“I wasn’t worried.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. “If you lose it, he’ll just buy you another one, right?”
My mouth drops open, but he’s already disappeared into the hall and heading down the stairs.
His retreat slaps like rejection. We’d almost been getting along while he played medic. Had he thought my hand squeeze was romantic instead of friendly? Standing practically pressed together, holding hands with me might’ve seemed like something it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t anything.
He definitely wouldn’t want it to be anything.
He didn’t even seem to notice that he was sitting on the edge of my shower. He had no reaction to touching my bare legs. Even the skimpy robe hanging behind his head didn’t make him pause. Plus, he has a girlfriend.
The girl in the mirror agrees with me, nodding as she continues to pose with her hand in a ridiculous posture—like it’s being held by a ghost. I shake my head at her and watch as she spins the emerald inward, makes fists, then reacts to tacky nails hitting tender palms. I examine my hands as I leave the bathroom. There are flecks of glitter in the welts—decorations on my marks of stress and shame.
19
Jonah
9:41 P.M.
I’M LATE FOR AN APPOINTMENT WITH NYQUIL SHOOTERS & MY PILLOW
Evy follows me to my car. She’s detached from her cell, and her grin is all sexy mischief. I don’t care what Brighton says, they don’t look alike.
“So, do I want to know what you and my baby sister were doing upstairs?”
“Depends. Does blood make you queasy? I was fixing the damage Never did to her foot. She can’t walk that dog and you know it.”
Evy shrugs an acknowledgment. “I didn’t think you’d let her get hurt.”
“She’s not my responsibility.” I’m annoyed. Evy pushed her into a task she knew Brighton couldn’t handle, and yet it’s my fault she’s bleeding? It’s one thing for me to blame myself—another to hear Evy say it. “Who owns a dog they can’t even walk?”
“Hey.” She grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. “B’s … Don’t be too hard on her. Just give her a chance.”
A chance to do what? God forbid anyone’s hard on Brighton—the girl lives a charmed life and now I’m supposed to feel bad for not joining her fan club.
I shake my head and call a greeting to the woman in a AAA polo shirt. “Thanks for coming.”
“I need your card.” I hand it over.
“And your registration,” she adds.
I point at my glove compartment and bite my tongue to keep from saying: If I could open my door to get my registration, I wouldn’t need you. I lean against the trunk, trying to give the woman room to work but impatient to get the hell out of here.
“Voilà. Door open.” The woman steps away and I practically dive for my registration and owners’ manual, handing her the thick file then digging my cell out of the door pocket while she writes stuff down.
I need to get away from here. Fast. Get anywhere. But is there anywhere left for me to go?
New text messages.
They’ve got to be from Carly. She’s realized she’s being insane. I can be there in twenty-five minutes if I push it …
But do I want to? I’m half-crazy with the desire to call her, but if I do, I can’t think of anything I actually want to say. My stomach twists.
You cheated on C? No way you got someone hotter.
Not. Carly.
The next text’s not either—it’s from Carly’s friend, Sasha: U dirtbag, loser, jerkwad. You didn’t deserve her.
What the hell has Carly been telling people?
The AAA woman’s holding a clipboard out to me, the front door’s opening and shutting, Evy’s calling something up the walk, and Brighton’s limping down it. I scrawl my name and thank the woman. The sooner she leaves, the sooner I can get in my car and go—but she climbs in the truck, turns on the cab light, and starts on more paperwork.
Three more messages:
Where U at? Get. Here. Now. Beer.
A CP chick? Heard she’s butt ugly.
Where RU?
The last one’s from Jeff—and he’s left a voice mail too. Can I go to his party? It’s easy to picture how it’s going down: Carly sitting on a countertop entertaining a group with stories about what a crappy, cheating boyfriend I turned out to be. Her audience soaking up the lies. The stories mutating and spreading as people wander in and out of earshot to refill their cups. By the end of the night I’ll be seen as a total tool—a Cross Pointe sellout. It’ll look like I’m too embarrassed to show my face. Like she’s telling the truth and I slunk off to lick my wounds. She’s taking Hamilton away from me, poisoning my reputation, claiming my friends—
Evy leans over my shoulder. “What’s so exciting?” I find myself aping her sister’s fist clenching and jerk away.