“Very different from back home,” Oliver replies, steadying his hand on my arm as he leans into me. “But I like it. It’s really pretty here. And I keep finding better and better things to look at.”
Oliver pulls back, revealing a smile so unfairly handsome, it’d probably help him get away with murder. I can’t tell if it’s the sight of his stunning white teeth or the precarious concoction of liquor in my stomach or the thought of what I have to do next, but suddenly, I feel nauseous.
Someone in the corner turns up the music several notches and the party is in full swing. Harper and Malika pass around a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 with the rest of the soccer players. Madison and her crew have turned the enormous blue stone coffee table into their own personal dance platform and about thirty other juniors and seniors are holding red plastic cups in the air, dancing around them.
Just then, I spy Luke standing in the kitchen, checking his phone and looking out into the crowd—looking for me. He hasn’t seen me yet. But he’s about to.
“Want to dance?” I ask Oliver, willing my lips into a pretender smile.
“Absolutely.” Oliver stands and holds out his open palm to help me up. I place my hand in his and as we walk, he laces his fingers with mine. His hands are soft but our grip is clumsy and forced. Still, I don’t pull away.
Oliver leads me out to the middle of the dance floor. I throw my arms around his neck and dance to the beat. Oliver wraps his hands around my waist, slowly pulling me closer and closer as the bass crescendos.
After a song and a half, I spy over Oliver’s shoulder to see Luke’s eyes locked on us. I quickly look away. Time to make my move.
I tug at Oliver’s neck and swing my hips from side to side, our bodies colliding with every note. As we dip in unison, he pulls at my hips and I let my body fall into him. I feel Oliver’s hot lips on my cheek, his hands gripping the back of my waist. I run my hands along his shoulders and across his strong chest, tears scratching and bullying the back of my throat. I take a breath and pull at Oliver’s shirt until our lips are centimeters away.
Do it, my mind demands.
And so I do. I let the Australian kiss me while I swallow the scream in my throat.
With one kiss, I destroy Luke. But even as I betray him, my heart, beating and bleeding within me, calls his name.
I pull out of the kiss and immediately regret looking at Luke’s fallen face. His pale blue eyes turn glassy before his gaze leaves mine. And as I watch him shove his hands in his pockets and walk out of the room, a tightening knot of sorrow grows under my breastbone.
The broken look on his face shatters any remaining trace of numbness and my skin feels like it’s wrapped in scalding barbed wire. Every cell within me wants to run after him. My brain is on fire, shrieking at me. Begging for me to explain that falling in love with him … letting him fall in love with me … soon the pain will be ten times worse.
I crane my head toward the foyer and watch Luke quietly slip out the front door. My job is done. This mission, a success. I want him to hate me. But he’ll never hate me as much as I hate myself. Tears sting my eyes as Oliver comes in for another kiss. I push him away and break free of his grasp. I walk quickly across the great room, grab the Mad Dog straight out of Harper’s hands, put it to my lips, and chug.
FOURTEEN
“No! I don’t want to go. I want more Mad Dog,” I announce, several octaves too high for the dark and silent streets of New Albany’s most expensive neighborhood. Harper loops her arm in mine and I try to pull away.
“No more Mad Dog,” Harper says, tightening her grip on me. “Let’s get you some coffee at the diner.”
“No, I want Mad Dog,” I whine, throwing my head back in the air and looking up at a blur of stars, glittering pinholes in a black, cloudless sky.
“Reagan, nothing good happens when you drink Mad Dog, remember?” Harper says, guiding me to her parked Range Rover. “It’s your party rule for a reason.”
Harper eases me into the front passenger seat. She closes the door and climbs in the driver’s side. The motor turns on and a warm blast of air hits my face. I lean my head against the cold window as we pull down the street, lined with impressive estates.
“I want to go home,” I say, as the alcohol begins to weigh heavy on my eyelids.
“No way! Your parents will kill you,” Harper exclaims, turning left onto Route 62 and away from the country club neighborhoods. “Let’s get you some food or something.”