Christmas and chaos at the same time and lost control of both. Tinsel hung from the ceiling fan, whipping around lazily. A plastic Santa was duct-taped to the fridge, one arm missing. Somewhere deeper in the house, someone was shouting the lyrics to a carol that had been converted into a drinking chant.

She shifted her weight, the rubber tip of her crutch squeaking faintly against the hardwood. Her left leg ended well above the knee, clean and final beneath her track pants, the fabric pinned and folded in a way that had become second nature. Jacket open, t-shirt soft and faded beneath it, she looked like she was dressed for a grocery run or a bus ride, not whatever this was. She’d followed her friends here because they’d been loud and excited and insistent, because they’d said all the cool kids would be there, because it was nearly Christmas and everyone seemed to be leaning hard into the idea that you were supposed to be somewhere noisy with a drink in your hand.

Brandy had learned, over time, that “supposed to” was a dangerous phrase.

She didn’t know whose house it was. Someone’s parents were gone for the weekend, that was the extent of the information she’d been given, shouted over music in the car. The house itself felt borrowed, like it was waiting for the real owners to come back and ask what had been done to it. She maneuvered carefully through the crowd, a practiced dance of angles and pauses, people parting a second too late and then apologizing too loudly. She accepted a red plastic cup from a stranger without making eye contact, the beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Her plan was simple, find a corner, occupy it, wait. Let the night burn itself out. Let her friends get bored or drunk or both, and then leave.

She found the corner near the back of the living room, where the wall met a bookshelf that had been cleared of actual books and filled instead with empty bottles and a string of blinking lights. She leaned her shoulder against the wall, tucking the crutch in close, and took a cautious sip of the beer. It was warm and tasted like regret. She grimaced, then laughed quietly at herself, a small private sound swallowed by the music.

For a moment, she was alone there, watching the party like it was happening on a screen. People danced badly. Someone nearly knocked over the keg. Snow drifted past the window in lazy flakes, catching the glow of the porch light. Christmas, apparently, was doing its best outside.

Then a shadow fell into her peripheral vision, and she realized the corner had been claimed by someone else at the exact same time.

“Sorry,” the guy said immediately, hands up in a reflexive surrender. “I swear I wasn’t trying to crowd you. I just… this seemed like a good spot.”

Brandy glanced at him. He was about her age, give or take, wearing a sweater that might once have been festive but now just looked tired. There was a dusting of fake snow in his hair, probably from the decorations, and his cup was as full as hers. He leaned back against the bookshelf, mirroring her posture without meaning to.

“It’s a big house,” she said. “Plenty of corners.”

“Yeah, but this one has structural integrity,” he replied, tapping the wall with his knuckles. “Feels safer.”

She snorted despite herself. “From what?”

He gestured vaguely toward the center of the room, where a group of people were attempting something that involved chanting and a coffee table. “From… that.”

“Fair,” she said. She took another sip of beer, then held the cup away from her like it had offended her. “This is terrible.”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s a kegger. The beer is legally required to be terrible.”

They stood there for a moment, the shared silence surprisingly comfortable. Brandy felt her shoulders loosen a fraction. He wasn’t staring. Or if he noticed the crutch, the way she balanced, he didn’t make it a thing. That alone was a small gift.

“I’m Brandy,” she said, after a beat.

“Evan,” he replied. “Nice to meet you, fellow corner dweller.”

“Do you actually know whose house this is?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. I came with a guy who came with a girl who apparently knows the cousin of the person who lives here. Or something like that. At this point I’m just assuming the house belongs to Christmas itself.”

She laughed, a real one this time, bubbling up and out. It felt good, unexpected. “I’m only here because my friends dragged me. I was fully prepared to spend tonight on my couch.”

“Same,” Evan said. “Except replace ‘friends’ with ‘a misguided sense of obligation.’”

They clinked cups lightly, an unspoken toast to survival. Around them, the party surged and swayed, but the corner held. Brandy leaned into the wall, feeling its solid presence at her back, the crutch steady under her hand. For the first time since walking in, she didn’t feel like she was just waiting to leave.

The music shifted tracks with an ugly digital hiccup, something bass heavy and relentless, and Evan winced like it had personally insulted him. He took a longer drink, then grimaced at his cup in solidarity with Brandy’s earlier assessment.

“I keep thinking,” he said, lowering his voice as someone staggered past them, “that if I stand very still, no one will notice I’m here and I can just… dissolve into the drywall.”

Brandy adjusted her grip on the crutch, the familiar pressure in her palm grounding her. “You’ve picked the right corner for that. Corners are where people put furniture. Or regrets.”

“Ah,” Evan said, nodding seriously. “I do feel like a regret tonight.”

She smiled, eyes drifting back to the room. One of her friends, she thought it might be Lila, hard to tell under the flashing lights, caught her eye from across the chaos and lifted a thumbs up, already flushed and laughing too hard. Brandy lifted her cup in response, a gesture that said I’m alive, don’t worry, but didn’t promise anything more.

“You’re not really a party person, are you?” Evan said, not accusatory, just observant.

She considered lying, then shrugged. “I like… small versions of things. Small groups. Small noises. I like knowing where I can sit without having to ask.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “That makes sense.”

Most people would’ve followed that with a question she’d answered a hundred times, or a joke that landed sideways. Evan didn’t. He just shifted his stance, giving her space without stepping away, like he understood proximity was a negotiation.

They listened to the party for a while, the clatter of cups, the shriek of laughter, someone yelling that Mariah Carey was “nonnegotiable” this time of year. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing on wet pavement. The world kept moving, even if this house felt suspended in a reckless bubble.

“I was going to leave after one drink,” Brandy said suddenly, surprising herself. “That was the plan.”

“And now?” Evan asked.

She glanced down at her cup, still mostly full. “Now I might stay until this is gone. Live dangerously.”

He lifted his own cup in mock reverence. “I admire your bravery.”

Another beat of quiet settled between them, not awkward, just… there. Brandy felt a strange warmth that had nothing to do with the beer. It was the feeling of not being managed, not being pitied, not being turned into a lesson or an inspiration. Just a person in a corner at a dumb Christmas party.

A burst of laughter erupted nearby, followed by the unmistakable sound of something breaking. The music faltered, then resumed louder than before, as if volume could fix anything.

Evan sighed. “Well. That’s probably my cue to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Same,” Brandy said. She shifted, careful and practiced, then paused. “Hey. Thanks for… sharing the corner.”

He smiled, small and genuine. “Anytime. Corners are better with company.”

They stood there a little longer, the night stretching on, neither rushing to fill the space, both content to let the party rage at a distance. Outside, snow continued to fall, and inside, in a house that didn’t belong to either of them, Brandy found that against all expectations, she wasn’t counting the minutes anymore.