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Emma giggled. “She did not!”
“There’s another story about Gabby somehow locking herself inside her gym locker in ninth grade.” Ethan paused to take another canapé from the tray. “I didn’t even know someone could fit inside one of those. And when we were in junior high? Someone caught Lili and Gabby talking in British voices on the playground, cal ing each other ‘Miss Lili Tal ywacker’ and ‘Gabby Pony Baloney.’ They had no idea the terms were slang for penis; they just thought they sounded funny. They didn’t live that down for a long time.”
Emma almost coughed up a mouthful of champagne. “Oh my God.”
“But despite al that, something tel s me you shouldn’t write them off so easily,” Ethan said. “You should be careful around them, figure out what they know.”
Emma nodded. “Madeline and the others want to prank them. But I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“I’d stay away from that plan. If they are the kil ers, the last thing you want to do is piss them off more.”
The AC clicked on, and the air suddenly felt chil y. The band played something more appropriate for a 1920s speakeasy, and a couple of the drunker attendees started to dance. Ethan waved his hands around his face to dispel a cloud of cigar smoke.
They were quiet as they moved to the next set of photographs. It was a col age of Polaroids, each depicting different body parts: eyes, noses, feet, ears. “I love Polaroids,” Ethan said.
“Me, too,” Emma answered, relieved at the change in subject. “My mom gave me a Polaroid camera when I was little, before she took off.”
“Do you miss her?” Ethan asked.
Emma fingered the stem of her champagne glass. “It’s been so long,” she said vaguely. “I hardly remember what there is to miss.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Emma sighed and moved past a clump of patrons talking loudly about how they’d al been friends with Andy Warhol back in the glory days of the art scene. “A long time ago, I used to think she was stil nearby, watching me. Fol owing me from home to home, staying close to make sure I was okay. But I know now how stupid that was.”
“It’s not stupid.”
Emma stared intently at the price list on the wal as though she were thinking of making a purchase. “No, it is. Becky left me. She made a choice; I can’t change that.”
“Hey.” Ethan turned Emma to face him. For a moment, he just stared at her, which sent a thousand butterflies flapping through Emma’s stomach. Then, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “She made the wrong choice. You know that, right?”
A swel of emotions washed over Emma. “Thank you,”
she said quietly, staring into his round blue eyes.
“Kiss him,” I whispered, feeling like the singing hermit crab in The Little Mermaid. I was al out of my own first kisses, so I had to root for Emma now.
A woman in a magenta dress bumped into Emma.
“Sorry,” she slurred, her eyes glazed and her cheeks a boozy red. And Emma pul ed away, giggling.
“So how do you know so much about crashing art openings?” Emma said, smoothing the front of Sutton’s dress. “I thought you were anti-party.”
Ethan strol ed to a bank of windows at the back of the gal ery that overlooked a stone terrace festooned with Christmas lights. “I’m not. I’m just against the kind of party with spiked punch and body shots. It’s so . . .”
“Juvenile?” Emma fil ed in for him. “But sometimes that’s a part of having a social life. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it to have friends.”
Ethan drained his glass of champagne and set it on a side table. “If that’s the price I have to pay, then I’d rather be alone.”
“What about girlfriends?” she asked nervously. She’d wracked her brain for days, thinking of how to ask him this. A tiny smile danced across Ethan’s lips. “Yeah, I’ve had a few of those.”
“Anyone I know?”
Ethan just shrugged and sank into one of the angular leather chairs that could’ve been an art exhibit themselves.
“Were any of them serious?” Emma pressed as she settled next to him and cradled a soft, overstuffed pil ow.
“One was. But it’s over now. What about you?” His gaze canvassed her face. “Did you leave anyone behind in Vegas?”
“Not exactly.” Emma stared at her lap. “I had some boyfriends, but nothing was too serious. And then there was this one guy, but . . .”
“But what?”
Emma’s throat tightened. “It ended up being nothing.”
She hated lying, but she didn’t want to get into her embarrassing fiasco with Russ Brewer, whom she’d made the mistake of liking. After he’d asked her out, she’d prepared for the date, borrowing a dress from Alex, wearing the last-season Kate Spade shoes she’d scored at Goodwil , rewashing and restyling her hair three times to get it right. But when she’d gone to the mal entrance, Russ wasn’t there. Instead it was his ex-girlfriend, Addison Westerberg, and her posse, their laughs high, horrible cackles. As if Russ would date the foster girl? they’d teased. It had been a setup. Not, in fact, unlike a Lying Game prank.
Ethan opened his mouth, perhaps to say more, but suddenly his eyes widened at something behind them.
“Shit.” He leaned forward and clamped down on Emma’s arm.
Emma swung around and stared. Nisha Banerjee, dressed in a high-neck black dress and snakeskin heels, stood by a huge photograph of a mostly naked man. Her father was next to her, glancing around with a blank look on his face.
