Right of Way

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  For Michelle Nagler, who took a chance on me and my writing, and made my dreams come true

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you so, so much to:

  Jennifer Klonsky, Alyssa Eisner Henkin, and everyone at Simon & Schuster for all their hard work on my behalf;

  Krissi, Kelsey, Jodi, Kevin, and my mom for all their support;

  My husband, Aaron, for everything;

  Everyone who read Two-way Street and took the time to write me and tell me you loved it—I appreciate it more than you know!

  Saturday, June 26, 10:03 a.m.

  Siesta Key, Florida

  I’m a traitor to my generation. Seriously. All we hear about these days is how we’re supposed to be strong women and not depend on anyone else and blah blah blah. And now look what I’ve done.

  “Are you sure there’s no way you can come?” I say into my phone. I’m crouching behind some bushes outside the Siesta Key Yacht Club, which is not comfortable. At all. The bushes are prickly, there are bees floating around, and the ground is kind of wet. Which makes no sense. I thought it never rained in Florida. Isn’t it called the Sunshine State?

  “I’m sorry,” my best friend, Brooklyn, says on the other end of the line. “I’m so sorry, but there’s no way I can come now. My parents found out, and they’re freaking out. And honestly, Peyton, I kind of think you should just forget the whole thing. I mean, what if my parents call your parents?”

  My heart leaps into my throat. “Are they going to?”

  “I don’t know. My mom said she wouldn’t as long as I talked you out of it, but you never know what my mom’s going to do. She’s a loose cannon.” It’s true. Brooklyn’s mom really is a loose cannon. One time last year she came down to our school screaming about women’s equality on the wrestling team. It was pretty ridiculous, since Brooklyn is totally unathletic, and no girls were even trying out for the wrestling team. But her mom had read some article about Title Nine that had gotten her all riled up.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” I ask. “My parents already left. I can’t call and tell them I don’t have a way to get back to Connecticut. They’ll be pissed.”

  Brooklyn and I had this whole thing planned out. She was going to fly down to Florida from Connecticut, and meet me here, in Siesta Key, at my uncle’s wedding. Then we were going to rent a car and drive to North Carolina, where we were going to spend the summer. It was a very simple two-part plan. One, she takes a plane down here. Two, we rent a car and go to North Carolina. Leave it to her parents to wreck everything.

  “You’re going to have to call your mom or something,” Brooklyn says. “It’ll suck, yeah, but what else are you going to do?”

  I don’t say anything. My eyes fill with hot tears. There’s a bee buzzing near my face, and I don’t even bother to swat it away. I really, really do not want to call my parents. And not just because they’re going to be pissed. But because it’s going to mean that I have to go home, and I really, really do not want to do that.

  Brooklyn sighs.

  “Look,” she says finally. “Is there any way you can book a flight to North Carolina? And maybe get a ride to the airport?”

  “I don’t have a credit card. Or any money, really.”

  “Can you ask Courtney for help?”

  “I could ask her, I guess, but I don’t know if she has any money either.” I stand up and scan the outdoor tables for my cousin. I don’t see her dark hair anywhere. I look for her boyfriend, Jordan, but I don’t see him either. In fact, I don’t see anyone I recognize. Most people have already left the brunch and gone home. The wedding was yesterday, and the festivities are over.

  I guess I could call Courtney, I think, taking a step back toward the tables that are set up on the lawn of the yacht club. But who knows if she would tell my parents? Or her dad? I mean, I trust her, but—

  My eyes stop scanning the crowd as they land on the only person I recognize who’s still at the brunch. The only person I don’t want to see. Jace Renault. He looks up from the table where he’s sitting, talking to some older couple that he probably just met. The old lady is laughing at something Jace is saying. Which isn’t surprising. Jace is charming like that. Ugh.

  He catches my eye, and I quickly turn away.

  “Brooklyn,” I say. “Please, can you lend me the money for a plane ticket? I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

  “Peyton, you know I would if I could, but my mom took my credit card away.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I say. “I planned so hard so no one would find out, and now—”

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around. Jace is standing there, a huge smile on his face. “Hello,” he says.

  I turn and start to walk away from him. “Who’s that?” Brooklyn asks.

  “That’s no one,” I say loudly, hoping that Jace will get the message to go away. But of course he doesn’t. He just starts to follow me as I walk through the grass of the club back toward my room. He’s doing a good job keeping up, since I’m having a little trouble walking. My shoes keep slipping on the wet grass.

  “You really shouldn’t be walking through here,” he says conversationally. “I don’t think the groundskeepers are going to be too thrilled with all the divots you’re making.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Brooklyn asks. “Is that Jace?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is!”

  “No. It. Isn’t.”

  “No it isn’t what?” Jace asks from next to me. He’s caught up to me now.

