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A commotion from the hall has me lifting my head, and then Dad’s standing up. Voices rise—one in particular, one that…that shouldn’t be here.
Distantly, in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that I have no idea where my phone is. Not since Dad took the phone from me to explain to Mason what was going on.
That was hours ago. It’s evening now. Dark.
I don’t even remember making the decision to call him. But when Izzy’s phone went straight to voicemail, I just… I needed him.
And now he’s here.
I blink heavily, and when the world comes back into focus, there he is, storming into the room. I’m vaguely aware of Mom standing and rushing over to them—both of them, because of course Waylon is here too.
I’m aware I’m frowning.
How? I wonder silently, but I don’t make any move to ask, much less stand up and approach them.
Everyone’s talking all of a sudden, but it might as well be happening in a different room. A different universe. One separated by thick, impenetrable glass. And I am nothing but a mere explorer, tasked to observe from the other side.
Mason’s talking, and for some reason, I can hear him—clear as day—the only voice that seems to be able to reach wherever I am.
“But it’s not hers? That’s good then…” His pale, red-rimmed blue eyes dart around the room, and it occurs to me he hasn’t seen me yet.
Because he’s not here for me…
And, yet, still a small part of me…hoped. That less rational, selfish, ugly part of me that had the audacity to think crushing on my sister’s boyfriend wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass one day.
Nausea wells in my throat, just as his gaze finds me on the floor, sitting against the far wall between the window and the standing lamp in the corner.
I stare at him as his eyes widen briefly, a flash of something there I can’t discern.
And then he just…looks away. Quickly.
And it hits me…
He blames me too.
Downstairs and outside the Hollinger house, we immediately run into trouble.
“Romance” by Varials blasts through the old house, slightly muffled now that we’re outside, save for the reverberations that rattle the nearby windows.
“Well, look who it is,” an obnoxious voice slurs into the night, immediately sending a chill down my spine, and bile up my throat.
It’s been almost two years since I last heard that voice. Not since that day in the hallway of Shiloh High, my jaw throbbing, and my pride in shreds.
My lip ticks up bitterly at the memory. Oh how I pity that kid now.
“Clay, don’t,” Gina, his girlfriend whispers in a rush, just as they appear in the corner of my eye, leaning against the peeling white banister boxing in the porch. She’s wrapped around his arm, like she’s trying to hold him back.
He sways, a drunken grin lifting his cheek that does little to soften the sharp, predatorial glint in his eyes.
“Lil birdy said you showed up with a girl.” Clay cackles at that, like he just dropped the funniest joke of all time.
The body slumped against me tenses as the party outside quiets, finally tuning into the tension brewing, but he doesn’t lift his head.
Waylon’s head snaps up from where he stands directly in front of us, after having helped me get Mason through the threshold. His bleary hazel eyes flash to mine, sharpening, before he twists his head over his shoulder, seeking out his cousin.
Clay’s gaze remains locked on mine from over by the railing, while his girlfriend continues to try and talk him down and steer him away from us. He just shakes her off, and takes an unsteady step toward us, cocking his head. He’s drunk—clearly—but if his blown out pupils are anything to go by, I’d say alcohol’s not the only thing swimming through his veins right now.
“I said that can’t be right. Not our little JJ.” He sneers my name like just by existing, I’ve somehow personally offended him. Ruined his night.
