It’s Sunday morning and not a public-performance week, so I dress and make my way to the pavilion early enough to catch the calming transition where night and day still blur together. I want—no, need—to find an escape in my music and routines. I want to get so lost in them that no one can find me, not even myself.
Well, my current self anyway. I’m searching for the old Echo: the young woman I was before Kingston Hawthorne came to stay. The level-headed version of myself who didn’t put on a bikini and kid herself into believing it was innocent, only to then make a mockery of herself.
It can’t possibly be even noon yet when my solitude is butchered by obnoxious sounds of giggling and squealing. Hanging high in the air from the static bar, I look down, ready to ask for some privacy, when I’m stunned silent.
Clay, Kingston, and a guy I recognize from the football game have just joined me—and they’re not alone. There’s a girl for each of them, draped all over the guy she’s claimed. I don’t know any of them, but I know I don’t like them in my pavilion.
Since when are Clay and Kingston buddies? And better yet, where’s Savannah? She and I may not be talking, but I thought she was a staple clinger on either/both of them now.
Kingston walks over and turns off my music, then tilts his head back to look way up at me. “Hello up there, mate. Your parents said I could have a few people over. Hope you don’t mind—I didn’t realize you were in here. We can go elsewhere.”
The trio of tartlets giggles—at my expense, no doubt.
I don’t point out that the music should’ve been a big clue I was in here. And if he’s going to revert back to calling me “mate” and parading other girls around my pavilion less than twenty-four hours after kissing not only my mouth, but my body, I’ll be damned if I’m going to act like the awkwardly confused one.
Maybe I really was a terrible kisser. Or perhaps I read too much into it—after all, he’d know far better than me about the situation I’d thought we’d found ourselves in, along with the day-after protocol.
I smile so widely the corners of my mouth ache.
“It’s no problem. I was just finishing up.” I drop and tuck, landing safely in the net and taking no time to climb out and stand before the group. Part of me itches to be snarky and tell them not to touch or break anything, but Clay knows better, so I just grab my stuff and start to rush for the exit.
“You all have fun!” I call over my shoulder.
“Echo, you don’t have to go, baby girl. Stay and hang out with us.”
Clay’s words slow me down, but it’s Kingston’s addition that stops my steps completely.
“Yes, Echo, why don’t you?” I turn to face Kingston dead on, unable to read the intent behind the grin he’s wearing. “We interrupted you. You shouldn’t be the one to leave.”
“Yeah,” the brunette wrapped around Kingston agrees insincerely, the contempt in her eyes betraying her words. “Stay, please.”
Kingston’s brows rise in curiosity, anxious to see how I’ll respond. I suspect I disappoint him when I say, pleasantly with no hint of bite or sarcasm, “Thanks, but I really was finishing up. I have homework to do. See ya later!”
But before I leave, I hold up one finger—this time, it is my middle—and pretend to use it to scratch my nose. The meaning isn’t lost on Kingston, who releases a short, breathy laugh.
I force my head to remain held high as I walk away at a normal pace, telling myself it’s impossible to be the outsider I was just made to feel like in my own home.
And I keep convincing myself of that the rest of the week when Kingston has company over two more times. I don’t bother to rate any others; it’s no longer fun, and neither is he. But this is, in effect, his home now too, and he should be able to have “friends” over.
Kingston’s not being mean, or overly friendly. He’s simply indifferent. He says “hello” and “goodbye” when we cross paths at home, or school—much like you’d expect from a foreign exchange student merely taking up residence down the hall. It’s hard to explain, even to myself. There’s nothing wrong between us—no jabs, or air of animosity—but something’s shifted, and it’s both palpable and painful.
And on Thursday, when he sits down across from me at dinner, I feel like I no longer have the leeway to ask him why he has a black eye.
My father, however, doesn’t suffer from the same affliction.
“What happened to your eye?” he asks, anger and suspicion carrying his tone.
“I convinced some of my new mates to try out rugby.” Kingston lets out a chuckle, but I hear the deceit in it, loud and clear. “I should’ve been more specific on the rules, it seems.”
My father’s eyes slant with skepticism, but he nods. “It would seem. Glad to hear you weren’t in a fight. Don’t think I need to tell you that it wouldn’t be tolerated in this house.”
“Of course,” Kingston agrees. “I assure you, sir, there was no brawl of any sort.”
“Mm-hmm.” My dad hums his doubt, but lets it go.
The rest of dinner continues in an uncomfortable silence, aside from a few funny comments from Sammy. And by the time I rise to help my mother clear the table, I still haven’t met Kingston’s eyes once.