“Are we actually invited? We’re not walking into some scene where they’ll beat us up or anything, are we?”
Hoop rolled his eyes. “Daaaaamn, Gwenners. You know how these parties are. Spence invited hell near everybody from school—he’s gotta save face since Somers threw that big one earlier. They’re so crazy competitive. Dumbasses. Come on, I’m going to get me a beer and some serious action. Don’t worry, you look fiiiiiine.”
I’d borrowed a dress from Viv, who is considerably smaller than me—everywhere. So it was super-tight. And red. And low-cut.
I was used to parties with only a keg, or just six-packs bobbling around in melting ice in a dingy tub. This one had an entire bar—black-and-white and mirrored in a dizzying way—set up with four blenders churning out margaritas and some sort of pink drink. Spence, in a black T-shirt with a purple lei draped over it, was dumping the last of a bottle of rum into one of the blenders. He watched as we walked in and flashed me his perfect smile, the one that rarely reached his eyes—but it did now. “Whoa-ho, it’s the princess of Castle’s. Whaddya know. Didn’t think you’d show for this one, Gwen.”
Pouring a tall glass of the pink stuff, he reached over, wedged one of those little umbrellas in it, pressed it into my hand.
“I was just going to go for a Coke. Not much of a drinker,” I said.
“Yeah, she’s a freakin’ lightweight,” Hoop confirmed. Then he gave me a friendly pat—on my butt—and slid away, shoulders bobbing to the music.
“Yet here you are.” Spence’s eyebrows lifted.
What I’d told Spence was true. Still, I immediately took a nervous slug of whatever the drink was, nearly choking on a chunk of ice. Spence just sat there while I coughed, sputtered, and eventually got control of myself. I put my glass down and hiked the top of my dress up. He smiled more broadly and gave me a practiced once-over, as though tracing the path of the blush I could feel rising.
They must offer a secret course for these guys on Hayden Hill: Putting Girls Off Balance 101. Well, to hell with it. I turned on my heel and headed toward the door I’d seen Hoop vanish through. Time for me to stick with my own kind.
Hoop had collapsed bonelessly on the couch and was animatedly recounting to some girl I didn’t know the story of a marlin he’d once landed off the coast of the island. I recognized the story. It was Nic’s marlin.
I drifted from room to room, trying to look as though I knew the house and exactly where I was headed in it. There was a hallway with a series of marble busts, a huge oval mirror, some tall shiny black standing vases with waxy white lilies. Then a room set up to look like it was outdoors, even though it wasn’t, which contained several cockatoos in cages that reeked as though the newspaper hadn’t been changed in a while. One of the cockatoos hopped up and down as I entered, screeching, “Live bait! Live bait!” I twisted the gold-plated handle of the French doors and headed out onto the terrace. Even Spence’s birds disconcerted me.
It was a huge terrace, like a whole outdoor version of the house. I could dimly make out a figure at the curved end, looking out over all of Stony Bay. I knew who it was just by the way he was leaning on his elbows, by the glint of the hair on his down-tucked head. I wanted so badly to walk up behind him that my right foot nearly tingled, and I was suddenly afraid it would take control, dragging me into a place I knew better than to go. How on earth could I still feel that way? Nice work, Sundance. This swirl of hurt and shame and loss and confusion tightened in my stomach. I bumped back into the terrace-y room, to be greeted by the same creepy cockatoo shrieking, “There’s gold in them thar hills!” I swallowed down the last of my drink, now warm and full of strawberry seeds.
“You didn’t shut the door all the way.” Spence was leaning against the wall by the door. He gestured at the French doors behind me. “The birds need the temperature carefully regulated. Very important to my mother. But then, she’s in Marbella right now, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. So, Gwen Castle, what are you looking for, in here all by yourself? Got to be a reason you came to this party.”
His eyes were the weirdest yellow-green color, slightly tilted up at the corners. Cat eyes. They’d always seemed to skip over me before, but now they were fixed steadily on my face. When I said nothing in response—since I had no real answer—he raised a thumb slowly to his lips and chewed on his nail, completely without self-consciousness, despite the fact that, now that I was looking, I noticed that all his other nails were bitten to the quick. Then he nodded like he’d come to a decision.
