Mac almost skipped out of the recital hall. “Yes,” she said, pumping her fist in the hallway. She looked at her phone again, but still no text from Blake.
She barely remembered driving to the cupcake store. She parked out front and was about to push through the door and call his name. But when she saw Blake behind the counter, she froze on the sidewalk.
Another girl’s arms were wrapped around him. A girl with short, curly hair, dressed from head to foot in concert black. Claire.
“It was perfect,” Claire said, gazing up into Blake’s eyes. There were two open windows at the front of the shop; Mac could hear every word. “I totally nailed it. And I saw her go in, too. She was super pale. Probably freaked that I’d done the Tchaikovsky.”
Mackenzie’s blood curdled. She turned away, her hands on the door handle, when Claire’s voice rang out.
“Oh, hey, Macks.” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “How was your audition? You weren’t unprepared or anything, were you?”
Mackenzie turned to see Claire’s ugly smile. Then she peeked at Blake. His eyes were lowered. He’d turned pale. All thoughts in her brain froze.
But then she blurted, “I thought you guys broke up.”
Claire unwound herself from Blake and stepped out from the back of the counter. “I knew you’d fall for it,” she sneered at Mac.
Mac blinked. “F-fall for what?”
“I told Blake to hang out with you, schedule a few extra band rehearsals.” Claire grinned. “I knew you’d drop everything. Even practicing for your audition.”
“You . . . what?” She glanced at Blake, but he still wouldn’t look at her. None of this was making any sense.
“I wanted him to distract you before the audition.” She smirked. “And he did. Oh, and all your confessions to Blake? He told me everything. Including that you were playing Tchaikovsky.” She reached across the counter and clutched his hand. “And we aren’t broken up. We’re stronger than ever.”
Mac stared at Blake, her heart pounding fast. “Is that true?”
But Blake still had his eyes lowered. He didn’t answer Mac, but he didn’t stand up for Claire, either. He looked trapped and humiliated. “I . . . ,” he started, then looked away.
“Yes.” Claire spoke for him. “Every single word is true.”
Mac could feel the tears forming in her eyes. But then she realized: She could give Claire exactly what she wanted and bawl her eyes out right now, or she could beat Claire at the only game either of them had ever really cared about. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at her ex-friend. “Well, maybe Blake doesn’t want me,” she heard herself say. “But I’m pretty sure Juilliard does. Good luck at Oberlin,” she said with a sniff for good measure.
Before Claire could get another word in, Mackenzie turned on her heel and pushed out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FRIDAY EVENING, JULIE STUDIED THE miniature windmill in front of her, biting her lip. She and Carson were at the Beacon Heights mini golf course, where they were playing a girls-versus-boys tournament with a bunch of kids from school. She’d have to time this shot just right to get the ball through the moving slats of the windmill and to the other side, where a tiny white flag fluttered on the Astroturf, marking the end of the putt-putt hole.
She stepped forward, squared her shoulders, and pulled back the putter to swing.
“Don’t miss,” Carson teased just as the golf club made contact.
Julie’s neon-pink ball went wildly off course and landed in the water hazard on the far right. “Hey!” she cried. “That’s not fair.” But the words died in her throat as she came face-to-face with Carson’s wry smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry, we’re playing fair now?” he teased, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. Julie shivered and closed her eyes. It felt so good.
“Come on, Wells, it’s your turn,” James Wong called out from behind them. Julie stepped aside, feeling lighter than normal. She knew why: Ashley wasn’t here.
She glanced over at Carson, her eyes drifting to where the hem of his pale blue T-shirt grazed the top of his Bonobos cargo shorts, revealing a thin strip of stomach. Carson caught her staring and winked. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
It was Carson’s turn next. He gripped his putter and took an expert swing, sending the ball easily into the hole in just one shot. “Yes!” Carson exclaimed. The other boys fist-pumped him in victory.
As everyone started toward the next hole, Carson fell into step next to Julie, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. Her heart raced at the contact.
“I’m sorry for playing dirty,” Carson said, his voice low. “What if I make it up to you? I could help you on this hole, show you the proper technique.”