Liam turns on me. “Hey! You’re killing the vibe here.”
I roll my eyes. “His ancestors didn’t torture anyone.”
“How do we know that?” Bram turns, eyes glinting with amusement.
“How do we know your ancestors, theauto repairmen, didn’t torture anyone?” I push past the other boys to grab him by the arm. He doesn’t resist, and once I’ve dragged him along into the empty formal dining room, I release him. “You are doing nothing to help yourself.”
He lifts both hands in surrender. “That guy was the one who said the thing about my ancestors.”
“You don’t need any more of a bad family rap than the one youhave. Where are your brothers?”
Bram takes a swig of his drink. “Am I my brothers’ keeper?” He smirks, but his eyes tell a different story.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, waving a hand. “Everything’s great. It’s a party.”
“Bram, how many of those have you had?” I gesture to the red Solo cup. “And what is in there, exactly?”
“Asecretfamily recipe. Come on, I’ll make you one.” He motions me along.
“No,” I say, but he’s already halfway to the kitchen. Rather than follow him, I take the other door that leads to the living room. People are trickling in, and so far, to my relief, everyone seems to actually be on student council. I wonder if Sage will show up, or if she’s still convinced that one of the Abbotts is a killer.
At this thought, I start to scan the room for Adam with more urgency. For some idiotic reason, Lydia’s deluded basement-prisoner scenario trickles into my head. I need eyes on Adam.
Instead, I spot Henry over in the corner. He’s laughing, red cup in hand as he talks rather closely with Mackenzie. A wave of heat streaks through me. He’s probably the reason Mackenzie wanted to invite everyone over here. Andshecould be the reason Henry was so willing to say yes.
Maybe it’s stupid that I ever thought something was going on between Henry and me. We’ve been best friends since we were kids, and that’s the way things will stay. I attempt to back out of the room, partly because I don’t want to interrupt their conversation, and partly because I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe. But Henry meets my eyes over Mackenzie’s shoulder. “Hayden!” He breaks into a smile, pinching the corner of his glasses between two fingers the way he always does, and I get a flutter in my stomach.
“There you are,” I say brightly, like I only just noticed him.
Mackenzie turns around and gives me a look like I have a lot of nerve showing up at this student-council-members-only party. Even though this is my fourth year on student council and only her second.
To my delight, Henry presses past her to pull me into a hug. It’s been less than a week since he took my hand on the couch, but he holds on to me like it’s been much longer. I breathe him in, the familiar herbal yet clean scent replaced by the citrusy, warm alcoholic notes of whatever he’s been drinking.
I let go sooner than I’d like to, only because I sense Mackenzie still beside us. “I can’t believe you got these guys to host a party,” I tell her.
“I have my ways,” she says in a flirty tone. A new song starts up, and Mackenzie swings her hips. Raising her red cup in the air, she moves with her eyes shut.
I make eye contact with Henry, and we choke down laughter. “You’re not dancing,” I say, trying and failing to imagine it.
“And you’re not drinking,” he says. “Maybe if we were both—you know.” He tips his head in Mackenzie’s direction. “We’d both be dancing.” His brows arch mischievously, and I doubt I’d need even a sip of liquid courage to dance with Henry if he took two steps closer.
“Hey,” comes a deep voice. I turn to find Bram behind me, holding out a red cup. “I used my dad’s bourbon, not whatever cheap shit the rest of them are drinking.”
“Thanks,” I tell Bram before turning to Henry. “Problem solved, I guess?”
Only Henry’s smile has faded, his gaze locked onto his brother.
“Rich people areweird,” Mackenzie says, dancing up close to Bram, who takes a step backward. “This cheap drink tastes delicious.” She downs the rest of it, then trots off, presumably in search of a refill.
I sip Bram’s concoction, which burns my throat on its way down. I cough, and Henry pats me on the back. “What the hell did you give me, Bram?”
He laughs. “Oh, sweet Phil.” He reaches out to wipe something that I apparently spit onto my chin. “You don’t have to drink it.”
My face ignites. When he tries to take the cup from me, I pull it out of his reach, even though I have zero intention of taking another sip. “I’m not sweet,” I protest.
“No, of course not.” Bram bites his lower lip and puts on a faux serious face.
