And with that, we raced down the Alderton-Du Ponte cobblestones, leaving all thoughts of Beck and his stupid threat behind.
CHAPTER 4
Later that night, I lay on my made bed, already dressed in my pajamas. I had about thirty minutes left until Mom took my phone—our parents were really strict with screen time, despite the fact that we were nearly eighteen—and had been blindly scrolling through social media for the last half hour.
On Sundays, we weren’t allowed in our rooms until after dinner. Mom called themEnrichment Days, where we had to either be in a common area—like the living room or the dining room—working on something that would “enrich the mind or body.”
Growing up, Jamie loved Sundays. For him, enrichment just meant reading.
For me, time passed too slowly. No phones, no screens, just stuck in the house for hours on end. I didn’t have hobbies that could keep me engaged for long. Sometimes I’d do a puzzle. Sometimes I’d memorize new words. Sometimes I’d stretch.
But after years of persuading, I’d managed to convince my mom that any outdoor activity should count.
Today, pickleball. Next week, I’d pick some other activity as an excuse. Maybe I could talk Daisy into going on a run with me.
Doubtful.
As I wound down for the night, I started off just idly going through Instagram. A few hours ago, Daisy had posted a picture of a comic strip she’d doodled on the side of her homework sheet. It was a boy and a girl standing in front of what looked like a cherry blossom tree, and the only caption was a flower emoji.
I tapped to leave a comment. Jamie had beaten me to it.
@JamieTheBookworm: Not sure how Mr. Taylor will grade it, but I give it an A+
I liked his comment before readjusting my grip on my phone.
@NellieBellie: OBSESSED! Can you doodle on my homework next? and… fill out the answers while you’re at it? x
I scrolled further and found that Lydia had posted pictures of herself and a few other girls from Senior Night last night. She hadn’t taken a photo with me, but had the audacity to butt in on our pickleball session? Rude.
Lydia captioned it,Who’s sparklier? The chandelier or us?
Sparklier isn’t a word, I wanted to comment.
Instead, I typed,
@NellieBellie: Is that even a question?! xx
I tapped on her profile. She was a frequent poster, with aesthetic, influencer-style shots that looked like she was trying too hard. The picture of the girls in the mirror wasn’t the only recent one she’d posted, though. The next one was from last night, too. A photo dump. The first photo was a shot of her shiny heels in their designer Malstoni box, and the next was a photo of the Alderton-Du Ponte ballroom chandelier. There were a few other pictures of her with her friends.
And then the final slide was Beckham Jennings.
In Alderton-Du Ponte’s serenity garden.
It was a black and white photo of him just standing in the center of it, with the grand tree behind him, outdoor chess table to his left. He had his full drink pulled up to his lips, and his eyes cut over the rim to stare down Lydia’s camera. The sun was brighter in the background—so they’d taken it before I’d arrived. He wasn’t tagged, but that was because he didn’t have an Instagram. I hated that I knew that.
I only knew that because, once upon a time, I’d checked.
He’d brought Lydia out to the garden, posing as the picture of nonchalance as if he’d never left Alderton-Du Ponte in the first place. The garden that’d been our place.
Before everything crashed and burned.
I’ll remind you what it’s like to really want someone.
I squeezed my eyes shut. My brain was too scrambled to find a word to spell.You don’t have to remind me, I thought bitterly.I haven’t forgotten.
Immediately, I dropped my phone onto my bed and got to my feet.
Jamie was on his own bed, sitting on top of the covers with a book open on his lap, when I poked my head in. Sometimes I worried about how simple Jamie was, with no other real hobby aside from reading. He was so introverted, too. I wondered if he’d ever be able to get a girlfriend, if he’d just pick his head out of his book.