  He really is like some kind of gnat that I can’t get away from. I knew there would be pests and bugs in Florida; I just didn’t expect them to be six foot two and of the human variety.

  “I’ll call you back,” I say to Brooklyn. I hang up the phone and whirl around. “What do you want?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I saw you staring at me, and you looked upset.”

  “I wasn’t staring at you!” I say. “I was looking for Courtney.” I smooth down my dress. “And I’m not upset.”

  “Courtney and Jordan left a little while ago,” he says.

  “Do you know where they went?” I ask, my heart sinking.

  “I’m not sure.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. And I guess to him, it doesn’t. He’s not the one who’s stranded at some wedding in Florida with no way to get to North Carolina. “Why?”

  “None of your business.” I’m walking again, looking down at my phone, scrolling through my contacts. I wonder if there’s someone I can call—someone who might be willing to help me. Why didn’t I make more of an effort to get to know someone at the wedding? Why didn’t I befriend some nice old lady who would be able to take me somewhere—preferably a senile one who would be too out of it to ask any questions? Because you were too busy with Jace.

  “Do you need a ride or something?” Jace asks.

  I snort.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just think it’s kind of hilarious that suddenly you’re so concerned about my well-being after what you did to me last night.”

  “Peyton—” he starts, his voice softening. But I’m not in the mood.

  “Stop.” I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to hear it. And I don’t need a ride. So just go away.?
??

  “Then how are you getting to the airport?”

  “I’m not going to the airport.” God, he’s so annoying. How can he think that after what happened between us last night that I would get into a car with him? Is he crazy?

  Although I guess when I really think about it, it’s actually not that surprising.

  Anyone who is as good-looking as Jace is usually completely out of touch with reality. It’s like they think their looks give them the right to just go around saying whatever they want to say, and doing whatever they want to do. As if the fact that they’re six foot two and broad-shouldered with dark hair and gorgeous, deep-blue eyes gives them the right to get away with anything.

  “If you’re not going to the airport, then where are you going?”

  I keep ignoring him, continuing through the grass in these stupid high heels, trying to get back to my room. And he keeps following me, still not having any trouble keeping up. I glance down at his feet. He’s wearing sneakers. Of course he is. Jace Renault would never do anything as, you know, polite as wearing dress shoes to a wedding. Although technically he’s wearing them to the brunch the day after the wedding. But still. Proper attire should be worn. Proper attire that doesn’t include sneakers.

  I’m so caught up in looking at his feet that I don’t realize that my own shoes are sinking farther into the wet grass, and so when I slip, I’m halfway to the ground before I feel his arms grabbing me around the waist.

  He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my neck as he lifts me up, and it sends delicious little shivers up and down my spine. He looks at me, his eyes right on mine, and I swallow hard. If this were a movie, this would be the moment he’d kiss me, the moment he’d push my hair back from my face and brush his lips softly against mine, telling me he was sorry for everything that happened last night and over the spring, that he had an explanation for the whole thing, that everything was going to be okay. But this isn’t a movie. This is my life.

  And so instead of kissing me, Jace waits until I’m upright and then he says, “Those shoes are pretty ridiculous.”

  “These shoes,” I say, “cost four hundred dollars.”

  “Well, you got ripped off.”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  He keeps following me, all the way back to my hotel room. What is wrong with him? Like it’s not enough that he stomped all over my heart? Now he has to keep torturing me with his nearness? When we get to the outside of the suite I’m staying in, I unlock the door and push it open.

  “Well, thanks for walking me back to my room,” I say, all sarcastic.

  But he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he just peers over my shoulder into the sitting area of my room. “Jesus, Peyton,” he says, looking at the mound of bags that are stacked neatly in the middle of the floor. “How long did you plan on staying? A few months? I knew you were high maintenance, but that much luggage is a little crazy, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not high maintenance!”

  He shrugs, as if to say I am high maintenance and everyone knows it, so there’s no use denying it. Like he knows anything about me and my high-maintenance ways. (And yes, I am a little bit high maintenance. But not in a bad way. I just like to have things the way I like them.)

  “Looks pretty high maintenance to me.” He steps into the room, then reaches down and picks up the bottle of water the hotel has left on the desk. He opens it and takes a big drink.

  “You owe me four dollars.” Plus I wanted that water. But I’m not going to tell him that. Why give him the satisfaction?

  “Don’t you mean I owe your parents four dollars?”

  I narrow my eyes at him then hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bunch of crumpled up bills.

  “Figures that you don’t have a wallet,” I say.

  “Figures that you would notice something like that, being that you’re so high maintenance.” He grins at me sweetly.

  “I am not high maintenance! So stop saying that!”

  “Then why do you have a million bags for a weekend trip to a wedding?”

