“So?” Kat asks again. She tucks her short blond hair behind her ears and takes a sip from her beer. A couple squeezes past us, the guy’s hands on the girl’s curvy hips. Kat presses into me as if she’s afraid she might catch something.
“So what?” I look at her arched eyebrows. Kat was born and raised in Woodmont. We’ve been best friends since we were twelve and met in the swim class my dad taught. We’ve always lived a town apart until a few months ago, when my parents convinced themselves that a change of scene would help untie the massive tangle that is our family. They truly believed the move from Nashville to suburban Woodmont for my senior year would make the whole thing easier and bring my father’s little girl back from whatever pit I had banished her to. Four months later, Kat is still the only flower on the crap pile that is my new life.
“You’re not going to tell me anything? Come on, Josh Ellison? He’s cute. He’s supposed to be the best third baseman the school has had in, like, a decade.”
“Really.”
“Yes. God, Hadley. Don’t you know anything about him?”
“I know he plays baseball.” I move my eyes around the room, tucking its inhabitants into neat little boxes. Seventeen girls, eleven boys. Sweaty, scruffy, clean-cut. Bored, nervous, horny, drunk. My gaze lands on Matt Pavers, Josh’s best friend. He lifts an eyebrow at me and I look away, tugging my shirt lower over my hips.
“Do you like him?” She sticks out her forefinger, counting. “Henry was too cocky, Isaac was too Ivy League–obsessed and wore argyle socks and was, well, pretty much still Sloane’s. And Jeremy was . . . what? Didn’t he smell like soup or something?”
“Pot roast.” My correction slams into her granite stare. I cross my arms over my chest, my empty cup dangling from my forefinger, and shrug. “What? It was like kissing him right after he downed Grandma’s Sunday dinner.”
“So do you like Josh?”
I release a breath. “No, Kitty Kat. I don’t like him.”
“What’s wrong with him? He’s nice.”
“And a total player.”
“Well, yeah, I guess so, but—”
“Liking him isn’t the point.”
“Here we go.” She snorts and then coughs and I bite back a laugh. She’s never been good at disdain, no matter how heartfelt. “Well, what if he likes you?”
“I doubt it. Josh Ellison stores his brain in his pants. He isn’t the dating type.” At least, I don’t think he is.
Since everything in my life went to crap, I haven’t exactly been on the prowl for heart-fluttering romance. I would have sworn off guys altogether, but there’s something about the way they look at me right before they lean in to kiss me. Head tilted, eyes fixed on mine, thumb swiping across my cheek. It reels me in every time. I would hate myself if it weren’t so damn therapeutic.
Plus, it’s not like I’ve ever let anyone beyond second base. In the past six months, there have only been a few guys, but whenever Kat talks about it, she turns into her mother and starts blah-blah-blahing about control issues and daddy issues and vulnerability issues and trust issues. Her mouth forms a neat little knot, her tongue running over her teeth the way she does when she’s trying to figure something out. After all, she was friends with the old Hadley. The old Hadley believed in romance and lasting love. Craved it, would wait a lifetime for it, same as Kat.
The new Hadley knows better.
“Have you seen Rob?” I ask, to change the subject.
She tries to resist. The battle between her quest for my rehabilitation and shameless drooling over her five-year-long crush wages in her face. Eventually a grin presses dimples into her cheeks. “I saw him while you were upstairs. He smiled at me. Can you believe it?”
“And?”
She puts her cup to her lips but doesn’t drink. Even in the dim light, I can see the crimson spilling into her face. “And what?”
“Kat, just go talk to him.”
“I can’t. He was playing pool with his swim buddies, and besides, what would I say? ‘I think you’re gorgeous and I’ve loved you since the first day of seventh grade when you walked me to the cafeteria because I got lost’?”
I shrug. “Might be a bit too subtle. I’d go for ‘I think you’re a god and I want to bear your children.’”
She smacks my arm and laughs.
“Or better yet,” I say. “How about ‘Hi. Great party. Nice job on the four hundred IM last week. Wanna dance?’”
“Oh, God, I can’t ask him to dance.”
“You can and you should.” I try to nudge her forward a little, but she angles out of my reach. “You can’t just wait around for some grand gesture, Kat.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not like you, Hadley. I want more than five minutes of feeling special.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor. Kat focuses on her cup, picking at a snarled piece of plastic on the rim. Before I can question her, tense voices, sharp and high-pitched, rise up behind us. Kat and I turn and see Sloane and Josh arguing in the kitchen. Josh’s brows bunch together and Sloane gestures wildly. Jenny Kalinski stands between them, biting her bottom lip, her dark pixie hair framing her petite features. I watch Josh shake his head and try to pull Jenny toward him. Sloane pushes his chest, her face contorted.
My breath catches when I hear my own name wedged in between some foul words. Josh flinches and rakes his hand down his face. He grabs a beer from a nearby cooler before stumbling out the back door onto the porch.
A sick feeling settles into my stomach. I run the pad of my thumb over each of my fingertips, one by one. I watch Jenny try to follow Josh. Index finger. Sloane grabs Jenny’s arm and stops her. Middle finger. Sloane’s red glare takes flight and lands on me. Ring finger.
“Uh-oh,” Kat says, her eyes wide on the scene. “Hadley?”
I don’t respond, but stiffen my spine as Sloane crosses the room, Jenny in tow. Pinkie finger.
I gulp down my surprise as Sloane gets in my face. She’s so close, her features blur together into one snarling mess. I step away, my back hitting the wall.
“God, Sloane. What the hell?”
“Running out of single guys, Hadley?” she asks. “What do you think you’re doing with Jenny’s boyfriend?”
Jenny and I lock eyes. Hers are red and watery and huge, like an ingénue in an old silent film. The effect is so familiar, something knots up in my chest.
I force a dry heave down my throat and push myself off the wall, straightening my shirt. “Her boyfriend? Since when?”
“Since whenever we say, bitch.”
We’ve attracted the attention of half the room, all the conversation replaced with laughs and wide-open stares. Sloane either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Her green eyes are unflinching on mine, and I struggle to school my expression.