“You need another strawberry daiquiri.” Slipping his arm around my waist, his fingers resting lightly on my hip, he towed me out the door.
“I really don’t need—”
“Come on, Gwen Castle. You haven’t had enough. Not yet. Besides, you’ve always struck me as a girl who gets an awful lot of ‘not enough.’ That won’t happen tonight.”
We took a different route to the bar than I’d taken before, down a long hallway with red-and-gold flocked wallpaper, hung with dark oil paintings of sea captains who looked as though they were sneering, and uptight round-faced women, presumably their wives.
“Your ancestors?” I asked Spence, searching their faces for his familiar smirk.
“Bought at estate sales. It’s all for show, Castle, right? All about the look of the thing.”
A side door opened and an elderly man emerged, wearing a paisley dressing gown like someone in one of Grandpa Ben’s movies. His thinning hair was ruffled up around his pink ears and he was rubbing one eye like Emory when he’s tired.
“What’s all this noise?” he asked Spence.
“Party, Dads. Remember?”
This was Spence’s dad? He was like eighty—had to be his grandfather.
The man frowned. “I agreed to this?” he asked vaguely.
“You bought the booze,” Spence responded.
The man nodded wearily and disappeared back through the door he’d come out of. He didn’t shut it completely, and Spence reached out and gave it a shove with the flat of his hand until there was an audible click.
Then he cut his eyes at me, as though waiting for me to say something.
“Your father doesn’t mind you partying?”
“Dads? Nah. He doesn’t care. Though, strictly speaking, it was just his credit card that bought the goods, not the man himself.” He shrugged, gave a little laugh. “What? Don’t look at me like that, Castle.”
I had no idea how I was looking at him, although I suspect it was with pity. Our house could practically fit in his foyer, but it never felt sad and empty like that, despite the distant party sounds. “I—”
“I’m sure you have crazy relatives locked in your attic too. What family isn’t dysfunctional, right? Come on, let’s get you what you need.”
He poured me another daiquiri and one for himself, then led me back down the hallway. And I followed. That’s the thing, I trailed right after him into this big study, where he waved me to a big puffy couch, all swirly embroidered flowers on a white linen background, then sank into an equally puffy chair across from it, studying me over the rim of his glass. “You really are pretty as hell, Castle. Much hotter when you don’t wear the baggy clothes. Don’t stress about what happened with Sundance. How could he help himself? Besides, it’s just sex. No big deal.”
That’s exactly what it hadn’t felt like. Not just sex. Not no big deal. Not at all. Not to me.
But this was the last thing I was going to let Spence know. I gulped my drink, shook my head, laughed in what I hoped was a carefree and dismissive way. “I’ve already forgotten the whole thing. Water under the dam.” Was that right? Bridge? Dam? I should put this drink down now.
He whistled. “Don’t tell Cassidy that. Not in those words, anyway. We guys are touchy. Good to know there are no hard feelings, though.”
“I’m not planning on any heart-to-hearts with Cass Somers.”
“C’mon, Gwen. He’s a good guy. Don’t be mad at him.” He examined my face more closel
y, then whistled again, longer and lower. “O-ho. You’re not mad. You’re hurt. Damn, I’m sorry.” He sounded as though he meant it, and to my horror, tears sprang to my eyes.
“Oh man. I didn’t think . . . You always seemed so . . . Don’t do this, okay?” Spence set his drink on the coffee table, swept my glass out of my hands, one smooth motion. Then did the most unexpected thing. He leaned forward to kiss the tears away, lifting my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears, whispering against my cheek. “Sobbing girls are my weakness. They slay me, every time. Shh. Secret. Word gets out and every girl at school will know how to get to me.”
“No more five chicks in the hot tub, then,” I said shakily.
“Six,” he murmured, still smoothing back my hair. There was a smudge of black on his lower lip from my mascara. “But who’s counting? You have dreamboat eyes, you know that?”
“Did you use that lame line on all six?”
“Nah. Didn’t bother. None of them were looking for a deep and meaningful relationship. Neither, of course, am I. And tonight, I’m betting you aren’t either. Right?”
