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“That’s not it,” I say, reaching back and touching my phone through the denim of my jeans. I stare at the floor, focusing on Ciara’s silver toenail polish and the purple fuzzy rug. “I just got a text that kind of … I don’t know. It just bothered me, but I’m over it now.”
She puts a hand on her hip and gives me another stare that she probably also got from her mom. “You are not getting off that easy, girl. Who texted you? What did it say and do I need to kick someone’s ass?”
I smile. After being forced to attend a new school and start all over with my social life, I hit the jackpot landing Ciara as a best friend. “If I tell you,” I say, realizing with a shock of horror that I’m about to reveal this embarrassing secret to her, “You’ll think I’m an idiot. You’ll probably lecture me more than I’ve lectured myself in these last few days.”
She sits on the foot of my bed and pats the comforter next to her. “Now I have to know. This sounds like some grade-A drama. Go on, sit down.”
I draw in a deep breath, staring at that empty spot on the bed. If I do this—if I sit down and tell her my deepest secret—then it’ll all be real. I can’t go back and pretend I never liked Emory after this. The pain in my chest makes the decision for me. Maybe words of comfort are what I need right now. She’ll understand, right?
I sit and stare at my palms, my hands wringing together. “After homecoming, it doesn’t seem like Emory and I are friends anymore. I told him it bothered me just now, and all he said was ‘sorry.’”
The high arches in Ciara’s eyebrows flatten into two concerned lines. “This is about heartbreaker boy? Damn. That’s the last thing I expected you to say.”
I shake my head and wipe away more tears. “I know. It’s so stupid. We were just supposed to be friends and then at that stupid dance …”
“It felt like more than friends,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. All of the air in the room seems to grow cold and empathetic to my pain. “And then you realized it was all just a stupid date, and none of it was real.”
I’d thought that telling my sorrows would make me feel better. If anything, it just magnifies my pain, stretching it out until it fills not only me but Ciara as well.
“Oh, honey, no,” she says, shaking her head. Her hand takes mine, and she grips it so hard I almost wince. “No, no, no.”
I look over at her, seeing her own watery eyes gazing back at me. “You let him get to you. You let him wriggle in, with his charming dark eyes and that slick hair and devilish grin. He is the total heartbreaker package, and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”
I snort and wipe at my eyes. “I practically bought the extended warranty.”
“The Heartbreak Special.”
She pulls me into another hug, wrapping her arms around me until I finally stop sobbing. “This is not your fault, Isla. And, not to sound like I’m defending him because I’m not—but Emory was just doing a job that night. He probably thought he was helping you. I don’t think he was being an asshole on purpose if that helps at all.”
“I know he wasn’t,” I say. My mind goes automatically back to that night, to the way he charmed my parents and held my hand and danced like a gentleman. “He was just being nice. He thought he was helping me. And now he’s just been distant and weird ever since the dance.” I draw in a ragged breath. Ciara’s pained expression matches my own. “I hate it, C. I hate that I fell for him, and I know he knows how I feel. He could probably sense it a mile away that night. And now he’s avoiding me so as not to hurt me, but the damage is already done.”
She rubs her hands up and down my arms. “I know how to fix this mess.”
I give her a wary look. “Enlighten me.”
Her gaze turns sultry, her brown eyes taking on a life of their own. “We’re going to find you a college guy.”
Ciara is stunning in the ironed version of her hot pink mini dress. Her long braided hair is pulled back halfway with a matching pink clip, and she did her own makeup in front of my vanity, adding a shimmery glow of happiness to her normally pretty features. She wears black satin ballet flats and a simple golden necklace.
“You look more summer than November,” I say, leaning toward my mirror to apply some lip gloss to my otherwise boring face. Just a little matte powder and mascara for me tonight. Ciara wanted to do me up like a princess, but I feel like if I’m going to snag a college guy tonight, it should be with a somewhat more realistic version of myself. Besides, I’m over trying too hard. Now I’m not sure I want to try at all.
“Good, because summer is sexier than stupid November,” she says, sliding her purse over her shoulder. “Ready?”
I’m wearing dark skinny jeans with a little rip in the thigh, ruby red heels and a low-cut red tank top beneath a black cardigan. I feel like I should be holding a martini and complaining about … whatever it is fancy people complain about. I’d rather be in my Converse, but if Ciara couldn’t get me in a dress, she got me in the next best thing: heels.
“Let’s do it,” I say, plastering a smug smile on my face. My voice is so convincing I almost believe it myself.
Kappa Theta Delta is a frat house that’s a couple miles away from Sam Houston State University, buried on a downward slope just at the end of a dead-end street. We park on the side of the road, behind the growing line of cars. Some of the tallest pine trees I’ve ever seen line the long driveway, their needles and pinecones littering the grass below.
Music thumps in the distance, and all of the lights are on in the two-story building that’s made of red brick. Four white columns beam up at us in the dusk, and all of the square windows are bordered with crisp black shutters. I never thought a beer pong championship would be held in a place that looks so … presidential.
We walk up the steps onto the massive wraparound porch, and I raise my fist to the front door. Ciara grabs my wrist. “Nope, that’s amateur.” She throws me a confident smirk. “Girlfriends are VIPs and VIPS let themselves in.”
She makes a big show of twisting the doorknob, and we walk into the tiled foyer of the frat house. No one really notices, and the disappointment of not receiving a grand entrance makes Ciara’s shoulders slump. Still, we’re here, and it’s time to party. Time to forget about Emory and Nate and every stupid thing that’s ever made my heart ache.
I wasn’t expecting it to look like a frat party film set in here, but it kind of does. People are everywhere, all drinking from Solo cups—orange, for the school’s colors—and shimmying to the music, making out in armchairs that have seen better days. A few people puff on e-cigs, and every girl here is wearing summer clothing instead of November clothing. Now I feel kind of stupid in jeans.
“Okay, if I wasn’t going to cosmetology school instead of university,” Ciara says, taking my hand as we weave through the throngs of partygoers, “I’d join a sorority. I could get used to Fridays like this.”
