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“Celebrating,” she repeats, like she doesn’t understand the word. Then a slow smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “Life!”
I can’t even force a smile in return. My skin itches to be elsewhere. To be breaking into the animal shelter. To be doing something. The wait is the worst part of the con, the long stretch of hours before things start to happen. That’s when nerves get the best of people.
I walk inside, willing my nerves not to get the best of me.
The living room is lit with candles that have burned down, so that melting wax pools on furniture. Only a few kids are there, sitting on the floor and drinking beer. A sophomore says something, and they all look over at me.
It took two and a half years to get people to forget what was different about me, and only fifteen minutes to get them to remember.
I give them a nod and wonder if Sam’s at least taking bets on the rumors about me. He’d better.
In the kitchen a bunch of seniors are gathered around Harvey Silverman, who’s downing a pyramid of shots. Outside, by the pool, I see most of the rest of the partygoers. It’s too cold to swim, but a couple of fully clothed people are anyway, their lips blue in the patio lights.
“Cassel Sharpe,” Audrey says, looping her arm through mine. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Audrey’s eyes are glassy, her smile vague. She still looks lovely. She glances toward Greg Harmsford leaning against a bookshelf, talking with two girls from the field hockey team. I wonder if they came to the party together.
“Just like always,” she says, looking back at me. “Watching from the shadows. Observing everybody. Judging us.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” I say. I don’t know how to explain how afraid I am of being judged.
“I liked when you were my boyfriend,” she says, and leans her head against my shoulder, maybe out of habit, maybe because she’s drunk. It’s enough like tenderness for me to pretend. “I liked you watching me.”
I resist the urge to promise her that if she tells me all the things I did right, I’ll do them again.
“Didn’t you like it when I was your girlfriend?” she asks, her voice gone so soft that it’s mostly breath.
“You’re the one who broke it off,” I tell her, but my voice has dropped low, and the words come out like a caress. I don’t care about what I’m saying. I only care about keeping her here, talking with me. She makes me feel like it’s possible to slip out of my old life and into hers, where everything is easy and honest.
“I’m not over you,” she says. “I don’t think.”
“Oh,” I say, and then I lean in and kiss her. I don’t think. Don’t think. I just mash my mouth against hers. She tastes like tequila. It’s an awful kiss, too full of grief and frustration and the knowledge that I am screwing everything up and don’t know how to do anything but screw things up worse.
She reaches up her hands and touches my shoulders gently. She doesn’t push me away. Her fingers curl against the nape of my neck, which tickles a little and makes me smile against her lips. I slow down. Better. She sighs into my mouth.
I let my fingers trace her collarbone, dip into the hollow of her neck. I want to kiss her there. I want to let my mouth and tongue follow the road map of freckles across her milky skin.
“Hey,” Greg says. “Get off her.”
Audrey stumbles back, nearly into Greg. I feel like I’ve come up out of such deep water that I have the bends. I forgot that we’re at a party.
“You’re drunk,” Greg tells her, and grabs hold of her upper arm. Audrey sways a little unsteadily.
My fingers curl into fists. I want to shove him against the wall. I want to break open my knuckles on his face. I look at Audrey for a signal. I tell myself that if she looks scared or even angry, I am going to hurt him.
She’s looking down, though, her face turned away from me. All that rage curdles into self-loathing.
“What are you even doing here?” Greg says. “I thought the dean finally figured out that you’re a criminal and kicked you out.”
“I didn’t think this was an official school-sponsored event,” I say.
“Nobody wants you around, working their girlfriends.” His smile is smug. “You and I both know that’s the only way you can get a date.”
I think of Maura, and my sight narrows. It’s like I’m looking at Greg through a tunnel of blackness. My fists clench so tightly that I can feel my nails through the leather of my gloves. I hit him, hard, sending him sprawling on the wooden floor. My foot is digging into his ribs before Rahul Pathak grabs me around the waist and pulls me away from him.
“Chill out, Sharpe,” Rahul says, but I struggle against his hold. All I want to do is kick Greg again. Someone I can’t see grabs my wrist and twists it behind me.
Audrey’s gone.
