She walked up the steps behind him as he tugged off one of his brown leather gloves and flipped open the box that concealed the security pad beneath. She watched him tap a very long string of numbers into the machine.
“Wow, that’s some door code,” she observed. “I can’t remember more than four numbers at a time.”
“Neither can I,” Isaac said, grinning over his shoulder. “Which is why the password is my birthday and then my sister’s, so we’ll all remember it. My dad gets pissed if we have to call security just to let us into the house.”
Brett smiled at him and followed him into the foyer. She glanced up at the stained glass cupola, which glowed prettily in the afternoon sunshine. The dean had had it repaired almost immediately after the party, Brett had heard. You’d never know that Isla had crashed through it—and had somehow survived to continue ruining lives.
Brett pulled off her scarf, shoved it in one of her pockets, and followed after Isaac as he headed toward the kitchen in the back of the house. He shrugged his coat off and tossed it on one of the benches in the small eating area, so Brett did the same. She smoothed her hands over her hips. She’d dressed for the Three-Legged Race in dark midnight blue J brand cords, shiny black patent leather Repetto ballet flats, and a charcoal gray hip-length Inhabit cardigan with chunky buttons. She fingered one of the buttons as she stood in the kitchen, amused for some reason that even in the dean’s fancy residence the ancient Waverly radiators kept up their symphony of hissing and clanking. It was the same in Dumbarton.
“Let’s get the pregame going,” Isaac said with his cheerful, open smile, and pulled on the door on the wall nearest him, waving Brett through. “I’ve been waiting forever to really christen this wine cellar. Probation lasted way too long.”
“Tell me about it,” Brett agreed, although she wasn’t sure exactly how much Isaac, as the dean’s son, had actually suffered. She was pretty sure he hadn’t had the questionable joy of being restricted to a dorm and then only let out for academic reasons, usually monitored by a member of the faculty.
“I missed Jenny,” he said as he led the way into the cool cellar. Brett felt herself soften. How sweet was this guy? He’d hated not seeing Jenny as much as Brett had hated not seeing Sebastian for all that time. Though Brett was pretty sure Sebastian wasn’t telling Isla all about how much he’d missed Brett.
She shook her head and forced herself to forget about Isla for a few minutes. How often was she going to find herself in the dean’s fully stocked wine cellar? It was a dim, concrete-floored space filled with wooden racks teeming with elegant bottles. She shouldn’t let Isla ruin this, too.
Isaac selected a bottle from one of the racks in front of them, then pulled it out and set it on the little table in the middle of the cellar. When she moved closer, Brett saw that the table had been made from a weathered wine cask turned on its side.
“I hope that’s a good one.” Brett nodded at the wine bottle. She felt grown-up, standing in a dimly lit wine cellar with a good-looking guy who she knew wasn’t about to make any kind of move on her. It was like one of those scenes from her future life she might have dreamed about back when she had been in eighth grade and desperate to get to boarding school.
“It’s a nineteen ninety-two Screaming Eagle cabernet,” Isaac said. He grinned. “My dad has like ten cases. He won’t even notice it’s missing.” He deftly opened the bottle and poured the rich, red liquid into two glasses. He put down the bottle and picked up his glass. Brett did the same.
“To Perfect Match,” she said, because it felt like the right moment for a toast.
“Perfect Match,” Isaac said. They clinked their glasses together, and then Brett took a long sip of the wine. It was rich and smooth and warmed her instantly.
“Nice,” she said. She kept herself from laughing again, because what did she know about wine? Brett was never sure if she actually liked wine or only wanted to like wine. But she definitely liked the idea of wine—and she really liked how holding a red wineglass in her hand made her feel. Like she was Lady Brett Ashley from The Sun Also Rises, maybe, instead of Brett Messerschmidt from Rumson, New Jersey.
“My dad can be kind of annoying sometimes, especially when he’s doing his whole ‘dean’ thing,” Isaac said, rolling the stem of his wineglass between his palms. “But he definitely knows his wine.”
