Worth It

The late evening sky glowed with the promise of a warm, starless night. Buzzing with pent-up energy, Cruz tugged on her dark jeans, rolling them at the ankle just enough to show off her low-top sneakers. In a small dorm mirror, she inspected her reflection: a cropped white tee that revealed a sliver of her midriff, and a vintage denim jacket slung over her shoulders.

You look decent, Manuelos, she told herself, twisting her torso to check the fit. The final exam in Asif’s class was overshadowing her end-of-semester joy, and the uncertain horizon threatened the real world after graduation. But tonight is about blowing off steam. The track team’s party was legendary for capping the season, and though she felt a swirl of dread at the possibility of seeing Aaliyah, she clung to the vow she’d made to her friends. I can handle this.

A knock on the dorm door preceded Bobby’s entrance, mullet teased out stylishly, wearing cut-off shorts and a tank top with the track team logo. She gave Cruz a once-over and shot a smirk. “Hey, you actually look like you’re here to have fun. Color me surprised.”

Cruz rolled her eyes. “I can have fun when I want to.”

“Sure,” Bobby teased, glancing around the messy dorm. “Anyway, we’re late. The guys are already at Two Cups’ bar, pregaming. Ready?”

Cruz slipped her phone into her back pocket, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the mention of pregaming. She wasn’t a heavy drinker, but nights with the track bros could escalate quickly. Let’s do it. “Let’s go,” she said, forcing a small grin. “I could use a drink or two.”

--

The bar was a short walk from campus, a dimly lit spot with neon signs flickering in the window. Inside, the familiar smell of peanuts, cheap beer, and old wood floors enveloped Cruz in a nostalgic embrace. This was the place where the track team celebrated victories, nursed heartbreaks, and forged deeper camaraderie.

Tucker, Randy, and Tex had already claimed a corner booth, pitchers of beer and shot glasses arrayed on the table. Their laughter echoed above the bar’s chatter, drawing Bobby and Cruz over.

“Manuelos!” Tucker crowed, lifting his glass in greeting. “Finally decided to show up?”

Cruz rolled her eyes, sliding into the booth. “We’re not that late.”

Randy grinned at Bobby. “We were two seconds from calling you, woman. Had to ensure you’d come.” Then, turning to Cruz: “You sure you’re up for tonight? Don’t want any mopey vibes.”

“I’m done moping,” Cruz replied. Sort of. She kept that last thought private. Instead, she adopted a confident smirk. “Let’s do this.”

--

Before anyone could pour a fresh shot, a man with a scruffy beard approached the table—Two Cups, their beloved bartender friend. He wore a stained apron and a perpetual grin. The moniker “Two Cups” had emerged from some ancient track-team joke involving double-fisting drinks at a previous bar, and it stuck.

He pointed at Cruz. “Heard you had a rough meet, kiddo.”

Cruz stiffened, her pride still stinging. “Yeah, well… it happens.”

Two Cups shook his head in mock sympathy. “Ain’t no shame in a bad day. But let me guess”—he folded his arms—“girl trouble’s worse than the race trouble, am I right?”

Randy and Tucker whooped, and Bobby jammed her elbow into Tucker’s ribs. “Easy, we’re not diving into that drama yet.”

But Cruz, cheeks flushing, couldn’t deny the truth. “You’re not wrong,” she muttered.

Two Cups snorted, sliding a shot of golden liquor toward her. “My advice: heartbreak’s like a race. If you trip mid-lap, you pick yourself up, keep running, and maybe you find the real finish line down the road. Or you walk away, letting your regrets eat at you. Your call, Manuelos.”

Cruz stared at the glass. He always has these weirdly apt metaphors. She felt a surge of gratitude. “Thanks, Two Cups.”

He winked, then ambled off to serve other customers. The booth fell silent for a beat, the track bros letting the moment settle.

Randy cleared his throat. “Well, he’s not wrong. Let’s toast. To letting go or giving in—whatever suits ya.”

