Barely half an hour in, that prediction comes true. Lucas enters with a bang, tugging in half the swim team, and navigates the crowd with his usual smile. When he waves my way, guilt gnaws at me. I shouldn’t have told Claire. He’s obviously not out yet—I don’t know a single kid at Paloma High who is out. A couple of kids seem pretty obviously gay, but it’s sure not on their Facebook or anything. At school, the most out-of-the-box person by far is Burke Fischer, wearer of jeggings and heels, who doesn’t seem to give a solitary damn what people think. But Burke’s a loner, and I doubt Lucas could survive without his constant swarm of bros.
I get that it’s scary, and that Paloma High School isn’t hyper-progressive-gay-friendly-land, but I still can’t believe he didn’t tell Claire. That’s a huge thing to keep quiet for that long. Especially for someone you say you’re in love with.
Though I guess if you love someone, the thought of losing their approval is probably twice as terrifying.
The party’s in full swing when I realize I forgot my overnight bag. Juni offers me the use of everything in her house, of course, but I need contact solution, and her whole family is 20/20. She also offers her clothes, which gets a hearty laugh from my end. Wearing Juni’s clothes would be like trying to wear one of those little sweaters that people stuff their Scottish terriers into.
I call Kat. “What?” she grunts. About as cheery a greeting as I expected.
“Yo. Is Dad home yet?” I ask.
“Negative.”
“I left my bag on the kitchen table. You think you could maybe drop it off at Juni’s when he brings the car home?”
Kat heaves a sigh. “Fine. God knows when that’ll be.”
Dad must be closing up, because by an hour in, Kat still hasn’t shown. People have filled the long halls of Juni’s house. There’s packs of athletes, crews of yapping sophomores, and nervous clumps of freshmen who look so tiny, I get this urge to swat the drinks out of their hands and hand them The Land Before Time DVDs. Edging around a guy who’s doing a pretty decent Chewbacca impersonation, I enter the kitchen and find Juniper sitting at the counter playing DJ.
I sidle up, eyeing the beer in her hand. “How many is that? Be honest.”
“Hey! Three. I’m going slow.”
“Awesome. Not that last week wasn’t great, but like . . .”
Juni grins. “Vomiting, bad. I know.”
“So. Vital question. Do you still have that sparkling lemonade from my birthday party?”
“There might be a bottle in my parents’ fridge,” she says. “They’ve been using it as a mixer, though, so no promises. Also, if you find anyone in there, can you kick them out?”
I make a face. “Will do.” In August, during my birthday party, we caught not one but two couples making out on Juniper’s parents’ bed. Simultaneously. Although I doubt anyone’s doing that now—10:15 is a little early for those sorts of messy shenanigans.
As I make my way past the study toward the wide, curling staircase, I hear someone yelling, “Shots!”
I sigh. Juniper better not join in.
I jog up the staircase that wraps around the circular foyer wall, framing a heavy chandelier that weeps golden beads. The rug on the second-floor landing is thick under my feet, hushing my steps as I pad toward Juniper’s parents’ bedroom. Plaques with Juniper’s achievements plaster the walls, first place in violin contest after violin contest.
I shoulder the door open. This room is a lavish, two-tiered confection. Oil paintings hang on paneled walls, and a mirrored bar shines on the second level, up the oak-dark stairs. A banister of the same dark wood cordons off the bar area, and looking past it, I freeze. Matt Jackson is standing by the counter. His presence is a strange, warm shock.
I break the silence. “Matt. What are you doing here?”
“I . . . everything downstairs was sort of loud, so, uh,” he says. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone I knew, and I felt weird. What are you doing?”
“I wanted lemonade,” I say lamely. “But I meant, what are you doing here-here? At Juniper’s?” I close the door, heading for the stairs. “I don’t see you out usually. Ever.”
“I was actually . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. I hop up the steps, cracking open the miniature fridge as he searches for words.
“I was hoping to maybe run into you,” he finishes.
“O-oh.” I look up. “Well. Success.”
Matt laughs. His mouth draws a bit to one side, making his laugh goofy and off-kilter.
I wonder what kissing him would be like. I wonder that about most guys, even if it’s a passing curiosity, but the thought of kissing Matt twists my stomach up. Which is weird, since, objectively, he isn’t that hot. I’ve kissed way hotter guys, guys with balanced features and actual musculature, guys who could make me forget I’m five foot ten.
But something in Matt’s guardedly blank expression makes me feel awake. Every second in his company feels acute. Maybe it’s how he holds himself, careful and calculated. Maybe it’s the sharp edges of his features and the sharper, shyer focus of his eyes.
I pull my attention away from him, crouching to grab the lemonade bottle. Among the range of fancy-looking metal implements on the bar, I find something pointy to pry the cork back out.
“Juniper’s house is, like, holy shit,” Matt says.
“I know, right?” I say. “This room is nicer than my whole house.” I take a sip. The lemonade fizzes across my tongue, sugary-sweet.