He was right. I wasn’t. Not that night. Viv and Nic and the hotel—Cass—flashed into my head and then zoomed out as Spence bent toward me, moving forward to my lips this time.
On the drive home from the bridge, Nic keeps glancing over at me, shoulder muscles tense.
“Look,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just . . . I mean, you’re pretty, you’re cool, and you’ve never really dated, and . . .” He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, his mouth open like he hopes the right words will just magically fly into it. Finally: “Did that ass Alex break your heart?”
“Please. Alex got nowhere near my heart. I thought he did back then, but it was nothing. He just hurt my feelings, the putz.”
“Then did Channing . . . ?” He trails off, clearly finding the thought completely impossible.
Hunching back in my seat, I kick my feet up on the glove compartment
“C’mon, Gwen. Talk. Tell me.”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
Nic reaches over and tries to pull my head to his shoulder but I’m stiff, edging him away. “I’m good,” I say. “Let’s just drive.”
Chapter Fifteen
But “just driving” is almost worse than trying to explain that party to my baffled cousin, because it reminds me of the worst, most painful part of that night. Which I don’t want to think about. But I can’t stop.
When I woke up, I had no idea where I was—only that everything about it felt bad. I was wedged in an uncomfortable position against a wall, my dress twisted up behind my shoulder blades. My mouth was sticky-sweet and my head heavy and fogged. Someone next to me was snoring.
I lay there categorizing the feelings. 1) I was not at home. 2) I didn’t like where I was. 3) I was not alone. Then the soft snoring sound next to me and the long foot looped around mine, the distinctive smell of expensive, musky aftershave and the sickly sweet taste of strawberry pulled it together.
I was at Spence Channing’s party. In a bed with Spence Channing. And yeah, I’d chosen all this.
Unhooking his ankle from my own, I inched slowly—slllooooowly—down to the bottom of the bed and then blinked at the dim floor, the ladder stretching up, the shelf of mattress above me.
This was a bunk bed.
Spence muttered and groped for my waist for a second, but then rolled onto his stomach and snored louder.
I was in a bunk bed with a boy who drank strawberry daiquiris. For some reason, probably because I was still a little buzzed, that seemed like one of the most surreal parts. I was in a bunk bed where the sheets were decorated with nautical flags. With a boy who at some point in the night had gotten up and put on paisley pajama bottoms. While across town, my best friends were in a hotel room that probably smelled like roses . . .
Don’t think about that.
I needed to get out of this room.
After bumping my head on the hard corner of a bureau, I finally reached the door, groped for the handle, and let myself out, blinking, into the hallway. The light was dim, but still hurt my eyes. There was a guy—Chris Markos?—slumped against the wall in a half-sitting, half-lying position. Out cold.
Judging from the people scattered on couches and chairs and the floor—all crashed—this was one of those parties that would be described as “epic.” There was Matt Salnitas on the couch with Kym Woo—who I knew was dating his brother. Maybe there were enough dramas going on that no one would notice mine. Unlike the last party I’d gone to. Don’t think about that. Just find Hoop and get out of here. I peered out the window to the corner of the driveway where he’d parked his truck and my heart sank. No truck.
“C’moooon, man . . . just drive me,” said a voice from the kitchen. “It’s not even outta your way.”
“Jimbo. We’ve been through this.” The voice in response sounded tired. “I’ve got your back. And your car keys—till morning.”
Walking into the fluorescently lit kitchen, I instantly whipped my hand in front of my eyes. Seated at stools at the counter were Jimmy Pieretti and Cass. Jimmy had a big bowl of unshelled peanuts in front of him and he was waving one at Cass for emphasis.
“I need to do something, Sundance. I need to impress this girl.”
“Trust me. Serenading her from her yard at three in the morning is not what you’re looking for. Hi, Gwen.”
In the brightness of the room—and the muddiness of my head—Cass was looking like the poster boy for WASPiness. White T-shirt, faded khakis, tousled blond hair. All he needed was a golden retriever at his knee and a grandfather handing him an heirloom watch to complete the picture.