They clinked glasses, the sharp burn of alcohol jolting Cruz. She hoped it would dull her anxieties about the party and the potential collision with Aaliyah. I’ll just have fun tonight, no drama.

--

Across the city, Aaliyah’s apartment buzzed with a different energy. Music pulsed from a high-end speaker system, overshadowing the rain tapping on the balcony windows. Malika, Nala, and Nashwa had transformed the living room into a makeshift dressing zone—racks of clothes, piles of shoes, bottles of expensive champagne, and half-consumed tequila shots scattered about.

Aaliyah stood near her bedroom door, arms folded protectively across her chest, watching the chaos. They’re treating this like a pregame in Ibiza. The memory of their dinner teased her mind, recalling how easily they had cornered her into this commitment.

Malika beckoned her over. “Come on, get in here. You need to change.”

Nala held up a sheer black bodysuit with an attached bra-like lining. “We found your outfit. Pairing this with the miniskirt.”

Aaliyah’s eyes widened in alarm. “That’s practically transparent.”

Nashwa laughed, holding up a tiny black miniskirt—barely more than a wide belt in Aaliyah’s eyes. “Trust us. This is how you slay a college party. Casual, but sexy.”

Aaliyah tried to protest. “But the students… I’m their TA. This is so inappropriate.”

Malika rolled her eyes, pressing a flute of champagne into Aaliyah’s hand. “Relax, Ms. Modesty. You’re not going to lecture them tonight; you’re going to have fun. You can’t show up in a blazer.”

Nala chimed in, brandishing a tube of glittery eyeshadow. “Besides, it’s an open invite party. No one’s going to think it’s weird. Stop overthinking.”

Aaliyah sipped the champagne, nerves twisting her stomach. “Fine,” she sighed, “but if I show up in that, I’m definitely not dancing.”

Nashwa and Nala exchanged mischievous smiles. “We’ll see about that,” they chorused.

Minutes later, Aaliyah emerged from her bedroom, cheeks burning. She tugged self-consciously at the black miniskirt riding high on her thighs. The sheer bodysuit, with a strategic bra layer, left little to the imagination. She’d slipped on strappy heels that only made her legs look longer—and more exposed.

“This is insane,” she muttered, hugging her arms over her torso.

Malika whooped, offering her a shot of tequila. “You look amazing, babe. Own it.”

Nala laughed, adding, “Trust me, half the campus will be drooling.”

Aaliyah swallowed the tequila shot in one go, coughing at the burn. Maybe a little liquid courage will help. She stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. I barely recognize myself. A swirl of anticipation and dread fluttered in her chest. If Cruz sees me, she might think I’m trying too hard.

She swiftly dismissed the thought. Focus on the big picture—these girls want to party. Let’s get through it.

Nashwa clapped her hands. “Let’s go, ladies. The night is young.”

--

The track team’s chosen venue was an off-campus house known for hosting large gatherings. The front yard already brimmed with students by the time Cruz’s group showed up. Beer pong tables sprawled across the lawn, a throng of bodies milling around a makeshift DJ booth blasting top-40 hits. Multicolored lights pulsed from the windows, giving the entire block a neon glow.

Bobby and the track bros were rowdy with excitement, the pregame drinks fueling their laughter. Cruz hung back slightly, scanning for an easy path through the crowded porch. All these people… guess it’s bigger than last year.

Randy nudged her. “C’mon, Manny. Let’s get inside before the kegs run dry.”

Cruz mustered a grin, letting the others lead. Her heart hammered at the possibility—no, the inevitability—that Aaliyah might appear. She forced herself to breathe. If she shows, I’ll ignore her. It’s a big party.

They pushed through the front door into a living room-turned-dancefloor, a swirl of sweaty bodies and flashing lights. The bass thumped, conversation was nearly impossible above the music. Tex quickly found the makeshift bar area, grabbing plastic cups of punch. Bobby passed one to Cruz, who took a cautious sip. Sugary, strong. Perfect.

--

Not long after, the door opened again to admit a quartet of glammed-up women. Aaliyah tried not to cringe at how out-of-place they likely looked. The swirling lights caught her black miniskirt, and her stomach churned with nerves. This is ridiculous.

