Whitney tips her head as she takes it all in. “Your friends--”
“They’re not my friends,” I mutter as Jackson thrusts a beer into Sam’s hand.
“Excuse me,” she says, not the least bit sarcastic, which is a feat unto itself. “Your not friends seem very happy Sam’s here.”
“He was gone for a while,” I explain, though honestly, even when Sam lived here, he always had quite the warm welcome wherever we went.
One of the many, many perks of being a golden boy.
“Gone on vacation?”
Below us, Abby presses against Sam’s side and lays her hand on his chest, all the better to bat her eyelashes at him as she gazes adoringly at his handsome face.
I wish I’d stayed home.
Regrets. Yeah, I’ve got a few.
And they just keep on piling up.
“No,” I say, turning away from the sight of Sam and Abby. “He lived with his dad in LA. Went to school out there last year.”
He and Max had gone out there for their annual summer visit two weeks after Sam stopped talking to me. At the end of the month, only Max came back.
“I see,” Whitney says softly, sympathy in her tone, understanding in her eyes. She gets it. What I’m feeling. What’s going on in my head.
Sam left. He left me and his mom and stepdad, his brothers and his friends.
He. Left.
And I’m the only one who can’t forgive him.
I really, really wish I’d just stayed home.
“What are you doing here?”
I turn as Mackenzie Porter steps out of the house, her scrunched-up face reminding me of Taylor’s ticked-off expression, her anger toward Cinderella’s mean sistas.
The scowl looks just as cute on Kenzie, with her short, spiky white-blond hair and delicate features, as it did on Taylor.
Life is so unfair sometimes.
Though it’s not even nine o’clock, Kenzie’s already on her way to being trashed—her words slurring, her steps extra-cautious as if the ground keeps shifting and rolling under her feet. At barely 105 pounds, she’s a complete lightweight.
She’s the first person to acknowledge my presence here, but there are no shouts of joy or beer toasts. No cheerful greeting, happy back slaps or warm embraces.
No one is happy to see me.
I firm my mouth when my lower lip wants to tremble in self-pity. Nope. Not going there. I knew this would happen if I came. I can handle it. I’d gotten used to Kenzie and Tori looking through me when we passed each other in the hall during school. Had become as good at ignoring them as they were at ignoring me in the two classes we shared. Told myself I didn’t care when I rode my bike home and they drove past, music blaring as they sang along, laughing and smiling and having a grand old time.
Convinced myself that it didn’t hurt, the way they left me out.
How they’d just pretended to like me because of my friendship with Sam.
I feel Whitney watching me and my face burns.
Should. Have. Stayed. Home.
“I’m here with Sam,” I tell Kenzie.
Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Why?”
I roll my eyes. Does everything have to be studied and dissected and questioned to death?
God.
“Because he asked me to come with him.”
“You and Sam are back together?”
No point mentioning we weren’t ever together. Not in the way she means.
Kenzie had always insisted that Sam and I were Meant to Be.
She has a wild imagination and an extra-wide romantic streak.
I should set her straight. I should remind her that Sam and I were only ever just friends, but I can’t. Well, I could. I mean, it’s not like I have anything against lying. But I don’t want to.
And I am not going to even consider why not.
“This is Whitney,” I say, gesturing toward my new neighbor. It’s a diversion tactic, which is like avoidance but sneakier.
It takes Kenzie a moment to process this turn of events—and turn in conversation.
Whitney smiles and sticks her hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
Kenzie pulls up short, as if instead of a friendly handshake, Whitney’s just jabbed a knife in her direction. She looks my way for reassurance or clarification or something. “Who?”
Forget on her way to being trashed, Kenzie is there. I look around for Tori—she needs to shut her best friend off—but she’s on T.J. Hopkins’ lap near the fire, having a serious make-out session.
No help from that corner.
“She’s Whitney,” I say as Whitney lowers her offered hand. “She moved in across the street from me,” I continue but Kenzie’s still frowning so I keep going. “She’s going to go to our school this fall.” Still nothing and I’m floundering, wondering if I should knock Kenzie’s beer out of her hand or just let this whole awkward conversation die and walk away. “She’s from Mississippi.”
Kenzie’s eyes light up and she whirls toward Whitney.
Beer sloshes over the side of Kenzie’s cup.
That’s right. Whitney is not from Georgia or Louisiana or Alabama of any other state that ends with an a. She’s from Mississippi, is an only child, and she and her mother moved here because her parents recently got divorced and her mom, a teacher, has a friend in town who helped her get a job up here.
I’d insisted she sit up front with Sam for the drive to Beemer’s, telling myself it was the polite thing to do.
Ha ha. So funny! Me, worrying about manners and whatnot.
More like I’d been worried about getting too close to Sam again. I’d needed space and had wanted to prove that this, us going to the party together, changed nothing. Meant nothing. And the best way to do that had seemed like hopping in the backseat and telling Whitney to go ahead and climb in up front.
But like so many of my decisions and most of my choices, it backfired in spectacular fashion.
We hadn’t even gone a block before Sam and Whitney were laughing over some YouTube video they’ve both seen, the happy, oh-so-carefree sound of their combined chuckles filling the SUV. They became fast friends who, by the end of the night, will be sharing secrets, making playdates and swapping BFF necklaces.
Kenzie leans toward Whitney, all excitement and unsteadiness. Whitney, God bless her, holds her ground and her soft smile—though her eyes look a tad panicked at the drunk girl invading her personal space.
“You’re Southern?” Kenzie asks, words painfully slow and, to be honest, not all that easily decipherable. “Do you have an accent?”
“Not at all,” Whitney says, her accent thicker than I’ve ever heard, all long vowels and soft consonants that seem to take forever for her to form. “But all y’all sure do talk funny up here.”
“All y’all?” I ask. “Is that grammatically correct? Because you seem like the type of person who cares about that sort of thing.”
“Y’all means one or two people,” Whitney tells me, serious as a heart attack. “All y’all means more than two, so yes, it is correct. And of course that’s important. What are we? Neanderthals?”
I can’t help it. She’s so adamant and serious with her hippie clothes and Southern drawl and strict English-teacher tone. I smile.
She smiles back.