“Thank you,” Nat blurted out. “For helping me. That was really . . . I mean, you didn’t have to.”
“No problem,” Dodge said. Heather couldn’t see his face, but there was a weird quality to his voice, like he was being choked.
“I mean, we’ve never even spoken before. . . .” Maybe realizing she sounded rude, Nat trailed off.
For a minute, there was silence. Heather sent another text to Bishop. WTF?
Then Dodge said abruptly, “We spoke before. Once. At the homecoming bonfire last year. You called me Dave.”
“I did?” Nat giggled nervously. “Stupid. I was probably drunk. Remember, Heather? We took those disgusting shots.”
“Mmmm.” Heather was still standing. She leaned up against the door, listening to the sound of the rain, which was drumming a little harder now. She strained to hear, underneath it, the continued sounds of shouting. She couldn’t believe Bishop still hadn’t texted her back. Bishop always responded to her messages right away.
“Anyway, I’m an idiot,” Nat was saying. “Anyone will tell you that. But I couldn’t very well forget a name like Dodge, could I? I wish I had a cool name.”
“I like your name,” Dodge said quietly.
Heather felt a sharp pain go through her. She had heard in Dodge’s voice a familiar longing, a hollowness—and she knew then, immediately and without doubt, that Dodge liked Natalie.
For a second she had a blind moment of envy, a feeling that gripped her from all sides. Of course. Of course Dodge liked Nat. She was pretty and giggly and small and cute, like an animal you’d find in someone’s purse. Like Avery.
The association arrived unexpectedly, and she dismissed it quickly. She didn’t care about Avery, and she didn’t care whether Dodge liked Nat, either. It wasn’t her business.
Still, the idea continued to drum through her, like the constant patter of the rain: that no one would ever love her.
“How long do you think we should wait?” Nat asked.
“Not too much longer,” Dodge said.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Heather knew she should make conversation, but she was too tired.
“I wish it wasn’t so dark,” Nat said after a few minutes, rustling. Heather could tell from her voice she was getting impatient.
Dodge stood up. “Wait here,” he said, and slipped outside.
For a while there was silence except for a tinny banging—something moving through the pipes—and the hiss of water on the roof.
“I’m going to go to L.A.,” Nat blurted out suddenly. “If I win.”
Heather turned to her. Nat looked defiant, as though she expected Heather to start making fun of her. “What for?” Heather asked.
“The surfers,” Nat said. Then she rolled her eyes. “Hollywood, bean brain. What do you think for?”
Heather went over to her and crouched. Nat always said she wanted to be an actress, but Heather had never thought she was serious—not serious enough to do it, definitely not serious enough to play Panic for it.
But Heather just nudged her with a shoulder. “Promise me that when you’re rich and famous, you won’t forget the bean brains you knew back when.”
“I promise,” Nat said. The air smelled faintly like charcoal. “What about you? What will you do if you win?”
Heather shook her head. She wanted to say: Run until I burst. Build miles and miles and miles between me and Carp. Leave the old Heather behind, burn her to dust. Instead, she shrugged. “Go somewhere, I guess. Sixty-seven grand buys a lot of gas.”
Nat shook her head. “Come on, Heather,” she said quietly. “Why’d you really enter?”
Just like that, Heather thought of Matt, and how she had been so close to telling him that she loved him, and felt like she would cry. “Did you know?” she said finally. “About Matt, I mean, and Delaney.”
“I heard a rumor,” Nat said carefully. “But I didn’t believe it.”
“I heard she . . . with him . . .” Heather couldn’t actually say the words. She knew she was probably a little prude, especially compared to Nat. She was embarrassed about it and proud of it at the same time: she just didn’t see what was so great about fooling around. “At the frigging Arboretum.”
“She’s a whore,” Nat said matter-of-factly. “Bet she gives him herpes. Or worse.”
“Worse than herpes?” Heather said doubtfully.
“Syphilis. Turns you into a moron. Puts holes in the brain, swiss-cheese-style.”
Heather sometimes forgot that Nat could always make her laugh. “I hope not,” she said. She managed to smile. “He wasn’t that smart to begin with. I don’t think he has a lot of brain to spare.”
“You hope so, you mean.” Nat mimed holding up a glass. “To Delaney’s syphilis.”
“You’re crazy,” Heather said, but she was laughing full-on now.
Nat ignored her. “May it turn Matt Hepley’s brain to delicious, gooey cheese.”
“Amen,” Heather said, and raised her arm.
“Amen.” They pretended to clink.