Behind her, Nala squealed, “This is so college. I love it!” Nashwa and Malika looked equally amused, scanning the crowd with bright-eyed curiosity.

Aaliyah, arms folded tightly over her chest, mumbled, “Remember, we’re just here to observe—no drama, okay?”

Malika laughed. “Relax, Ms. TA. We’ll behave. Maybe.”

They drifted inside, ignoring a few gawking stares. People made space for them, likely mistaking them for VIP guests. Aaliyah felt a flush creep up her neck. Just act normal. The pounding music rattled her bones as they ventured deeper, the thick scent of spilled booze and cheap cologne clinging to the air.

--

At the back of the living room, Bobby spotted the new arrivals. Her gaze flicked past Nala and Nashwa, locking onto Malika, who stared straight back. Even in the dim light, Bobby recognized the woman from the socialite dinner rumors Aaliyah had mentioned once. So that’s one of the friends.

Malika gave a slow, appraising nod, eyes lingering on Cruz, who stood near the bar, oblivious to the attention. Bobby’s lips twitched. Why is she staring at Cruz like a hawk? The track star in question was busy sipping her punch, scanning the dancefloor for no one in particular.

Bobby returned Malika’s nod with a quick, conspiratorial dip of her head. We’re all troublemakers here, apparently. She sidled closer to Cruz, leaning in to speak over the thumping bass. “Heads up: Ms. TA’s entourage just walked in.”

Cruz’s pulse kicked. “They’re here?” She forced herself not to whip around and stare.

Bobby smirked. “Oh yeah. Aaliyah looks… different. Her friend is eyeing you like fresh meat.”

Cruz’s stomach flipped with a mix of nerves and curiosity. Different how? She refused to ask. Instead, she chugged more punch, letting the alcohol dull her tension. “Great,” she muttered. “Let’s just avoid them.”

“Sure,” Bobby drawled, giving Cruz a pointed look. Sure you want to avoid them?

--

The living room had turned into a chaotic dancefloor, lights strobing over a mass of moving bodies. Randy and Tucker pulled Cruz in, chanting, “Dance with us!” She let the music’s pulse guide her, ignoring her self-consciousness. Time to let go for one night.

Nearby, Malika dragged Aaliyah onto the dancefloor, ignoring her protests. Nashwa and Nala followed, cheering her on. The swirl of lights, bodies, and pounding bass felt overwhelming, especially in her sheer bodysuit and miniskirt. God, I hope none of my students recognize me. Or if they do, let them not care.

But part of Aaliyah’s mind scanned for a glimpse of Cruz. Her heart thudded. If I see her, can I handle it? She swayed halfheartedly to the music, forcing a carefree expression as her friends whooped around her. Malika shot her a wink that read go find your girl, but Aaliyah shook her head. That’s not happening.

Somewhere in the crush of dancers, Malika and Bobby collided—literally. They laughed as they regained balance. Malika leaned in, “Where’s your shy friend, the track star?”

Bobby, slightly tipsy, gave a wry grin. “Cruz? She’s around. You looking to help them or cause trouble?”

Malika smoothed her hair. “We just want to see if these two can get their act together. They’re obviously pining.”

Bobby’s eyes sparkled. “Okay, I can work with that. But no humiliating Cruz.”

Malika feigned innocence. “I’d never. Let’s see what a little nudge can do.”

They parted, each with a plan forming—unknown to Cruz or Aaliyah, who remained oblivious to the conspiratorial alliance taking shape.

--

Drinks flowed freely—cheap punch, canned beers, a stolen bottle of something harder for shots. Cruz felt the alcohol softening her usual guard. She found herself laughing with Tucker and Tex, bobbing to the music, a slight dizzy warmth enveloping her.

At one point, she edged off the dancefloor to catch her breath near a corner. She craned her neck, scanning the room. Her gaze snagged on a figure in a black miniskirt, turning in profile under the strobe lights. Is that…? Her breath caught. Aaliyah, in a sheer bodysuit, hair tumbling around her shoulders, looked so unlike the poised TA behind a lecture podium. She’s gorgeous. The thought barreled through Cruz, stirring a pang of regret and longing.

