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The dying afternoon sun cuts long, slanted bars of gold across the polished floor of Elias's basement. The air is thick with the smell of dried sweat from basketball practice and the faint, clean scent of his cologne lingering on the towel I'm using. On the huge television, digital gunfire explodes as Elias and his friends shout over each other, their controllers clicking frantically. Sienna is perched on the arm of the sofa, her oversized band tee slipping off one shoulder, her laughter a shrill, grating sound that slices through every punchline. She leans into Elias's space, flipping her hair, her minuscule shorts riding up. She catches my reflection in the dark glass of the TV screen and her face instantly twists with contempt. 'you? What are you even doing here. You weren't even invit…