“Good, but let’s wait inside. Away from rogue eggs or mailbox debris when the inevitable happens.” He slings a hand around my shoulder and leads me back down the driveway.
His hand is huge; it engulfs my whole shoulder and part of my arm. He seems taller now that I’m standing next to him; my head barely matches the height of his bulky shoulders. Yet his hand and eyes aren’t anywhere near my chest and he’s left a friend-sized space between us. I don’t even feel a twinge of what Amelia calls “perv alert.”
“Why do people destroy your mailbox?”
Digg chuckles. “Damned if I know. Probably because my dad works for the post office. Guess it’s supposed to be funny?”
“Oh.” Definitely doesn’t sound funny to me. I move to turn back across the lawn, already nervous about the reception waiting on the other side of the front door, but Digg doesn’t follow.
“C’mon.” He gestures toward a door off the garage. “Let’s go to the basement.”
Since the party was in the kitchen, I agree.
Except the basement is more crowded than the kitchen—the sounds of electronic explosions, shouts, music, and chatter all compete within the large rectangular room. The white tile floor does nothing to absorb any of the noise, and every sound echoes: the splash of a cup that’s knocked off the Ping-Pong table by an accidental elbow, the soundtrack of a video game, the yells of the players seated in rocker chairs on the floor, the squeal of a girl who slides in the spilled beer, and a chorus of “chug, chug” from a trio of guys.
I almost accuse Digg of lying to me—I wanted to find a quiet place to make a phone call, not to join the center of the party—but then I realize that the assumption was mine, not anything he said.
We’re separated from most of the chaos by a beat-up gray sectional couch. It’s facing away from the action, toward the stairs, a small bar area, and the door that opens to the driveway. Digg flops down on it—momentarily distracting its only other occupants: a couple tangled at lips and legs. They look over, smile, and reengage.
I sit next to him. Feeling awkward and then uncomfortable when he spreads his legs to cover the space between us and my thigh ends up touching his. Trying to make it look like a casual shift, I lean away from him. Digg doesn’t move any closer. I’m being an idiot. That’s how guys sit—I’m overreacting. One night with Jonah and I’m seeing danger everywhere. This guy looks like he stepped out of an advertisement for Abercrombie: clean-cut, welcoming smile, and a T-shirt and shorts broken in to fit him perfectly. I need to stop ogling him and think of a conversation topic, but he beats me to it.
“So how come I don’t know you already, Brighton?”
“I don’t live in Hamilton. I came with Jonah Prentiss—we’re just friends.”
“Ah, Prentiss. I haven’t seen him in ages. I’ll have to catch up with him later.”
“He moved—to Cross Pointe, that’s where I’m from.”
Digg nods. “Now it makes sense. I’ve been going through the yearbook in my head, trying to figure out how I could forget someone like you. Cross Pointe, huh? So Prentiss brought you slumming?”
I sit straight up on the couch. “What? No! I would never say that, or even think it!”
“Relax, I’m just teasing you.” He puts a hand on my arm and gives me a gentle shake. “Loosen up a little. After being at college for a year, I could care less where people come from. And I’m hardly going to complain about a new, gorgeous face at a party where I’ve known most everyone since they were grade school booger-eaters.”
He’s right, I’m totally on edge and acting like a priss, but even talking to someone welcoming, it’s hard to shake the feeling that I’m on hostile turf. I exhale, then make the conscious decision to lean back and smile. “Where do you go to school?”
“I’m a freshman at State. Got home on Tuesday.”
“My sister’s a sophomore at Glenn Mary; she flew in today. She said her first week home last year was like readjusting to life on another planet.”
“It’s not so bad. I mean, it’s weird reconnecting with everyone from high school. And it sucks having rules and curfews again, but it’s good to have my mom do my laundry and get food from a cabinet, not a cafeteria.”
“It’s got to be nice being done with finals for the year. I still have two weeks and all that stress standing between me and summer.”
“Ah.” He nods. “Is that why you’re so tense? Damn finals.”
He moves like he might give me a back rub, so I sit up and lean away, pointing to the various baseball pennants and paraphernalia tacked to the walls around the room. “Are you a Phillies fan?”
“Hells, yeah! Aren’t you?” He leans in to finger the edge of a poster tacked to the wall behind my head.
“Sure.” I try to think of a follow-up question.
“Good, because I’d hate to have to despise you. You’re too damn pretty to despise.”
I blush and roll my eyes. He’s flirting, yes, but it’s casual. Familiar. In fact, his praise makes me more comfortable. In control. I know how to respond to guys in these situations. It’s Jonah’s personalized barbs I can’t handle.