“So why’d you make Celia invite me?” I asked. “I can’t believe you’re that hard up for company.”
Miles shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Consider it payback.” The marshmallow dropped dead into the fiery depths. He started on a second. “I asked off work for this. You’d think with all the alcohol consumption and the people groping each other”—he motioned to our Jaws of Life bench friends—“and the anonymous bedroom sex, it’d be a little more interesting.”
I shivered. “I definitely kind of walked in on someone in a bedroom upstairs.”
Miles made a weird coughing sound, like he was holding back a laugh. I’d never heard him laugh. “You walked in on them? What did they do?”
“I didn’t actually walk in. The door was cracked open, and I heard someone talking—”
“Who was it?”
“Ria. I don’t know who the guy was, but it wasn’t Cliff.”
Miles’s eyebrows set in a hard line above his eyes. The second marshmallow fell. He grabbed a third. “Whoever he was, I hope he doesn’t mind having his nose cartilage lodged in the back of his skull. Cliff can be territorial.”
“You sound like you’ve experienced this. Does it have something to do with why you hate Ria? Ooh, were you one of those guys? The ones that she . . . y’know . . .”
“No.” His look was deadly. “I hate Ria because there’s nothing going on inside her head besides volleyball and sparkly things. I hate Cliff for the same reason, only football instead of volleyball and sex instead of sparkly things.”
It certainly hadn’t taken long for Evil Miles to show up again. He didn’t say anything else. We sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the snap of the fire and the music from the deck and the sounds coming from the bench couple, who were really going at it. Even with them making out right there and the bowling ball being so conspicuous, I still wanted to take a picture of it all.
Miles burned his way through another three marshmallows. “I think Celia may hate you now,” he said finally.
“No kidding? I wasn’t sure—that viper glare she gave me when you made her invite me didn’t quite get the message across, I guess.” I grabbed a skewer and jammed the prongs into a burning log. “What’s with her, anyway? She’s all over you. Is she your ex-girlfriend or something?”
“No. I’ve never”—he switched gears in the blink of an eye—“she’s always been like that. I don’t know why.”
“She likes you.” I still stood by what I’d said to Theo, even if she thought it was weird.
“That’s . . . stupid.”
“Oh, so you think so, too?” I said.
Miles looked over at me. “Do you hate me?”
The question was so sudden, and his voice was so bland and devoid of emotion, that I wondered if he even wanted an answer. “Um. You’re a bit of a jerk.”
He seemed unconvinced.
“Okay, okay, you’re a complete douche bag. You’re the biggest asshat on the planet. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No, the truth’ll do fine.”
“Okay. You’re a jerk.” And you have beautiful eyes. “But no, I don’t hate you.” I became very intent on moving ashes into piles. I didn’t want to look at him again, but I could feel his eyes on me. “I do think the gutting of the books was a step too far.”
“And gluing my locker shut wasn’t? Good job on not admitting that, by the way.”
“Thanks. How’s your hand?”
“Better,” he said. “Animalia Arthropoda Insecta Hymenoptera Formicidae Solenopsis. Little bastards. Lucky I’m not allergic to the damn things. If I’d had a reaction, I would’ve sued.”
“And what business would a rich kid like you have suing a poor kid like me?”
The end of Miles’s skewer hit the ground next to the fire. He turned his full attention on me. “What makes you think I’m rich?”
I shrugged. “You’re a brat? You’re an only child? Your shoes are always polished?” It was true—his shirt was always wrinkle-free, his tie straight, his pants sharp and ironed, and his shoes were blacker and shinier than anyone else’s. And his hair, let’s not even get started on his hair, because he had hair that looked like he’d walked right out of the shower every morning and artfully styled it to dry in the most amazingly messy way. Like good-looking bed head, if that’s even possible. Whatever he was, he certainly took pains to make himself look nice.
“My shoes are always polished?” he said incredulously. “That’s why you think I’m rich? Because I like shiny shoes?”
I shrugged again, heat seeping into my face.
“And sometimes there’s a good reason why someone’s an only child, so don’t even go there.”
“Fine!” I held up my hands. “Sorry, okay? You’re not rich.”
Miles turned back to the fire. Another silence blanketed us, but this one wasn’t awkward, either. Just really, really heavy. Like one of us should have kept talking until we ran out of things to say.
“Exactly how good are you with history?” Miles asked, his tone back to bland and unaffected.