She quickly looked away, heart hammering. Focus on your friends, your night. But the image seared her mind.

--

Aaliyah’s group had gathered by a makeshift bar in the kitchen, rummaging for better-quality liquor. Malika discovered someone’s hidden stash of top-shelf tequila, squealing at their luck. Aaliyah sipped a refill, wishing she could find a quiet corner.

Nala tugged her hand, voice raised over the din. “We’re heading back to the dancefloor. Come on!”

Aaliyah shook her head. “I need a moment.” Her cheeks felt warm, a light buzz from the earlier drinks. I’m not used to such chaos.

Nashwa pouted but nodded. “Don’t vanish, or we’ll hunt you down.”

With that, they retreated to the throng of dancers. Aaliyah slipped into a cramped hallway connecting the kitchen to the backyard, seeking a breath of fresh air. The bass thump lessened, her pulse still racing. Calm down, it’s just a party.

--

Meanwhile, Bobby and Malika converged near a cluster of partygoers in the living room. Each had a cup in hand, each wearing a conspiratorial grin. The music pounded, but they managed to talk in raised voices.

“This is too slow,” Malika said, tossing her hair. “They’re both sulking in corners.”

Bobby sighed. “Cruz is stubborn. She’s convinced she should avoid Aaliyah like the plague.”

Malika sipped her drink. “Aaliyah’s half in denial, half craving some big resolution. But neither will make the first move.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Any brilliant plan?”

Malika shrugged elegantly. “We just need to push them into the same space, nudge them to talk. The rest might handle itself.”

Bobby smirked. “Deal. If I can corral Cruz onto the dancefloor, think you can lure Aaliyah?”

Malika’s grin widened, eyes gleaming. “Done. Let’s cause some romantic chaos.”

They clinked cups, alliance sealed.

--

The plan unfolded with surprising ease. Bobby found Cruz loitering by the bar, forcibly dragging her back to the dancefloor with protests of “Come on, Manny, one more song!”

Simultaneously, Malika spotted Aaliyah in the hallway, coaxing her out with a playful grin. “We found a better song, you have to dance.” Aaliyah mumbled a half-formed excuse, but the socialite whisked her along before she could resist.

In the living room’s epicenter, swirling lights accentuated the press of bodies. Bobby guided Cruz into a cleared spot, while Malika navigated Aaliyah from the opposite side. The crowd parted momentarily, leaving a small circle of space where the two women suddenly found themselves face-to-face.

Cruz froze, heart pounding. Aaliyah stood a foot away, eyes wide. The music pounded, too loud to speak easily, but the tension soared. Bobby and Malika melted into the crowd, mission accomplished.

--

Time seemed to slow. The strobe lights flicked across Aaliyah’s dark hair, the black miniskirt hugging her hips. Cruz’s pulse kicked as she noticed the sheer outline of the bodysuit. She looks so different. But the heartbreak still lingered. Does she even want me here?

Aaliyah felt equally struck. Cruz’s denim jacket and cropped tee gave her a rugged, effortless cool. The swirl of perfume, sweat, and alcohol enveloped them, intensifying the moment. Why is this so impossible?

The music shifted into a pulsing reggaeton track, the bass reverberating through their chests. Around them, dancers jostled. A drunk classmate nearly bumped Aaliyah into Cruz, forcing their bodies inches apart.

Aaliyah swallowed, breathing unsteady. Cruz’s eyes flicked over her face, lips parted as if she wanted to say something. Her heart hammered. Do I speak first?

--

Cruz summoned courage from the liquor in her veins. She leaned in, voice nearly a shout over the blaring music. “Hey— Aaliyah. I’m— sorry. For being a dick.”

Her words slurred slightly with nerves, the message losing clarity in the pounding beat. Aaliyah blinked, straining to catch the apology. “You— you’re what?” She stepped closer, pressing an ear toward Cruz’s lips, her heart flipping at the proximity.