  I feel the anger building inside me—he’s so damn arrogant I can’t even stand it—and before I even know what I’m saying, I’m telling him. “Because,” I say, getting ready to savor the look of shock that I know is about to cross his face, “I’m running away.”

  Saturday, June 26, 10:17 a.m.

  Siesta Key, Florida

  Peyton Miller hates me. And for good reason—I’ve been nothing but an asshole to her since we met. And even though I knew she was pissed at me because of what happened last night, even though I knew she hated me and probably wanted to beat me senseless with those ridiculous shoes she’s wearing, I found myself getting up from my table and walking over to her while she was in the bushes.

  I wanted to explain to her what happened last night; I wanted to explain to her all the reasons I had for being such an asshole. But when I got close to her, she started being such a brat that I figured it wasn’t the time. Either that, or I just chickened out. Probably a combination of both.

  Which is probably for the best, since there are a million fucking reasons that things are not going to work out between me and Peyton Miller, even before considering the fact that she hates me.

  Some of these reasons are:

  1. She is beautiful and she doesn’t know it. This is a very annoying trait for a girl to have, because it makes you want them, while at the same time you can’t even hate them for being conceited because they’re not.

  2. She is ridiculously smart—so smart that I sometimes cannot believe it. In fact, she is a horrible mix of beautiful and smart. One second she’ll be tottering around in those stupid high-heeled shoes she always wears, and the next she’ll be debating me over whether or not there should be universal healthcare.

  2a. She is way too smart to put up with any of my shit and calls me out on it any chance she gets.

  3. Right now she’s trying to get rid of me, even though I’m trying to help her.

  4. She broke my heart.

  Number four is obviously the biggest one. She’s the only girl who’s ever broken my heart, and it’s a very weird, uncomfortable feeling for me. I like to be the one doing the heartbreaking. Well, not really. No one ever likes to break someone’s heart, but sometimes it has to be done. And if I have a choice between breaking a heart and getting my heart broken, well, call me selfish, but I’ll take being the heartbreaker.

  “You’re running away?” I say now. I move into the room so she can’t see the shock on my face, mostly because I know she wants to see the shock on my face. She wants to see me freak out like a little girl and ask her all kinds of questions. Which I’m dying to do, let’s face it. But I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  Instead I head over to the minibar in the corner and start rustling through the contents until I find a Snickers. I rip open the wrapper and take a bite, then hold it out to her. “Want some?”

  She wrinkles up her nose. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “So? It’s never too early for chocolate.”

  “I don’t share food with people.”

  “What, are you worried about germs? Because I think it’s a little late for that after what happened last night, don’t you?” I give her a grin.

  “Get out,” she commands, pointing toward the door. “Or I’m going to call security.”

  “Ooooh, good idea,” I say. I plop down on her bed and take another bite of my candy bar. “And what will you tell them?”

  “That an annoying jerk won’t get out of my room.”

  I roll my eyes at her. “Relax,” I say. “I’m going.” I polish off the rest of the candy bar and drop the wrapper into the trash. I’m halfway to the door and trying to think of an excuse to stay, when she speaks.

  “Wait!” she says. “You need to pay for that.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a few mor
e bills, then drop them onto the desk. “You should be careful,” I say, “if you really are running away.”

  There’s no sarcasm in my voice because I really am worried about her. She can’t run away. She hardly has any street smarts. And I highly doubt her high heels are going to protect her from any robbers and miscreants that she might encounter out on the road.

  “Yeah, well,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about you. I just—”

  She gives me a look, silencing me. Then she plops herself down on the bed. She bites her lip and pushes her hair out of her face, and then a second later, she’s crying.

  Shit. I hate when chicks cry. I never know what to do. You can never tell if they’re crying about something that’s actually important, of if they’re upset because their jeans don’t fit.

  I move back into the room and sit down next to her on the bed, making sure there’s a sliver of space between us. I cannot allow myself to get too close to her. If I’m too close to her, something might happen. Thinking about getting close to her and something happening makes me think about last night, about what did happen, after the wedding, after the champagne, after the two of us were alone. And then, of course, I think about how it ended.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her gently.

  “What’s wrong?” Peyton yells and then sits up, grabbing for the tissues that are sitting on the nightstand. “What’s wrong is that I’m supposed to be running away from home, and my friend, the one who was supposed to help me, she . . . she . . . she got caught and now I’m going to have to call my parents and tell them what happened!”

  Wow. She’s kind of hysterical.

  “Why do you have to call your parents?” I ask.

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “Because!” She jumps up and starts pacing around the room, like she has so much energy that she can’t take it. I’m a little disappointed that she’s not sitting next to me anymore, but it’s most likely for the best. I really have no self-control, and I probably would have tried to kiss her. It’s one of my character defects. The lack of self-control, I mean. (Although I guess the fact that I want to kiss a girl who completely broke my heart and who hates me could also be considered a character defect.)