Headlights from the truck illuminate the three of us as the woman backs out of the driveway. I raise my hand in salute and to shield my eyes. Brighton’s at the end of the walk, making careful progress down the stone steps that lead to the driveway.
The light catches her hair, her eyes, her legs. Doing things to her silhouette that I could watch all night. No way you got someone hotter. Hotter? Carly and Bright are attractive in totally different ways, but Brighton can more than hold her own.
She pauses on the second step and asks, “Everything all set with your car?”
My reputation is already screwed—apparently eighteen years of knowing me is worth less than a piece of paper with a phone number. And if everyone’s going to believe I’m cheating scum, I at least want them to believe I’m cheating scum who nailed a hot girl.
“Brighton, want to go a party?”
“What?” she asks, while Evy claps her hands together and says, “Yes, yes, she does.”
We both ignore her.
“A party. You know, people, music …”
“Beer, hookups, gossip, and scandals,” adds Evy.
“Jeremy’s party? I didn’t even know you knew him. If you want to go, I’ll bring you.”
I’m not even sure who Jeremy is, but of course she’d assume I’m begging for an invitation to his party. “No, my friend’s party. You should come with me.”
“Why?”
“Look, come to the party and I’ll come to your book thing on Sunday.”
Her eyes go wide and she starts to nod, then pauses. “You’ll really come to the library? I thought you had plans.”
I’m sick of trying to coax her, impatient to get this over with. If compromise won’t work, maybe a reminder will. “I said I’d go. Come to the party. You’ll learn a hell of a lot more about me there than you did in my bedroom.”
“What?” Evy demands, grabbing her sister’s arm and dragging her down a step.
Brighton looks over her shoulder at the house and tests her sister’s grip on her arm. “Okay. I’ll go to the party.”
“His bedroom?”
“He’s kidding.” Brighton’s fake laugh is far from believable. She looks at me pleadingly.
I hold her gaze for a long moment before turning to Evy. “Hello, have you met your sister? I’m kidding.” I can afford to be generous now that I’ve gotten my way.
Evy looks disappointed, but only for a moment. “This is perfect! You need to get out of the house and get rumpled a bit. Live a little, baby sis.” She flounces over to me. “And, you? You would be an excellent person to rumple her.”
“Evy, enough!” There’s zero authority in her voice, more plea than order. She looks like she might curl into her embarrassment and disappear.
And Evy doesn’t even pause. “Is that blood on your pants? Ew. Well, you’d need to change anyway. I wonder if there’s anything in your closet that’s even a little sexy—you should probably just borrow something from me.”
I allow myself to imagine that for a minute: Bright in short black shorts and a red top that shows off her chest. Or maybe something low cut. Her legs in heels …
Except. Her foot. The one that caused the blood spatter on her pants. No heels tonight. And the way Evy’s dragging her up those stone steps has to hurt. Does she not notice her sister’s limping?
“Evy. Evy. Evy!” Brighton’s repeating it with each painful footstep, but her sister’s too busy blathering.
“Stop!” I call.
What am I going to do with her at the party? After the three seconds where I get nailed-that credit, what am I going to do when she opens her mouth? Or when they open theirs? Brighton shouldn’t go near a Hamilton party, where they’d gladly devour a Cross Pointer—especially a girl they think has shamed one of their own. No, this idea is stupid. I can’t do that to her.
“I changed my mind.”
“What?” Evy and Brighton’s voices blend into a chorus of confusion and indignation.
“Forget the party. You don’t want to go.”
“Didn’t I just say I would?’ She honestly sounds confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I scramble for an angle, a way to convince her it’s a bad idea. “It’s in Hamilton—you don’t want to go there.”
She’s standing halfway up the walk, one arm tight in Evy’s grasp, the other hugging her torso. Her bandaged, bare foot is picked up and resting against her other calf. It’s a pose that makes her look vulnerable and graceful, but her voice is anger and iron: “I already told you, I’m not a snob, so stop treating me like one. Who cares if it’s in Hamilton?”
“What if we go to …” even as I try to remember his name, I can’t believe I’m saying this, “that other guy’s party? The one that’s here.”
“No. We see those people every day—you don’t even like them.” She pauses to flash me an amused smile. “Besides, I want to meet Carly.”
She’s walking up the path, going through the front door, and I’m still standing there wondering how I let this get so out of control. How my screw you to Cross Pointe, Hamilton, and Carly has turned into a giant I’m screwed.
20
Brighton
9:54 P.M.
15 HOURS, 6 MINUTES LEFT