The Love Interest

I nod. “Yep.”


Dyl’s house is a massive one-story building with white walls and lots of glass. Dark-green shrubs line the stone pathway that leads to the front door. Rows of cars are parked around the block, filling the street. Up ahead, a bunch of guys in suits are leaning against a silver convertible. They stare at us as we pass. Or, more accurately, they stare at Juliet and Natalie. One of them wolf-whistles, and both Natalie and Juliet shoot him scathing looks.

Natalie’s arms are crossed. “Who knew Dyl had this many friends? He doesn’t seem to talk to anyone aside from you, Juliet.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “There’s a lot about that boy I don’t get.”

We walk up the steps to the front door. A black man in a suit is standing there, his huge frame blocking the entire doorway.

“Names,” he says. His eyes are focused on a clipboard.

Juliet steps forward. “Juliet Stringer.”

His eyes move down the list, then he moves his hand up and scrapes his pen across the paper. Of course she’s on the list. He turns his body and Juliet slides past him.

“Caden Walker,” I say.

He scans the list. I’m not going to be on it. Why would I be? Why would Dyl make this easy for me?

The guard raises his hand and swipes the pen across the paper again. “Move,” he growls.

I rush past him and Juliet grabs my hand. She’s beaming. The hallway is long and white, illuminated by circular lights embedded in the ceiling. The floors are rich, varnished timber. An overloaded coat rack stands beside the door. So I’m in. But why would Dyl do that? Maybe he truly has given up on the contest.

Or maybe he just wants to spend time with me.

Juliet lets go of my hand. “Caden, we’re in! And this party … I thought it was going to be a kegger or something, but oh my God, this is ridiculous. I mean, he has a freaking bouncer. How can he afford this?”

“Who knows? Let’s just have a good time!”

“Good call.”

Natalie joins us, and we walk through the hall toward the thumping music. We pass through a glass sliding door into a large lounge room. A dining table that’s full to the brim with trays of small, immaculately presented pieces of food sits in the middle of the room. There are tiny quiches, slices of smoked salmon, and bite-sized berry pies. People in formal clothes, neat black suits for the men, evening gowns for the women, are standing in small circles around the table, either chatting or nibbling at the hors d’oeuvres. My mouth waters.

A middle-aged woman with hair the color of gold, like the metal, approaches us. She’s wearing a tight black dress that dips low, revealing her collarbone and her clearly surgically improved cleavage. A silver necklace hangs around her neck. Her posture is rigidly, almost uncomfortably upright, and her smile is wide but seems genuine.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Dylan’s aunt. He’s been living with me ever since, well, you know. And who are you?”

She’s looking only at Juliet, who fidgets, her fingers bunching up her dress. “I’m Juliet.”

“Oh my gosh, I knew it! From the look of you I knew it. Dyl talks about you all the time, you with your precious little science experiments. He’s so smitten, it’s honey sweet.”

Juliet leans her head back. “He’s what?”

“I’ve never seen him like anyone as much as he likes you.” She raises her hands to her mouth. “Oh my, he’s going to be so mad if he finds out I said that to you. I know he’s got his big tortured-soul persona going, but believe me, deep down he’s a big softie. Now, excuse me, I need to go before I say anything else that will embarrass him.”

She strides away, heading straight toward another small group of kids. They gape at her as she reaches them. Juliet is staring at the floor, her expression alarmingly unreadable. Wait, was that scripted? Maybe Dyl is still fighting?

Natalie is scanning the crowd. “Any signs of Trev?”

“I can’t see him.” I turn to Juliet. “Do you want a drink?”

Juliet nods, and I step forward and approach a waiter who is holding a silver tray filled with flutes of champagne. I grab two glasses and pass one to Natalie, then give the other to Juliet. I spin back around and grab another, mouthing thanks to the waiter as I lift the glass off the tray.

“But there’s Dyl.”

I lower my glass. He’s standing in the doorway, staring at us. He’s wearing a black blazer over a white dress shirt and a skinny black tie. His hair has been pushed up and over his forehead, so it stands as a wave. The partygoers around him all stop what they’re doing and gape at him, but he ignores them all, keeping his attention fixed on us. His mouth curves into a lopsided grin. I grin back at him, even though it’s out of character. I can’t help it.

“You made it,” he calls. He approaches us, and now it’s my turn to look at the floor. Here we go, he’s going to ignore me again, I think. I notice his shiny shoes are pointing in my direction. I look up and see that he’s staring at me. His lips curl up into a small smile, like we have a secret, and he offers me his hand.

“It’s Caden, right?”

“Right.”

We shake hands.

“I’m glad you made it.” He lets go of me and kisses Natalie on the cheek. Then he faces Juliet.

“Juliet, you look lovely.”

“Hi, Dyl.”

“Can we talk?”

“Listen, Dyl—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt. Juliet raises an eyebrow at me as her tone rings in my ears. That was the voice she used with me when she told me she couldn’t do the art project with me. So it’s the voice she uses when she’s about to let someone down. And if she lets Dyl down, it’s game over. He needs time to recover some ground. I don’t want him to overtake me, but I also don’t want this to be the end. Maybe if they talk, Juliet will reconsider her decision to decide tonight. “Hear him out.”

Juliet uncrosses her arms. “Okay, fine. See you later.”

They walk away, leaving Natalie and me alone. As soon as they mix into the crowd, Natalie slaps my chest. “Caden! What are you thinking? You just let that happen!”

“Yeah but, like, it’ll show her I’m not threatened by him, which is good for me. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Her narrowed eyelids tell me she’s skeptical. “Okay, but be careful, all right? You haven’t won yet.”

“Noted. Thanks, Nat.”

I take a sip of my champagne, which tastes sweet and crisp, like a slightly underripe green apple. It’s okay, but it’s obviously not real champagne. Rather, it’s a nonalcoholic rip-off. It’s probably unfair to compare them, but it’s nowhere near as nice as beer is.

Cale Dietrich's books