Kenzie sways, though we’re all standing nice and still now. “I don’t know.” She looks at me. “Where are we going?”
“To find Tori. She wants to talk to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shakes her other hand but Jeff holds on. She leans toward me and whisper-shouts, “He won’t let go.”
“He’ll let go.” I keep my eyes on her face, but my words are for him. “If he doesn’t, I’m going to scream so long and so loud, not only will every guy here come running, but the neighbors will surely think a murder is taking place and call the cops. And won’t those cops find it interesting when they get here to discover a bunch of drunk teenagers and one, just one, mind you, guy over the age of twenty-one.”
He lets go.
“Kenzie and I are talking,” he says, getting in my face. “And you interrupted.”
“Sure did. And now, since we’re narrating this little scene, let me say, we’re leaving.”
“Bitch,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn back, don’t stop walking, just raise my voice. “Dude. You’re twenty-three. Stop coming to high school parties. It’s sad and pathetic. Find people your own age to hang out with.”
Kenzie leans heavily against my side. “Jeff’s a creeper.”
“Yes,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist—the better to help her stay upright and keep her moving at a decent clip. “And what do we do when a creeper gives us alcohol?”
She looks up at me, big-eyed and earnest. “We just say no.”
“That’s right. Next time, just say no.”
“I will,” she vows, giving me her drunk word. Hooray. It’ll be carved in stone. She lays her head against my arm. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Boys are sentasive, you know.”
“Sensitive.”
“That’s what I said. Sentasive.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
And it hits me, how much I’ve missed her. Her and Tori. And for a moment, I let myself wish things could be different. That they could go back to how they used to be, at least between the three of us.
But like I told Sam, there’s no going back.
Not for any of us.
We walk around the crowd gathered at the fire. “Tori’s over there,” I say, pointing to where Tori and T.J. are plastered against one another near the above-ground pool. “Do they ever come up for air?”
Kenzie squints in the direction of my point. “No. They’re like animals.”
“Think you can make it to them by yourself?” I ask, not wanting to come face-to-face with Tori and her sharp tongue. Not tonight.
“Of course.” She takes one careful step, wobbles, but catches her balance and turns to look at me. “You’re not a bitch, Hadley. You’re just…”
I wait, breathlessly anticipating the great wisdom of the badly intoxicated.
“Hard,” she settles on as if that’s the nicest thing she can come up with. Which, if it is…ouch.
“And sort of,” she continues, wrinkling her nose, deep in thought for another long moment, “cold. Not, like, temperature wise,” she clarifies, “but feeling wise, you know?”
I wince. Double ouch.
Drunk or not, she hit the nail on the head. My head. “Gee, thanks.”
She nods solemnly. Like toddlers, sarcasm is lost on the wasted. “You’re welcome.”
I watch as she bobs and weaves her way to Tori and T.J., waiting until she arrives safely at her destination—like I do when I take Taylor to Mrs. Richter’s, standing by the door to make sure Taylor is happy and safe before I leave.
Kenzie says something to Tori and gestures my way and they both look at me.
I turn and walk away.
Consider not stopping until I’m home.
First Abby hanging on Sam, then Max and his thinly veiled insults and now Kenzie telling me I’m hard-hearted and emotionally cold.
The fun. It never ends.
I wander the yard for another five minutes before going around the garage and onto the porch, then in through the front door. It’s a quiet search. I get a few curious glances and a couple of Sam’s buddies give me the guy nod, but no one slows me down with a friendly greeting or stops me for a quick chat.
Whatever. We hard, cold, unworthy people don’t need that kind of validation to feel good about ourselves. We have inner acceptance.
I step into the kitchen and finally find Whitney.
With Max.
Her back is against the counter, a cup in her hand and a stunned, how-did-I-get-this-lucky look on her face. Max is towering over her, one hand on the counter next to her side, allowing him to show off the play of muscles in his arm every time he moves. He’s in full guy-on-the-make mode, leaning close to speak in her ear, trailing the finger of his free hand down her arm, giving her long, soulful looks.
Blech.
She’s eating it up, lips parted, eyes wide as she takes in the glory that is Maxwell Constable.
I really, really, really don’t want to go over there, don’t want to talk to Max, not after he goaded Sam that way earlier, as if trying to pick a fight. Not after he was such a prick to me.
Some people aren’t worth it.
I’m in no hurry to put myself through that awkwardness again, thanks just the same.
Whitney seems smart enough. Capable of taking care of herself. I’m sure she can decide on her own whether to give a guy like Max the one—the only—thing he wants from a girl.
I’m not the moral police, for God’s sake. Not even close. If Whitney wants to hook up with Max, well, that’s her right. Her choice.
I already jumped into someone else’s business tonight, making sure Kenzie was free of creeper Jeff. I should just buff the imaginary gold star on my chest and go on my merry way, content that my good deed for the day is done.
But I can’t, in good conscience, leave Whitney at Max’s mercy.
The least I can do is make sure she knows what she’s getting herself into.
I walk toward them when Whitney tears her attention from Max and smiles at me.
“There you are,” she says. “I was looking for you.”
I glance behind me, but nope, she’s not talking to someone else. “You were? Why?”
“Because I came with you. I can’t just abandon you. That would be rude.”
She and Sam must have read the same party-etiquette rulebook.
“So you decided to look for me in Max’s eyes?” I ask.
“Actually, Maxwell suggested it would be better if I stayed in one place and let you find me.” She beams at him, proud that so much pretty also came with half a brain. “He was right. And he’s been kind enough to wait here with me.”
“Yes,” I say, tone flat, eyes narrowed on Max. “Well, that’s Maxwell for you. A regular Boy Scout.”
If the Boy Scouts are into getting high, drinking to excess and hooking up with as many girls as possible.
Max sips his drink, watching me over the rim, not quite as buzzed, it seems, as earlier.
Give him time and he’ll get that high back. Give him time.
“It’s like you don’t really mean that, Hadley,” he says, no Hot to be found before my name.
Yep. Definitely on the make.