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“Smart,” Eli says. “You’re learning.”
The fire catches. Luca does not set his sleeve on fire, but it’s close, and he tells us all about how it was never in doubt, and the four of us sit out under the stupid desert sky with too many stars in it, and for the first time since the eleventh floor of Bingo Studios, I feel like we’re back.
* * *
Her flight’s at two on Sunday. Harrison’s built the fire too big, and Luca has been telling a story about a woman in Sacramento for what I estimate is nineteen minutes with no discernible ending in it.
Bea’s between my knees on the blanket with her back against my chest and my chin on top of her head, which is where she’s been most of this week, and which I am going to think about at some length on Sunday.
“—and I’m not saying she was lying about the horse,” Luca says.
“You are absolutely saying that,” says Gianna.
“I’m saying there was no horse.”
Gianna opens her mouth to argue, then glances down at her phone.
“Oh my God. Brad Donnelly just got named captain. He’s so talented it’s kinda hot.”
Bea goes strangely still between my knees.
Brad.
Who the fuck is Brad?
“Brad?” I say casually.
Gianna looks up. “You know, Bea’s hockey Brad.”
“Hockey Brad,” I repeat.
Sydney makes a small choking sound from across the fire.
I look down at Bea. She is suddenly extremely interested in the label on her beer.
“Who’s Bea’s Hockey Brad?”
“No one,” Bea says quickly.
Gianna’s eyes move between us. Then widen.
“Oh.” She looks at Bea. “You never told him?”
Bea closes her eyes.
I sit up a little straighter. “Told me what?”
Gianna is already laughing. “Brad was her alibi.”
“Her what?”
“Nothing,” Bea says.
Sydney has both hands over her mouth now.
“The guy she told me she hooked up with when she was secretly hooking up with you.”
I look down at Bea.
