She doesn’t answer, which means she heard it all. I rub one hand over my eyes.
“Aren’t you going to come in?” Mom pushes the door wider, digs her fingers into my sleeve. “I’m sorry I caused you and Ben trouble. I know I messed up, but he didn’t have to talk to me like that. It’s not right.”
I straighten, inhale until my chest is bursting. “I have to go out for a while.”
“Are you mad at me? Vic says you shouldn’t be mad at—” I look at her and she flinches. “We’re all dealing with your dad leaving in different ways, baby. I’m not going to stay home and play the good wife so I can be there if he decides to come back. His apologies are the worst bandages. Ask me how I know.”
She pauses like she actually thinks I will, and I can’t. I didn’t know she knew and that was so stupid, because how could she have not known? You can feel abandonment in your bones. My father made us his crime scene.
“Will you be okay?” I ask at last.
“I’m always okay.”
“Yeah, you are.” I force a smile and, after a moment, she smiles too, but her fingers keep scrabbling at me, like they want to dig their way inside.
“You won’t leave me, will you, Griff?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Saying it surges bile into my throat though. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.
Mom’s eyes inch over my face. “I don’t believe you. That’s what happens when you lie too much. You don’t believe what anyone tells you anymore. Then, of course, there are all the lies your dad told me. . . .”
Like how he would love her forever? I wince. Technically, he left both of us, but leaving did more damage to Mom than to me. How would I live with myself if I did the same thing?
I couldn’t.
“I love you, baby.”
I take my bike keys from my pocket and give her my biggest, fakest smile—the one she loves the best. “I love you too, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
16
Lauren’s house is something else. It’s huge, for starters. The decorating looks like something out of a magazine too, which makes sense, I guess, because I think I remember someone saying Lauren’s mom used to be an interior designer or something. Honestly? I feel a little out of place.
Maybe more than a little.
I’ve been in Lauren’s foyer for almost ten minutes now. It’s not that I’m afraid to go into the party. I just can’t take my eyes off her family’s original Marc Chagall painting. The colors . . . the shapes . . . it’s so effing beautiful and it’s just hanging in their foyer like it’s no big deal.
Until now, the closest I have ever been to real art is looking at it in books.
I blow out a sigh and wander deeper into the house. I could use a beer or three. People with red Solo cups seem to be coming from a right-hand hallway, so I head that direction, eventually spilling into a curved-ceilinged kitchen . . . where Wick’s staring down Jenna.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
The taller girl’s hands go to her hips. “What the hell do you know anyway, Wicket?”
There’s something about the way Wick’s eyes narrow that makes me think she knows a lot of things—like the fact that one good punch to Jenna’s stomach will probably leave the girl puking her liquid dinner on the floor.
Jenna’s voice climbs another notch higher. “You think just because you’re friends with Lauren that makes you something special?”
“Piss off, Jenna.” I slide in between them and drape one arm around Wick’s shoulders, feel her go rigid underneath me. “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe I am.” Jenna gives Wick the once-over. “So what’s your excuse, Griff?”
Wick sways. I can’t tell if she’s about to pound Jenna or pass out. Either way, I tug her closer, and even though I’m staring down Jenna, part of my brain can think only about how Wick’s fitting against me again. Perfectly.
Jenna’s beautiful face scrunches. “Well?”
As an experiment, I tuck Wick closer—and she gives in to me. I trace my fingers up her neck, brushing the edges of hair I’ve always wanted to touch, and these assholes are ruining it.
Jenna looks like she’s about to blow; everyone is staring, and, suddenly, the whole thing is so damn funny I can’t stop the laugh.
“You’re an idiot, Jenna.” I tuck Wick into me and drag her past the crowd. Her feet are so sluggish I almost ask if she wants to stay, but a quick glance down and I realize Wick’s barely holding it together.
We push through the party, people staring and Wick pretending not to notice. Maybe I should tell her it’s the novelty of seeing her at one of these things? She never comes out.
She’d also never believe my lie.
“What IP address did you tell Lauren about?” Wick hisses as we sidestep two guys from the baseball team.
I nod a hello as they eyeball us. “The only one that matters—the one Michael Starling used to do the upload.”