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“You hear about this party with Alleghany?”
“Wes’s birthday? Yeah.”
All three of us collectively grimace at the friendly way she says his name.
“You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Are Alleghany cheerleaders going to be there?”
Brooke’s nose wrinkles. “How would I know?”
“You’re going to an Alleghany party,” Sam says. “Seems like your loyalties are shifting.”
Matt and I exchange a look. Most of the time, Sam is the easy-going guy. Around Brooke, he becomes a bit of an ass.
“I’m supporting my best friend by going to a party she’s throwing for her boyfriend, Sam. Sounds pretty damn loyal to me.”
“She’s dating Weston fucking Cole, Brooke. When she chose him—that’s when your loyalty was supposed to end.”
“Oh, really? So if Liam started dating a girl from Alleghany—you’d do what? Never talk to him again?”
I shift, the hypothetical hitting a little too close to reality. I’m not dating Natalie. But I’ve definitely done things with her my friends would judge me for.
That’s affirmed when Sam answers. “Liamwould never put us in that position in the first place.”
Brooke tosses her long hair over one shoulder. “Whatever. Have fun with whatever Alleghany cheerleader you’re after—hypocrite.”
“As long as Natalie Jacobs is there, I will.”
Brooke’s nostrils flare. “From what I’ve heard, she’s the love ’em and leave ’em type. Perfect for you.” She stalks off.
“She sounded jealous, man,” Matt says.
I’m silent, washing bitterness down with beer.
She’s the love ’em and leave ’em type.
Is that true? Probably. Natalie told me she’s never dated anyone seriously. That would extend to me—even if I didn’t want it to. Even if I started to see her as more than a hot hookup.
The fact I’m thinking about it—about her—annoys me. I stand without saying anything, leaving Sam and Matt to talk. The remainder of my beer gets drained as I cross the yard, headed toward the cornhole set up near the nature preserve that borders the back of Sean Kennedy’s backyard.
I feel like throwing something.
“Any openings?” I ask, tossing the empty bottle in a bin with a loud clang.
“Yeah. Sure. Here.” One of the guys hands me two beanies, his voice high-pitched and nervous.
I squint at him. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, I’m Peter. We had Calculus together, senior year.”
“Right,” I say, even though I have no recollection of who he is. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Peter glances over at another guy I don’t recognize. “You’ve got a better arm than me.”
I scoff. “That’s fucking debatable.”