Brett settled in on a small stool beside the table, deciding to take notes for Jenny. Isaac was such a gentleman—so friendly and sweet, not at all like so many of the usual jerky, obnoxious Waverly guys. Jenny had completely lucked out. Brett felt loyally that such luck was well-deserved, especially after Jenny’s string of boys gone wrong: Easy, Julian, Drew. Isaac was obviously the one worth waiting for.
“We were pretty happy at our old school,” Isaac said. “But I have to say, I’m psyched that Waverly is turning out to be even better.”
“Of course,” Brett said, confident that they weren’t really talking about the school. “There’s a reason so many people love this place. It’s just… better than other places, you know?”
Isaac’s eyes met hers, and his lips twitched into a smile. “It really is,” he said softly.
They were just finishing up their second glasses of wine, Brett’s brain full of gushy things to tell Jenny about her man, when they heard footsteps from up above—and the unmistakable trill of Isla’s laughter.
Isaac looked up toward the ceiling and brightened. Brett forced a smile.
“Must be my sister,” he said, like Brett hadn’t guessed.
Isaac grabbed a couple bottles of wine and headed for the stairs, and Brett reluctantly followed. Why was he in such a rush to hang out with his sister? Didn’t he see her all the time? Shouldn’t Isaac be the one guy at Waverly who didn’t think Isla was all that?
Upstairs, Brett paused in the kitchen doorway. Sebastian was leaning against the counter, an indulgent smile on his face as he gazed down at Isla. She was perched on the tall bar stool next to him, looking entirely too sexy in a Juicy Couture vest with a faux-fur hood, a tight turtleneck that showed off her curves, and a tight pair of dark Rock & Republic jeans. Brett involuntarily balled her hands into fists and cleared her throat.
“Oh,” Sebastian said, when he realized they were no longer alone. He smiled at Brett but didn’t move away from the counter. “Hey. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I told you I was coming over to Isaac’s before the Three-Legged Race,” Brett said stiffly. Why hadn’t he mentioned that he would be there with Isla? He’d had ample time to do so at lunch before Brett had run off to her calculus class, but he hadn’t said a word.
“We’re prepping for the race,” Isla said, waving a half-full Svedka vodka bottle at Brett. “Are you seriously going for wine?” Her pale green eyes latched on to the bottles in Isaac’s hands. She sounded scandalized, but Isaac shrugged.
“Clearly we’re more civilized than you are,” he teased.
Isla wrinkled her pert, ski-jump nose at him. “Are you headed over there?”
“Soon,” Isaac said, holding up the wine bottles in his hands.
There was a brief, very tense silence as Isla doctored two take-out coffee cups and handed one to Sebastian, who kept his eyes trained on the drinks. He didn’t feel Brett’s glare on the side of his face or see the way her jaw was clenched with fury. Of course he didn’t. He was far too entranced by Isla.
“Let’s do this,” Isla said. He took a sip and shuddered theatrically. Isla giggled, and Brett resisted the urge to throw one of the wine bottles at her. Isla could tell Brett was jealous, she was sure of it. Ironic how the girl Brett hated the most was more aware of her feelings than her own boyfriend.
“It’s like paint thinner,” Sebastian said. He grinned at Isla. “It’s perfect.”
Finally he crossed over to Brett but only to give her a measly peck on the forehead, like he might give to his eighty-five-year-old grandmother.
“See you,” he murmured, and then he and Isla swep
t off into the afternoon.
Together.
Brett blinked into the sudden emptiness of the kitchen, not sure how she was supposed to react.
“We need to conceal this somehow.” Isaac frowned at the wine bottles he held, oblivious. He set the bottles down on the counter and tossed his phone and keys beside them. “I think I have a Nalgene bottle upstairs. I’ll be right back.”
He ran up the stairs, and Brett tried to talk herself down from her fury. Sebastian and Isla were just doing the Perfect Match thing. There was no need to freak. How many times was she going to get upset about this kind of incident? So far, every time she’d freaked out about something, she’d been wrong. When was she going to learn to trust him?