Jimmy, by contrast, looked like I felt—a bit grubby and rough around the edges. “Gwen! Hi, Gwen! Let’s ask Gwen about this! She can solve my romantic issues.”
Cass’s eyes met mine for a second. Though his were neutral, I could translate the thought there loud and clear: Yeah, ’cause Gwen here is so wise with hers.
But how could he possibly know? He was outside when Spence led me down the hallway to his bedroom, from the poufy parlor sofa to the bunk bed.
But he did. I could see it in his eyes, the tension of his knuckles clenched white around the countertop.
“Alexis Kincaid, Gwen—man, it’s like she doesn’t even see me. I need to get her attention. Because we are soul mates, Gwen Castle, and this is a thing she should get. So I’m thinking I sing to her. Outside her window. A ballad or something. ’Cause girls get off on that, right? That and the thing where you run through the airport to stop them before they get on the plane, but neither of us are going anywhere, so that won’t work. So. Singing. What do you think, Gwen?”
“I think I’m not driving you to Alexis’s house so her dad can call the police on you again.” Cass slid off his stool and poured two glasses of water, clinking ice into them. “Take these.” He shot them across the marble countertop, one glass landing perfectly centered in front of me, the next Jimmy.
My brain was thick with wool and the sharp beginning coils of self-disgust. I did not want my pieces picked up by Cass.
I slid into a stool next to Jimmy, put my face in my hands.
“Come on, Gwen. Tell Sundance here to drive me to Alexis’s. This party’s over for me. Actually, it never began because my dream girl never showed. Please, Gwen.”
I pulled my hands away from my cheeks, found blotchy smudges of mascara on the tips of my fingers. Instead of pleading for Jimmy, I said, “Can you take me home, Cass?”
His lips compressed and he flicked his gaze up to the ceiling, as if he could see Spence’s room from here. But all he said was: “Sure. We can save Jim here from himself on the way.”
Boys never need any time to get going. It’s Mom who has to hunt for her purse and then make sure she has her car keys and her freezer pack stocked with diet soda. It’s Vivie who has to run back for one last swipe of lip gloss, redo her hair, mirror check. Cas
s just pulled car keys out of his pocket, jingling them in his palm, grabbed his parka, Jimmy took a slug of water, and we were good to go.
I trailed after them to Cass’s car, which turned out to be a red BMW. Ancient, though—that boxy square shape of old cars—and the paint had lost its sheen and faded to Campbell’s tomato soup orange-red. Jimmy, groaning, forced himself into the backseat, even though I argued with him.
“No. No. Gwen Castle. I’m a gentleman. Please tell Alexis Kincaid the next time you see her. C’mon Cass, just one little drive by? What’s the harm in that?”
“It’s called stalking.” The back of Cass’s hand brushed by my bare calf as he shifted the car into reverse. And, God help me, I felt a tingle. A freaking shiver even though I was even now in the process of the walk—or drive—of shame. My second in the last month. After two separate guys. What in the name of God was wrong with me?
“It’s called love,” Jimmy argued.
“No way, Jimbo. He’s like a dog with a bone with this when he’s had a few,” Cass said to me, under his breath. “Totally normal under most circumstances.”
Cass’s profile faced forward, not the slightest bit bent in my direction, straight nose, strong chin, his hair silver-frosted by the moonlight and flashing bright in the reflection of the headlights. I curled my legs under myself, shifted uncomfortably on the seat, stared at the strip of duct tape on his coat, wondered why he didn’t just buy a new coat. Mom, Nic, Dad, Grandpa, me . . . we had to push things beyond their life spans, rejigger them to get as much wear as possible. But not the Hill guys. They could just use and toss, replace. Right? We got to Main Street, circled the roundabout, headed down the most historic part of town, past all the houses, orderly and tucked in upright little rows and clean-looking. All those houses that looked like they were full of careful tidy people who always made good choices. That coil of shame sharpened, tunneled a little deeper into my chest.
Cass pulled into a circular driveway and Jimmy started to climb out, mumbling, “I’m already regretting everything I did and most of what I said tonight. Do you maybe have amnesia sometimes, Gwen? Could you have amnesia about this? If I ask nicely?”