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“Which one?” I snort.
“Who do you think? Sydney. Because of her, my locker was always trashed.”
“You don’t know that it was her,” I point out, though, in all honesty, it most likely was.
Sydney’s locker was next to Sienna’s all four years of high school, which meant Sienna spent those same years finding nasty little decorations scrawled across hers in red Sharpie. Little gems like trailer trash and the like. The really nasty ones were the kind of vile homophobic slurs that still make my stomach turn just thinking about them. Really hateful shit that had no business coming out of anyone’s mouth, let alone being scribbled across someone’s locker.
That’s the Reds for you. They took something perfectly normal, like Sienna preferring baggy jeans and combat boots over skirts and lip gloss and twisted it into something ugly.
To make things worse, they made sure the whole school knew exactly how they felt. No matter how many times Sienna scrubbed her vandalized locker clean, something else would appear the following day.
No one was ever able to prove who was responsible, but everyone had their suspicions.
The fact that Sydney and Jordan did the morning announcements meant they were on school grounds well before everyone else, increasing the chances it was one of them.
I never thought Jordan was behind the vandalism. She was always too self-involved to dirty her hands or risk messing up her manicure. But I wouldn’t have put it past her to stand back and cheer while the real Picasso drew yet another masterpiece on Sienna’s locker.
No. Out of the two of them, there was only one person vicious enough to put that much time and effort into tormenting my friend. To show up every day, for four whole years, and make sure Sienna’s humiliation was on display for the entire school to see. And that person was Sydney.
“Don’t stare. You’ll only exacerbate their already gargantuan sense of self-importance,” I whisper when I catch Sienna still giving the pair of Reds the stink eye.
“You really are a writer if you’re using hundred-dollar words to describe their five-cent egos.” I can’t help but chuckle at Sienna’s analogy.
“I might steal that from you.”
“Go right ahead. I’ve got plenty more where that came from,” she says, quickly finishing her drink before snagging another mimosa from a passing waiter.
“Isn’t that like your fifth one?” I ask with a frown.
“If I’m going to survive this week, there’s no way I’ll be able to do it sober. Besides, this is supposed to be my vacation. Let me indulge a little.” My frown deepens with her reply.
I know Sienna is a grown woman perfectly capable of making her own decisions, but considering the circumstances we find ourselves in, I can’t help but wonder if I should be a little more concerned.
Being back here has obviously stirred up more than either of us bargained for, and maybe she’s too caught up in it all to realize just how fast she’s knocking back those drinks.
Before I can decide whether to push the issue or mind my own damn business, a loud, squealing wail cuts through the garden.
“Oh, my God! You made it!” Amber shouts, running over to Brooke Trask, who just arrived. They share an embrace while Sydney waits on the sidelines for her turn.
My mood, however, takes a nosedive with the addition of yet another Fairhope Red.
Three down. Four to go.
I take in a deep breath, hating how my anxiety just tripled with Brooke’s arrival. The Reds have always traveled in packs and watching them slowly reassemble has me wondering how long it’ll be before the rest of them show up. More specifically, their fearless cult leader—Peyton.
Last night, just hearing her laugh was enough to send me spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. I can’t let that happen again today. For starters, Milo isn’t here to pull me out of it this time. But more than that, I refuse to give Peyton the satisfaction. She took enough from me ten years ago. I’ll be damned if I let her see she still has the power to get under my skin now.
“Hey, babes! I’m so glad to see you,” Brooke gushes, looking at her friends’ faces as if they meant the absolute world to her. “It’s been forever.”
“It sure has,” Sydney says, eyeing her friend with a goading grin. “Long enough for you to eat your way through half of Maine, apparently.”
As much as I hate agreeing with anything that comes out of Sydney’s mouth, I can’t deny that Brooke does look different. Most noticeably, she’s put on more than a few pounds since high school. A far cry from the slim cheerleader I remember strutting through the halls in a skirt that barely covered her ass.
Not that there’s anything strange or even wrong about that. Everyone here has changed in one way or another, myself included. Expecting any of us to look exactly like we did at eighteen would be ridiculous.
Still, it isn’t the added weight throwing me off. It’s how ragged she looks.
Back then, like most Reds, Brooke practically lived at Peyton’s mom’s hair salon. Her hair was always freshly styled, her makeup flawless, her nails perfectly manicured. There was never so much as a strand out of place.