A little buzz emitted from Isaac’s BlackBerry. Brett had the overwhelming urge to check his messages, just to see. It wasn’t for her, she told herself, it was for Jenny. She wanted to give her friend a full and accurate account of all of her boyfriend’s adorable traits—and who knew? Maybe this was a text message from the Rhinecliff florist, announcing some huge delivery to Jenny. She glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could see through the walls and track Isaac’s movements.
Brett moved across the room and picked up Isaac’s phone, clicking open the chat bubble. It was the latest in an ongoing conversation.
MollyWagner: Hey sweetie. What’s the V-Day deal? Are you still coming to visit?
IsaacDresden: I don’t know yet. I’m trying to work it out…
MollyWagner: Don’t tell me those Waverly girls have eaten you alive. ;)
IsaacDresden: Nothing like that. I just have a lot going on.
MollyWagner: What’s more important than your girlfriend and Valentine’s Day???
IsaacDresden: I know, I know. I’m a terrible boyfriend.
MollyWagner: That hasn’t been determined yet. But good thing U R cute!
Brett dropped the phone like it was on fire and stared at it as it clattered against the granite countertop. Isaac was a liar. And a cheater. She heard a noise behind her and whirled around to see Isaac standing there with a Nalgene in each hand, smiling and looking triumphant.
Isaac, who until three seconds ago, Brett had thought was the perfect boyfriend.
She couldn’t help glancing over at his phone instead of meeting his gaze. He looked, too, and then color swept over his cheeks and stained his neck as he looked back at Brett, realizing what she’d seen.
“I’m going to break up with her,” Isaac said after a long, tense moment. His voice sounded thick. Brett couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Any buzz she might have had from the wine was gone. She felt faintly ill instead.
“Just… please don’t tell Jenny,” Isaac said, his voice pleading. “I just—I need to tell her about this myself, okay? It’s complicated.”
Brett crossed her arms over her chest and nodded stiffly. It wasn’t her place to tell Jenny, and she certainly didn’t want to be in the middle of this mess. She knew about cheating, after all. She’d cheated on her old boyfriend Jeremiah. She hadn’t wanted him to find out the things he’d found out—and certainly not in the way he’d found out about them. An “I Never” game was the worst possible way to learn your girlfriend had cheated.
She knew it was complicated. It was always complicated. She just wished she’d kept out of it. This was nothing she wanted to know.
Poor Jenny, she thought as she wrapped her scarf around her neck and threw her coat back on, still not quite meeting Isaac’s gaze. There she’d been, thinking Isaac was so sweet and so nice, and the truth was that he was lying and cheating the whole time. Dating poor Jenny and leading this other girl on, too.
Suddenly Brett felt completely justified in her jealousy of Isla and Sebastian. Guys were obviously capable of anything.
You just never knew.
11
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT GOOD IDEAS CAN
COME FROM UNLIKELY SOURCES.
The Waverly Field House was filled with Owls in varying states of obvious intoxication, and the volume was reaching fever pitch. Matched couples were scattered about, figuring out how to tie themselves together with the regulation rope bindings for the Three-Legged Race. Callie and Alan stood a little bit back from the starting line of the current heat of three-legged competitors, watching the mayhem unfold. Verena Arneval and her tall, geeky senior match hobbled for three wobbly steps and then collapsed, her partner squashing her into the AstroTurf of the Field House grounds.
“Heh. Face-plant,” Alan said from beside her, laughing. “Ten points!”
Callie smiled but said nothing. She had yet to uncover one single thing she and Alan had in common, but by now she’d come to appreciate their pairing’s randomness.
Reason number one for this newfound appreciation stood on one side of the crowd, his dark blue eyes brooding and stormy whenever they landed on Callie. Which was roughly every three seconds. Reason number two stood almost directly opposite, his leg tied to the geekiest girl to ever wear a maroon Waverly blazer. Easy. Brandon. Easy. Brandon. Callie felt like she was watching some kind of Ping-Pong competition as her head swung back and forth between them.
Easy caught her eye from where he stood, arms crossed, just watching her. His dark brows rose, like he expected her to do something—and she knew exactly what that something was. After all, she’d promised, hadn’t she? Callie swallowed. And then, against her will, she felt her head pulled around to find Brandon’s gaze on her—just as troubled and just as dark.
