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“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I came early.”
She smiles wider like I’m the sweetest person that ever existed. I don’t see it. I never have, but I try to hold onto what she sees in me.
With Willow and Daisy gone, I’m left alone with Rose. Not the best feeling, but I can handle it. Even as she stares me down.
“So how are you getting there?” she asks while she pulls out her phone.
Seeing as how I’m grounded from using my car after the whole Faust shit, I only really have one option. And it’s not the most romantic. “Willow has a car.”
Rose looks up at me, horrified. “Her Honda?”
“Yeah.”
“To prom.” She says it like I’m unaware of our destination.
I’m fully aware.
“This was a last-minute kind of thing,” I defend. “I mean, Declan dumped her today.” Can we focus on the fact that he’s the jerk?
“And he will rot in hell for eternity for it,” she says coldly. Then she dials a number. “I’ll take care of it.”
“What does that mean?” For a second, I think she’s plotting actual murder.
She puts the phone to her ear. “You’re going to take Connor’s limo.” It’s not a suggestion, and I’m fine with that. Anything to make this night the best it can be for Willow.
I just don’t want to fuck it up.
Willow looks stunning. Like out-of-this-world kind of beautiful, and Declan really needs to rethink his entire existence if he’s dumping a girl like her. That sentiment was the one common ground Lo and I shared tonight. Yeah, he didn’t make it to the hospital, so while Daisy, Lily, and Rose helped Willow get ready. Ryke and Lo were my company. We bonded for like point-two-seconds over the fact that Willow deserves a good night.
In the ballroom, her pale-yellow dress sweeps the floor, little pearls are somehow stuck into her braid like jewels (a product of Daisy’s help, she told me), and most importantly, she seems to be having a good time. We smile. Laugh. The awkward limo ride is behind us as we drink some punch near the dance floor.
She told me a secret on the way here. One that I’m more honored to know than I am bitter to have been kept out of the loop of.
Loren Hale is her half-brother.
The world still thinks he’s her cousin. I understand the need for all the secrecy. If everyone knew she was that closely related to him, it’d be a media frenzy. The thought of anyone invading Willow’s space, like paparazzi and press, it would just send me. I hate it.
And yeah, it’s big that she trusted me with the news.
I’m her friend.
She said that again in the limo. Thanks for being my friend.
It feels like the more we both say it, the more we put this weird kind of wedge between us. Like friendship has transformed into a legitimate third person that stands around and eavesdrops. The DJ switches to an old classic Green Day song that gets the crowd hyped.
I smile and turn to her. “Wanna dance?”
She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, but I can’t promise I’m any good at it.”
“It’s Green Day,” I say. “It’s more bouncing than dancing.”
She looks around. Sure enough, most of the crowding is jumping and bouncing up and down to the beat of the song.
She nods a few times like she’s gearing herself up.
I reach for her hand but stop. “Can I?”
“Hold my hand?”
“Yeah, dance partner.” Dance partner? Jesus, that’s lame.
She smiles, not seeming to notice my inward cringe. At myself, obviously. I’m being cringey. I don’t know why. Yeah, I do. She nods, and Friendship the Person follows us onto the dancefloor.
It’s awkward.
I don’t know how to make it un-awkward.
I start dancing. Bopping to the beat. Keeping her hand in mine. Don’t intertwine your fingers, a voice tells me in the back of my head. That’s too much, right? Not friendship territory.
People are looking at me. Staring. Mostly because I’m Garrison Abbey—that kid who got pulled out of Dalton Academy. I recognize most of the faces, but I blur them from my mind. I just want to remember the good parts of tonight. Just her.
Willow and I are getting into the song. Head-banging. Singing some of the popular lyrics. Then she steps and slips on her dress, and I catch her arms to stop her from face-planting on the floor.
“Oh…” She breathes heavy. Her chest is up against my chest. My body stirs at the close contact.
Shit.
I pull away quickly, giving us space. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“No, it’s…” Her voice drifts off. It’s what? I want to ask. We hold gazes for an extended moment; the awkward uncertainty becomes a sort of visceral, hot, yearning tension that I’ve never felt before. It fists my heart, my pulse thumping deeper. Just as I gain some courage, the DJ switches songs. A slow ballad begins playing, and part of the dancefloor clears for couples.
