“Kind of.” Gray shrugs, tilting his head back against the wall in between two ancient-looking botanical prints. “They’re showing up because of you though.”
I laugh. “Maybe you are.”
“I’m serious,” Gray counters with a frown. “It’s not just me. It’s cool, what you started.”
“Well,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. I look out in the living room, where Dean Shepherd is attempting an extremely rudimentary pop-and-lock situation near the enormous stone fireplace. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Gray lifts his chin. “You want to dance?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you?”
“Always.” He takes my hand, pulling me into the living room. “Come on.”
Gray is the most enthusiastic dancer I’ve ever met, which in no way means he’s good at it—arms and legs everywhere, a goofy, uncoordinated shuffle. I wonder what it’s like not to care about what people think—although, yes, it’s certainly easier not to care what people think when you’re a six-foot-tall lacrosse star with a reputation for getting a million girls.
Just for tonight though, I don’t want to worry about that. I close my eyes and shake my hair and let Gray twirl me around—liking the winter-woods smell of him, the feeling of his chest pressed against my back.
Eventually Dave comes and rounds us up for a game of book club beer pong; I promise to meet them outside before detouring toward the powder room tucked underneath the staircase in the front hall. I twist the creaky glass knob, pulling the door open—and almost trip right over Chloe, who’s sitting with her knees pulled up on the tile. “Whoops,” I say, holding up my hands to show I come in peace. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Chloe mumbles, tipping her head back against the peeling toile-patterned wallpaper. Her eyeliner is migrating down her face. “I was just leaving.”
She curls her fingers around the sink, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet. “I—whoops.” She stumbles a little, bracing her free hand against the wall.
I frown. So this was what she meant by “other plans.” I haven’t seen her this drunk since fall of freshman year, when we experimented with the peach schnapps at the back of my parents’ liquor cabinet and wound up throwing up all over my basement by 9:00 p.m.
“Are you okay?” I can’t help asking.
“I’m fine,” she snaps, then immediately turns and barfs up a stomach full of bright blue party punch. She makes the toilet, thank God, but just barely; I reach over and gather her hair back like an instinct, just like she did for me last year when I puked in the bushes behind her house after spring formal. Both of us can just barely fit in here at once.
When she’s finally finished I pass her a wad of TP to wipe her mouth with, tucking my hands in my pockets and looking discreetly away as she pulls herself together.
“Um,” she says, clearing her throat and swiping her thumbs under her eyes to wipe the makeup away. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I say, with the kind of polite Don’t worry about it smile you offer someone when they’ve only got one item at the grocery store and you’re letting them cut ahead of you in line. “You got a ride home?”
I’m prepared for some variation of You’re not my fucking mother, but instead Chloe just nods.
“Emily is going to take me,” she says, and I nod back.
“That’s good.” We stand there for a moment, looking at each other. This is Chloe, I remind myself, who taught me how to do an understated cat eye and is allergic to apples unless you microwave them for ten seconds first and can recite the entire second season of Parks and Rec from memory. I know her like I know Gracie; I know her like I know myself. But it feels like I’m looking at a stranger.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Well. Have a good night, then.”
“You too,” Chloe says. She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes suddenly clear and focused. “Listen, Marin—” she starts, then abruptly breaks off. “Never mind,” she says, and it’s like I can see the moment she changes her mind about saying whatever it is she’s got to say to me. “I’ll see you.”
“No, hey, wait.” I’ve been edging out of the tiny bathroom, but suddenly I stop. “What’s up?”
Chloe shakes her head. “It’s nothing,” she says, curling her fingers around the doorjamb for balance and brushing past me. “I’ll see you around.”
So . . . That’s that, I guess.
I pee and wash my hands and make my way out into the backyard, which boasts a statue of a gnome holding a gazing ball, a tiny wishing well complete with crank and wooden bucket, and one of those little decorative ponds you can fill with Japanese koi. In this case it seems to be mostly filled with muck, which isn’t stopping a bunch of people from playing catch across the diameter of it, one of those old Nerf footballs with the fin on the back of it sailing through the air. Gray and the rest of the book club are still negotiating the rules of this alleged beer pong tournament, though suddenly the last thing I want to do is play some dumb drinking game.
“I’m not having fun anymore,” I announce, and Gray frowns.
“Can’t have that,” he says. Then, more seriously: “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I offer him a smile; I want to explain about Chloe, but I don’t want to do it here. “You want to maybe bail though?”
There’s a part of me that’s expecting him to be kind of a dick about it, but instead Gray just nods right away, taking my hand as we turn to go. That’s when I hear a scoff off to my left, and when I turn I see Jacob. A bottle of Coors dangles from his fingers.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Just enjoying this little lovefest,” he calls from the edge of the mucky pond. He’s even drunker than Chloe, if that’s possible. There’s a mean, hard glint in his eye. He turns to Gray, his nasty smirk morphing into a faux-magnanimous smile.
“It’s cool if you want my sloppy seconds, dude,” he says, slurring just a little. “And Bex’s too, I guess.”
I take an instinctive step back, shocked as if he’d slapped me. There’s a moment when I feel, horribly, like I’m about to cry.
“What did you just say?” Gray asks. His voice is perfectly pleasant—friendly, even—but he lets go of my hand as he takes a step closer to Jacob, who squares his shoulders and holds his ground.
“You heard me,” he says, lifting his arrogant chin.
Gray nods easily. “I did,” he agrees, taking a step closer, then another; now Jacob does back up, only he’s misjudged how close he is to the side of the algae-covered pond. A slippery rock gives way under his foot and he goes pinwheeling backward, landing in the chilly, smelly water with a splash so noisy and dramatic half the party breaks into applause.
Gray looks at Jacob for a moment, then back at me, trying not to laugh and doing an overall admirable job of it.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding a little sheepish. “I know you don’t need me to protect you.”
I reach to cup his face with both hands, stamping a kiss on his mouth like a seal of approval. “You know,” I say, “I think I can make an exception just this once.”