The wooden gate that leads to the Pattersons’ yard has been propped open, and I duck inside as another knot of laughing people slips out. I can smell the alcohol on them, a sour-sweet scent that reminds me of pickling spices and sweat. Ashley’s dad always taps a couple of kegs for the Fourth of July party, and the polished cement bar on the far end of the patio houses a vast collection of liquor bottles so that guests can mix their own drinks if beer isn’t their thing. In fact, admission to the party is a hot and cold dish to share, and a contribution to the outdoor wet bar. It’s teeming with glass bottles of expensive whiskey and cheap rum, fine wine and Boone’s Farm. Law isn’t the party type, but my parents always come to the Pattersons’ Independence Day soiree, and I’m convinced it’s because of the bounty of alcohol.
Even though it’s getting late and people will soon head to the fairgrounds to lay out their blankets for the city fireworks show, the yard is still crowded. A group of girls in bikinis lingers in the pool, laughing at some private joke and preening for any appreciative onlookers. And I can’t even see the bar for the circle of people around it.
I don’t know where to begin. The grassy expanse beyond the in-ground pool is filled with lawn chairs and crisscrossed with strings of festive lanterns and Christmas lights, but it’s not bright enough for me to make out individual faces. I want to find Jonathan, but would rather not run into Ashley, and the thought of Sullivan leaves me conflicted. I stand frozen just inside the gate and wonder if I should leave. What do I think I’m doing here, anyway?
As I’m about to turn on my heel and go, I catch sight of something unexpected: my mom. Reb is leaning against one of the high tables that have been scattered around the pool deck. She’s holding a drink with an umbrella in it, and she’s smiling. Grinning, actually, and now laughing at something that Peter Knapper, the local dentist, is saying.
Mom looks relaxed, pretty. She’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a white T-shirt that sets off the sweep of her long, loose hair and accentuates her classic beauty. I can’t look away from her. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so luminous and happy. It’s an innocent conversation—I know that. Dr. Knapper is a devoted husband and father, but his friendly attention makes people blossom somehow. And yet, I feel like I’m spying on my mother. Witnessing something I was never meant to see.
I can feel a full-body blush coming on, and I’m about to disappear out the gate when Law comes up behind Mom. As I watch, he puts one arm around her waist and roughly grabs her upper arm with his other hand, causing her to spill her drink. Dr. Knapper leans forward to help, but he stops short when he catches sight of the look on Law’s face. Even from a distance I can feel the ire in that glare. It’s a cold fury, the kind that burns. I just can’t tell if it’s directed at the dentist or my mother. Maybe both.
Without a single word, Law begins to steer Mom to the gate where I’m still trying to decide whether to stay or go. There are people in between us, but Law seems unsteady on his feet, and completely focused on Reb anyway. Still, I turn my back on them and hurry in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd of people as I go. I don’t want them to see me. I can’t explain why, but the need to fade into the background is so strong I don’t stop until I’m on the far side of the enormous yard.
There’s a wrought-iron gazebo back here, but it’s too far from the pool and the bustle of the picnic tables and speakers blaring country music to draw much attention, and I have it to myself. I sink to a bench gratefully because my legs feel as if they won’t support me much longer. What did I just see? I can’t quite get my head around it. I’ve never caught Law looking at Reb like that before, and I’m not sure I fully understand the implications. He wasn’t just angry, there was disappointment and betrayal and resignation in his face. He looked as if what Mom had done—talking to a neighbor—was unforgivable.
I want to go home. No, not home, because I’m sure Law and Reb are headed there. I want to be somewhere that I don’t have to worry about the Murphys or Jonathan or Ashley or my parents. If I’m honest with myself, I want Sullivan, and the ache of it nearly brings me to tears. My phone is in my pocket with the ringer turned all the way up, so I know I haven’t missed any calls or texts from him, and my heart deflates. I’ve been such an idiot.
Standing up, I resolve to find Ashley, apologize, and then go home with my tail between my legs for the rest of the summer. Jonathan’s right: none of this is my business, and I should never have allowed myself to get dragged into things so far beyond my ken.
When an arm goes around my waist from behind, I gasp in shock, but the sound is almost immediately blocked by a rough hand against my mouth. I’m pressed head to toe against the body of a man not much taller than me, but significantly stronger. I struggle, but his fingers are cutting off my breath and stifling my cries. “Hi, June,” he whispers in my ear. I don’t recognize the voice.
Just when I begin to truly panic, blood zipping through my veins, another voice carves through the growing gloom. “Grow up, Dalton. Let her go.”
As quickly as I was seized, I’m released. I whirl to see Dalton smirking and Jonathan cringing not far behind.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” I spit. For a second I’m not sure if I’m talking to Dalton or to Jonathan. I can’t believe my brother let that happen.
Dalton assumes my target and laughs. “She’s a spunky one, eh?” To me he says, “You let Sully touch you, darlin’. This is practically the same thing.”
I bite back a retort, because what do I know? Maybe Sullivan and Dalton are exactly the same. I haven’t heard from Sullivan since we talked at the pancake breakfast.
“Where have you been all day?” I ask Jonathan. It sounds like an accusation because it is. I’m furious for a dozen different reasons, but right now my anger is wholly directed at my brother and the fact that he allowed Dalton to put his hands all over me.
Jonathan has the decency to look stricken by what just happened, but his repentance clearly doesn’t change anything. He shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just hanging out.”
I scowl at him for a moment, fighting back the urge to cry out all the things I think I know. I could tell Dalton about the pictures I found, about the fact that I believe my brother is lying. Just exactly who he’s lying to is beyond me, but it would feel good to throw fuel on that fire all the same. Something volatile hovers in the air around us, and I feel a bit like a child who’s walked in on her parents fighting. There are things going on that I just don’t understand. So I turn and walk away without another word.
“Stop!” Jonathan jogs a few paces and falls into step beside me. Across the yard, someone cannonballs into the pool fully dressed and a howl of collective laughter drowns out his next words. It seems for a minute as if he will reach out to take me by the arm, but my expression must deter him. Instead, he leans in. “Don’t go that way. Ashley’s on the warpath.”
When I waver for a second, he takes his chance. “Follow me. There’s a back gate.”
Of course I know the Pattersons have a back gate. I’ve used it a million times. Still, I don’t want to give Jonathan the satisfaction of taking his advice. Nor do I want to run into Ashley. My earlier bravado is shaken, and I just don’t know if I can handle a face-to-face confrontation right now. No, I decide, and wordlessly stalk off in the direction of a much smaller gate set into the far corner of the Pattersons’ eight-foot perimeter fence.
Dalton and Jonathan follow. “Leaving so soon?” I ask, my voice dripping with snark. I’m furious; I can feel it sparking and white-hot in my chest.
“We’ve been here for hours,” Dalton says, clearly unmoved by the way he affected me. “Had to take advantage of the Pattersons’ booze.”
Naturally. Dalton does, indeed, seem drunk. But when I glance at Jonathan, his gaze is steady and his stride sure. He’s stone-cold sober, I can tell.
What Dalton sees in my brother is beyond me. Jonathan is just eighteen, still in high school, and so different from Dalton and the rest of the Tates; it’s almost jarring to see them together.
Halting, I cross my arms over my chest. “I want to talk to my brother,” I say. “Alone.”
Dalton laughs, but Jonathan fixes me with a stare that says: Don’t do this.