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“It is big, but it’s so bright,” Peyton says. “This would be my dream home.”
Because I don’t want to start the party off with an admission that, until recently, I didn’t really have dreams of my own, I say, “I have to figure out what’s next, I guess. Design-wise. Life-wise.” I move closer to the window and feel them follow. The four of us look out over the steep grade of the mountain. I love the craggy rocks and the way the trees struggle up through the unforgiving earth. There’s something creative in there, pushing itself into formation; the rich woods and modern lines that used to inspire me no longer get my brain buzzing. But these rocks do.
“Do I want it to look the way all my stuff has looked for the past ten years?” I ask the view. “Or is there a new style waiting to come out of my brain?”
“In case anyone is wondering,” Kurt says pointedly to my friends, “James isn’t coming.”
I turn to stare at him. “Well, that was random. Thanks.”
Annabeth’s dark eyes turn to me. “You didn’t invite James?”
“I don’t even know if he’s around anymore,” I say.
“He is.” Peyton sips her drink.
I gape at her. “How do you know that?”
“Saw him,” she says. Her casual shrug is totally maddening.
“How do you even know what he looks like?”
“Adorable lanky guy wearing glasses and a tailored suit? Yeah, he’s pretty easy to spot around here.”
I wait for more, but it’s like maneuvering a boulder up a hill with these assholes. “Where did you see him?”
She swallows another sip. “Grocery store.”
Their silence is the stony judgment of Mount Rushmore, and their faces are the expression equivalent of whistling innocently. I have no trouble at all imagining James doing his grocery shopping in a suit.
My pulse picks up, heavy and annoyed in my throat. “Why would I invite him?” I ask.
Peyton and Annabeth exchange a look with Kurt, who just shrugs and tilts his beer to his lips. I want to punch him for the first time since I was thirteen.
“Seriously, tell me why I should have invited him.”
“Because you like him.” Kurt’s voice echoes inside the bottle.
“I liked him, yeah.” I look between the three of them. “But did y’all miss the part where he—”
“Where he fucked up and tried to explain to you what happened, and you wouldn’t answer his calls?” Kurt asks, meeting my eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say sharply, “is my newfound self-preservation making you uncomfortable?”
He looks immediately remorseful. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you gave Melly a decade of bad behavior, and I hear you talking to her almost every day, but James doesn’t even get a text message?”
This feels like a shove, and I know he can tell because his face does that pinched thing he does when he’s trying to look casual, like he’s squinting out to the horizon, but the horizon here is the bare living room wall five feet away, and there’s nothing there to study.
“You think I should have invited James?” I ask quietly.
I get three Yeahs in unison.
I feel a little like the way I used to when I’d dump out a bin full of Lincoln Logs, both overwhelmed and excited—except this is my life, with all these pieces to choose from, and I’m not sure what shape I even want to build.
“Okay, well, I didn’t.” I turn back from the window and point to the spread of food on the other side of the room. “Eat something and stop judging me.”
This party already sucks and it just started. Maybe some music will help.
My stereo sits in the dining room on a low, plain coffee table I found at a yard sale. I’ve taken two steps toward it when the doorbell rings.
“Someone go let Mike in,” I say. “I’m gonna put on some music.”
“I’ll pick the music,” Annabeth says, jogging over. “You go get the door.”
I stare at her for a beat, on the verge of asking what the hell is up with all of them, but Kurt raises his beer across the room, eyebrows up like, Go.
“It’s Mike, Kurt. He can let himself in.”
He throws the next words at me with a grin. “Or, maybe it’s James.”
“Why on earth would it be—”
“Because Peyton invited him,” Annabeth says, and chases this bombshell with an evil giggle.
My stomach falls, and I look over at Peyton. “You didn’t.”
This makes my jerk friend laugh. “No, you didn’t.” She lifts her chin to the door. “But I sure as hell did.”
My feet are bricks. It takes me a week to get to the door, and another two days to open it.
The sun is behind him, casting his long shadow across the tiles of my entryway. Because he’s backlit, I can’t see his face. But then he shifts, blocking the sun from my face, and comes into focus. Glasses. No dress shirt here; a T-shirt stretches across his chest. Jeans hang low on his hips. My eyes sink lower. Sneakers.