Callie felt her breath go shallow. She hadn’t even had more than a sip or two from Alan’s flask, but her head was spinning.
“Christ,” Alan said, looking at her with a bemused sort of alarm. “Are you okay? You look like you’re tripping the hell out.”
“I just… I can’t…” Callie felt the Field House walls closing in on her, as if she were being gripped and squeezed by a giant, sweaty fist. Alan threw down the rope he’d been halfheartedly trying to tie into a decent knot and took Callie’s elbow.
“Forget this,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I have a much better idea.”
Easy stared at her from off to the right, Brandon from the left.
Callie knew she was a coward, because she dropped her gaze and let Alan usher her far away from them both. He led her outside, where the snow had started to fall again. It wasn’t until they’d reached the coffee bar in Maxwell that she was able to breathe normally. She let Alan direct her to one of the comfortable couches in the deserted student hangout and sank down into the plush cushions. She closed her eyes, breathed through her nose, and willed herself to be calm.
“Here.” Alan plunked a large coffee in front of her and flopped down next to her on the couch.
“Um, thanks,” Callie said. She pushed her strawberry blond waves back from her face and unzipped her royal blue Michael Kors coat, letting it fall off her shoulders. She didn’t know what kind of coffee Alan had bought, but it didn’t matter. Anything would do. And if she needed anything stronger, she knew where he kept his flask.
As she picked up the cardboard cup, Alan dug in one of the interior pockets of his coat. He pulled out a ziplock baggie, opened it, and then grinned at her.
“Brownie?” he asked.
Callie raised an eyebrow. She didn’t have to ask what was in it. This was Alan St. Girard.
“I thought you were a smoker,” she said. “When did you turn into Rachael Ray?”
“I like edibles,” Alan said, still grinning. “It’s a natural progression. It attracts significantly less teacher attention and makes a great mid-class pick-me-up.”
Callie decided she didn’t care. Maybe her life would make more sense if she viewed it from the Alan St. Girard perspective. He was certainly never in danger of succumbing to a panic attack, was he? Hardly. She accepted the proffered brownie and took a huge bite. She expected it to taste like dirt and weeds, but it didn’t. Chocolaty goodness exploded on her tongue. She sighed happily. “Betty Crocker would be proud.”
“I
t’s all yours,” Alan said, pulling out a second brownie for himself. “Bon appétit.”
They both settled back against the couch, and finally, slowly, Callie relaxed. She could feel the tension gradually leaving her body with every breath she took. It helped that Maxwell, usually overrun with Owls and the very last place anyone would ever go to relax, was like a ghost town tonight.
“Everybody must be at the Field House,” she said after a while. “Maybe to escape the snow.”
“Waverly is falling down, falling down, falling down…” Alan sang to the tune of “London Bridge.” He was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt from Ben & Jerry’s that read CHERRY GARCIA, and suddenly Callie couldn’t stop giggling.
She visualized Easy and Brandon as Three-Legged Race partners, bound by the legs and hating each other but grimly soldiering on toward the finish line—only to collapse in a tangle of limbs. All to the tune of Alan’s ridiculous song.
She collapsed against the back of the couch, laughing uncontrollably. Alan laughed, too.
“I don’t even know what you’re laughing about,” he said after a few moments while Callie wiped tears from her eyes.
She regarded Alan for a moment. He was scruffy and silly but really one of the nicest guys she knew. She had the sudden urge to spill everything to him. It might be the best idea she’d ever had, or at least a much better idea than many of the ones she’d had recently. It wasn’t just because of his special brownies, either. He was Easy’s roommate and friend. And he was also friends with Brandon. And unlike some of the other guys—like Ryan Reynolds or Heath Ferro—he wasn’t likely to use anything she told him against her. That just wasn’t his style.
“Well?” he asked. “Should I sing a different song?”
“It’s Easy,” Callie said. “And Brandon.”
Alan blew out a breath, as if he’d just climbed up a huge hill. He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s… a whole thing.”