“Brighton, just—” He holds his hands up in a helpless shrug.
“Go. Your friends want to talk to you—I don’t. I’ll call Amelia for a ride.”
“Bright, please …”
I huff as he gets my name wrong—again.
“Good-bye, Jonah.” I turn my back to him and don’t exhale until their voices are shut behind the slamming of the front door. Then I bend over, hands braced against my knees, and try to breathe. I can’t. I can’t believe. He just—
I won’t let myself cry. He’s not worth crying over. I thought I was making progress. I thought we were almost friends. I thought he was cute.
But then again, I also thought he needed me. Needed a friend in Cross Pointe and someone to be nice to him. After seeing how he swaggered through that door and the way everyone here flocked to see him, it’s clear the last thing he needs is another friend. He’s got a houseful of people who care about him, and they don’t want me anywhere near him.
I fish my cell out of my bag. There’s a text from Silvia on the screen: OMG! You’ll NEVER guess—
I close it without reading the rest. I don’t want to guess right now. Or gush. Or smile. Or stress about whether every word I say is what someone wants to hear.
I just want to go home.
I can’t be crying when I call Amelia. She’d call the police and have them come wait with me. Or yell at Peter to break every traffic law and get here faster.
I gulp a deep breath. Hold it a beat. Take myself to the same mental place as before a complicated dive. Exhale.
Dial.
Voice mail.
“Dammit!” I stamp my foot. Gasp. The pain rocketing from my toes is excruciating. I can’t breathe or swear or cry.
“Hey, it’s Amelia—but you already know that since you called me—” begins to play in my ear, but I hang up before the beep. I don’t even have the address for her to plug into her GPS.
I head down the driveway to get the street name and number off the mailbox and then call Peter. If he doesn’t answer, I guess it’s Evy, though the thought makes me cringe. She won’t let me live this down, even though it’s her fault I’m here to begin with. If she hadn’t been home, I would never have said yes. I wouldn’t be stuck in some sketchy town at a party full of people who think I’m one step up from an expensive pole dancer.
Black plastic numbers on the wooden pole read “3845.”
But 3845 what? I don’t even know the street name. I lean against the mailbox and look down the cracked stretch of asphalt, trying to figure out which way to walk to find a street sign.
There’s a group of fireflies in the bushes at the far edge of the yard. They show up as little more than pinpricks of light in the darkness. Blinking yellow, then disappearing, and one strange one that glows the color of solid flame. A mystery that’s solved when a shadow detaches from a tree trunk and taints the muggy air with the smell of cigarette smoke. He steps closer, passing through the flickering light of a streetlamp and revealing a guy who is taller and bigger than Jonah. He crosses to me with a confident swagger, then leans across the mailbox.
“No, you don’t. I caught you.”
“What?”
“Every time Jeff throws a party, the mailbox gets destroyed. Smashed with a baseball bat. Or egged. Last time someone used a cherry bomb, and we had to pick up mailbox shards from all over the yard. It was not fun to do while hungover. Please don’t make me do that again.”
He’s smiling.
“I’m not going to. I just needed the address. Is this your house? Are you related to Jeff?”
“Jeff’s my little bro.” The guy grins wider. “I’m Digg.”
“Digg?” I ask, then realize how rude I sound. “I’m Brighton.”
“Brighton?” he repeats in parody of my question, but he smiles again. “Digg’s short for Diggins, my last name. And, you know, I think I’m going to believe your address story. You look too sweet to be involved with mailbox sabotage. I’m glad I found you. It’s like you were an angel just waiting to be discovered.”
I blush and laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
Digg laughs too. “That was even cheesier out loud than it was in my head, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Can we make a pact to forget I ever said that?”
He’s got these amazing blue eyes, so bright I can see them in the streetlight, and the type of eye contact that makes it possible to admire them without staring. “I’ll think about it,” I tease.
He stubs out a cigarette butt on the post. “C’mon, now that you’ve seen the driveway, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”
“Actually, I was leaving. I just need to call a friend with the address. Speaking of which, 3845 what?”
“Oakmont. But at least let me wait with you until your ride comes.”
Digg is handsome and seems harmless; best of all, he wasn’t there to see everything that went down. I nod.