That had sure been something. Annoying, sort of infuriating, a little intimidating. But they’d all been pretty understanding when I explained the situation. It didn’t matter. They still defended him—they always would. Mostly I was just baffled and a little jealous. How does a guy like Sebastian inspire that kind of loyalty?
So yeah, I get a little twitchy when Georgia has people over, but when I sneak into the room and see Emory and Aubrey, I just feel relieved.
I keep the door cracked at first, watching, listening, trying to get a read on the vibe. They’re all in her bed—weird, but okay—Emory on one side of Georgia and Aubrey on the other, sort of like… cuddling.
See? A little too close to be normal.
The tip of Georgia’s nose is glowing red, as is the ridge of her eyes, clear evidence that she’s been crying. But she’s smiling now at something Emory said, smacking his shoulder with a loose hand.
“You do not!”
Emory argues, “Do too!”
Georgia rolls her eyes. “If you do, then you put it out there yourself. Because you’re a freak.”
Aubrey says, “Hell yeah, he is,” and high-fives Emory over Georgia.
“I doubt anyone’s even seen it,” Georgia adds. “No one wants to see your sex tape, Em.”
He feigns insult. “How dare you, everyone wants to see my sex tape. It’s very artistic, you know. I could probably make money on the internet.”
“You’re right.” Georgia hums. “I’d pay to not see it.”
Aubrey throws her head back, laughing, and Georgia laughs along. I feel some of the tension draining from my shoulders, knowing she’s being taken care of with these people. I’d like to be the kind of friend who could do this—the person who comforts and makes someone laugh—but I’m not.
I’m the kind of friend who gets surprised with a violence intervention.
As I linger, wondering if I should enter or leave, the laughter dies down and everything grows quiet.
Emory’s voice is low and soft, but still has this threatening edge that makes me stiffen. “Tell us who recorded it, G.”
But Georgia doesn’t answer—not for a long, tense beat. When she does, it’s only to say, “It’s been almost three years. It doesn’t matter.” She repeats, “It doesn’t matter,” like she’s willing herself to believe it.
It doesn’t feel right, eavesdropping on this strange, sad, angry moment. They all pull apart when I open the door.
“Oh, hey, Sugar!” Aubrey greets when I enter, dumping my bag on my bed. “We’re taking this poor creature to the Nerd later. She’s having a rough day and we’re in full-on ‘fuck calories’ mode. Want to join?”
It’s not even awkward and stilted, like she’s asking just to be polite.
But before I can decide, I notice a box on the foot of my bed. “What’s this?” I ask, frowning down at it.
“Oh, I dunno,” Georgia replies, messily pulling her hair up. “It was just by the door when I got here.”
The box is plain cardboard and about the size of a brick. My name is printed on the top, but there’s no address. It’s not technically mail. I sit on the bed and run my nail under the tape, watching Georgia pull on her shoes in my periphery. She looks a lot better than she had this morning, a motionless lump beneath her blankets, telling me that she was skipping classes today.
When I have the box open, I stare blankly at the contents.
“What is it?” Georgia asks, all three of them leaning over with curiosity. I hold it up for them and Georgia frowns. “Is that a button or something?”
“Sort of,” I say, weighing the circular object in my hand. It’s metal and plastic, bearing the Mustang logo in a bright, vivid blue. Unless I’m mistaken, it fits in the center of the steering wheel, covering the horn. “I think it’s for my car.”
Georgia’s head tilts. “Oh. Did you order it?”
“No. I really didn’t.” I don’t have the money for something like this, but I know who does.
From the way the three of them glance at one another, they all do, too.
I’ve been feeling awkward about Sebastian ever since I talked to him about my dad and the Mustang—ever since he cornered me in the arts building—and now he’s made it worse. I close the box and stand. “Hey, the Nerd… that’s the diner by the garage, right?”
Emory nods. “Yeah, it’s a short walk.”
I pocket the emblem, asking, “Could I catch a ride over with you?”
Georgia pulls on a sweater with an apprehensive expression. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m just going to return it,” I assure her. “He shouldn’t have fucking—it isn’t his business. I can’t accept it.”
Aubrey gestures to my pocket. “I’m sure it was just a nice gesture. I doubt he meant anything by it.” The delicate, silver bracelet on Aubrey’s wrist glints in the light of the lamp. It’s the exact same bracelet the other girls have started wearing. A gift from Sebastian, according to Georgia. They’re obviously used to this sort of behavior.
There’s no fucking way.
He’s not going to buy me pretty things and just wiggle his way in. Maybe that works for Preston girls, but not me.
“That kid just doesn’t know how to stay in his lane.”
Georgia snorts. “No, he doesn’t. But for what it’s worth, I really do think he’s trying.”
“To test my patience? Yeah, I got that.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. I just don’t think this is an attack, you know?”
But it is. I already told him I didn’t want his money. This is just one more way for him to cross a clearly defined boundary. I’m not allowing him to slash though this one. I never should have said all that stuff about my dad, anyway. He caught me in a weak moment. “I’m not going to do anything. I’m just going to give it back.”
The drive isn’t far, and I use it to go over what I’ll say to him when I get there. I’ve settled on something like, “You can take your gift and shove it up your ass,” as I’m clearing the distance between the Nerd and the shop.
A single garage bay is illuminated, a glowing ember against the shadow of twilight. I find Sebastian by a workbench, wiping his hands on a rag, hair flopping into his eyes. I work really hard not to notice the way the light catches on his hair, or the way it paints his cheekbones in sharp relief, but sometimes—these little moments where he isn’t aware of me—it’s hard.
It’s really fucking hard to ignore how pretty he is.
He only sees me because he jerks his head, flinging his hair from his eyes. When he does, he pauses, rag still hanging from his hands. “Hey,” he says, lips quirking into a smile. That makes it hard, too—the way he actually looks happy to see me. I have no idea how or why. We haven’t had a single pleasant interaction. His eyes drop down to the box in my hand. “Oh, you got the—”
“Take it back,” I say, thrusting it toward him. “I don’t want it.”
He looks at me, head tilting, eyes assessing. Then he gapes at me. “You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sugar. You’re mad? Because I got you that emblem?”