“We can if you want, you know.”
“No. No it’s okay. I mean he’s not even paying attention,” she said, though some part of her already knew that wasn’t true. There was something about the way he was behaving that set her nerves on edge. As though his awareness of her was a ghostly presence around him, invisible to everyone else but clear as day to her. He knew she was here. She knew he knew she was here.
Though it still stabbed her in the gut when he glanced her way.
He did it so stealthily, so carefully—it looked like he was just nodding along to his buddy’s chatter, as casual as you please. And then he dipped his head and scratched a thumb over his brow, effectively shading the direction of his gaze from view. Gaze flicking up to her so quick you could almost think it hadn’t happened at all. Certainly Lydia missed it.
But Letty never could.
That light in his eyes was too familiar—shot through with the kind of teasing laughter she had grown to loathe. And then there was the way he narrowed them, as though planning on doing some mischief. He was with his boys now. Mischief was the thing to do. There was no room for brittle brand-new friendships and banter about headlocks here.
She knew there wasn’t, before he even started pushing through the crowd.
“Is he coming over here?”
Lydia sounded as terrified as she felt.
Comforting, in one way.
Awful in another.
“I think he might be coming over, yes.”
“Is he going to pull some shit?”
“Also possible.” She paused, trying to swallow the rising bitterness in her voice. “Goddamn I knew I shouldn’t have worn a dress.”
“Are you kidding? That dress is fucking amazing.”
Lydia was right, too. It was the sort of thing she’d always wanted to wear: the skirt was so full it rolled like a wave when she walked, and the bodice gave her both a waist and a hint of spectacular cleavage. In certain lights she could have passed for a 1950s pinup—though she knew that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the dress ended just above her fat shins. What mattered was that it wasn’t black, or loose, or designed to hide every single body part she had.
“I know. But he won’t think so.”
“Okay, we’ll get ready to defend me in court,” Lydia said.
But the best part was the way she took her hand and squeezed, just as he strolled up.
If she lived to be a thousand, she would never know how to thank Lydia for that.
“Hey, ladies. You enjoying the party?”
“We are. Hoping to continue that trend…Trent, is it?”
Letty wondered if living to a million would be enough time to think up an adequate thank-you. The tone Lydia used alone was enough to send a bolt of glee through her. But then there was the way she purposefully said the wrong name. God, it was beautiful. It was wondrous. She wanted to clap her hands.
Until Tate started talking, and all of her hate Tate instincts started to crumble.
“Oh, my bad. Let me properly introduce myself and my friends—I’m Tate, and this tall fucker with the insane eyebrows is Chad, and the even taller dude with the crew cut is Derek. Guys, this is Lydia, I believe…and of course the babe in blue is Letty.”
One of them—Chad, she thought absently, because his eyebrows seemed to consume almost all of his forehead—stuck out his hand.
Only she couldn’t shake it. She couldn’t move at all. Most of her was still waiting for the punch line to a joke that hadn’t been told, and the rest was too shocked to do anything at all. For a full thirty seconds she just stared at the outstretched hand, unable to believe this was for real.
No insults. No bros being bros. No mean commentary on her dress.
Just an introduction. An introduction she still couldn’t respond to.
Lydia had to shake the hand for her. “Nice to meet you,” she said, while Letty watched and waited for Tate to make his move. He was still looking at her steadily. Surely something was coming?
There had to be something coming.
“You want to dance?”
Though God, she had not anticipated that. And nor had Lydia—she shot her a look almost immediately, one eye enormous and the other a scrunched up slit. It took all of Letty’s willpower not to react to it, and just plunge on into whatever insanity this conversation was turning out to be.
“I…you know I would but this music is just…”
“Not exactly The Veronicas, huh?”
“No. I guess…no. Right. Yeah.”
“But if you go around the back though you can at least make out a single song.”
“That…um actually…the thing is I don’t really know how to dance. I mean I know how to dance. But other people would probably describe it as more of a drunken spasm.”
“Other people are fools and morons.”
“That seems unlikely at best.”
“Nah, you’re just using the wrong scale.”
“Oh, and which scale should I be using?”