Cruz repeated, a bit louder, “Sorry about how I acted.”

Aaliyah only caught fragments: “Sorry… I… acted.” She frowned, adrenaline spiking. Is she sorry or is she accusing me of acting?

The confusion made her voice tremble. “I’m sorry too— I made it hard for you— with everything.”

Cruz’s brow furrowed. She heard “I made it… you with everything.” She had no clue what that meant. “Wait, what?”

They shifted closer, awkwardly navigating the bodies thrashing to the music. The strobe lights flickered, intensifying the disorientation. The thick press of dancers forced them to remain face-to-face, half an arm’s length apart.

--

Desperate to be heard, Cruz tried again, “I messed up. At the meet. Didn’t focus. I— sorry.” The music swallowed parts of her sentence. She wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for the meet fiasco or for the emotional distance, or both. Everything blurred.

Aaliyah’s heart clenched, reading Cruz’s expression—a flicker of regret in her eyes. She replied, “I never meant to— with that dinner. I’m sorry.”

Cruz’s eyes flashed. Dinner? She’s referencing the night I saw her with that guy? Is she apologizing or bragging? The confusion spiked, her jealousy surfacing. She managed to piece together enough context. “So, that dinner was… something?”

Aaliyah thought she heard some thing? She tried to elaborate, “It wasn’t what you think.” But the pounding bass garbled her words, and she only got out, “Not… think!”

Cruz’s frustration rose. She couldn’t decipher. Is she telling me not to think about it? Or is she apologizing? She forced a tight smile. “I don’t— let’s talk somewhere else!” She gestured to the edges of the dancefloor.

Aaliyah caught the gist—Cruz wanted to go somewhere quieter. But the crowd surged, a drunken dancer stumbling between them, cutting off their path. The music’s volume climbed with the DJ’s next track, a pounding electronic beat that rattled the walls.

For a breathless moment, the dancers separated them, then brought them back face-to-face, as if the party orchestrated their collision. Cruz’s heart hammered. Her eyes slid down Aaliyah’s body, noticing how the flickering strobe highlighted the sheer material clinging to her curves. She’s so…

Aaliyah’s breath hitched, seeing the raw longing flicker in Cruz’s eyes. She might have leaned in. Are we about to—?

Their faces neared, lips almost brushing. The music thundered, drowning any coherent thought. The tension soared, an electric charge that promised everything and nothing.

But at the last instant, Aaliyah flinched, worried about the crowd, the ethics, the heartbreak. Cruz hesitated, equally uncertain. Too many watchers, too much unresolved.

The moment stretched, hearts pounding, bodies swaying in the press of dancers. We can’t do this here.

--

In that charged second, the neon lights washed over them, capturing two figures caught between desire and turmoil. Their eyes locked—apologies half-formed on parted lips, confessions strangled by the cacophony of voices and music.

Aaliyah’s hand brushed Cruz’s wrist, a fleeting touch that spoke volumes of longing. Cruz’s breath caught, wanting to pull her closer, wanting to shout I’m sorry, I miss you, I can’t stand this distance. But the blaring bass turned words into muffled nonsense.

Somewhere behind them, Malika and Bobby watched with keen eyes, hoping for a resolution, but the swirl of bodies made it impossible to intervene. The moment hovered on a knife’s edge, tension thick enough to taste.

Then a push from the crowd jostled them apart. A stumbling drunk parted them by mere inches, but it might as well have been a chasm. They reached for each other instinctively, but the throng pressed again, pulling them in opposite directions.

Cruz’s vision swam—alcohol, adrenaline, heartbreak mixing into a haze. Aaliyah’s silhouette receded under pulsing lights. The music shifted tempo, the crowd cheered, and they lost sight of one another in the surge.

Both Cruz and Aaliyah stand on the cusp of confession, blocked by pounding music, swirling dancers, and their own fear. Neither has kissed, but the sparks are undeniable. They remain trapped in a swirl of near-misses and overwhelming tension, the night’s promise balanced precariously between longing and heartbreak.