| 14 |
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ONCE, WHEN I was thirteen, I convinced my parents to let me go to my middle school dance.
I didn't really want to go, I went mostly because I wanted to know I was capable of tricking my parents into letting me do something they thought I wanted to do. Something I chose for myself.
I spent the whole night stuffing myself with fruit punch. I stood in the corner, right next to the bakugan players and the basketball team who spent the night passing around Nintendo DSs, and tried to convince myself that I'd won something by bargaining myself my very own miserable night.
I'd almost—almost—decided to shovel my pride away and text my parents to pick me up when Lottie Mitchell's caught sight of me. She was the type of nice that fooled people into thinking they could be someone like her. Someone real. Someone who didn't shit on other people just because it made their friends laugh.
She'd said I looked lonely. Said I shouldn't spend the night looking like a ghost. She'd pulled me out to the dance floor and skipped around me, pink pastel romper draped over he porcelain skin. She'd taken my hand and spun me around and around and around.
She'd laughed, proud of herself, and said I finally looked like I was having fun.
But god—that punch.
I'd puked all over the gym floor.
Lottie fucking Mitchell's had held my hair back and patted my back. She said everything would be okay.
I'd wanted to die.
By some miracle, I'd forgotten about that memory. I'd bubble wrapped it and shipped it away to some unseen realm in my brain.
Until Grayson pulls my into the sea of sweaty costumes and I'm immediately reminded. I swear the distant stench of vomit prickles my nostrils.
"I don't know how to dance."
I say the word dance very loosely, knowing we're both aware that the only acts happening around us that even resemble the word are the sloppy footwork of rhythmic sways and blatant grinding.
Grayson glowers at me, but I ignore him. I shrug his jacket back over my shoulders at the same moment someone shoves into my back, pushing me into him. He uses the momentum to grab my hand again and he spins me into him. The back of my head knocks into his shoulder.
"Look at that," he says smugly. "You're dancing."
"That was not dancing. That was tripping." I roll my eyes. "Tripping I am very good at. Dancing I am not."
Grayson lets out a resigned sigh. His chin falls onto my head. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot?"
"No." My voice comes out squeaky, so I clear my, suddenly very scratchy, throat. I'm too aware of him pressed up behind me. He's warm and solid and his smell is everywhere. "That's a new one."
I try to take a step away, but his grip tightens. God, I hope Andy and Theo aren't watching us. I probably look like I'm going to be sick.
Grayson brushes my hair off the side of my neck and leans down to brush his lips against my ear. "Relax," he breathes, voice low and gentle.
I try not to shiver. "You can't just tell someone to relax and expect it to happen."
He snorts into my neck. "Try."
I blow out a breath, and my elbow accidentally slides back to connect with his stomach. His head knocks against my ear, digging my small gold hoop earrings into my skin. He groans. Loudly.
"Fuck, sorry." I start to spin to face him. "I told you I'm not good at—"
"Just—" Grayson places both hands on my shoulders and turns me back around. He presses me back into himself. "—Relax."
My jaw snaps shut, tightly. I fucking can't, I want to scream.
"Grayson," I groan in protest. "I—"
He hushes me. "Just follow my lead."
A fresh complaint brews on my tongue, but then his fingers are moving—light and unbothered—down my shoulders, down my arms, along my midriff, and whatever words had been in my mouth drown in my catching breath.
His hands stop on my hips, gripping loosely. He shifts. Swaying me against him to the rhythm of the music vibrating against our bones.
I know we just look like every other couple crammed in here. Just two drunken idiots who can't seem to get enough of the thrill that comes from touching in public. So, I let my eyes fall shut and imagine we are exactly that.
The sleeve of his jacket drifts off my shoulder and slides down to the crook of my elbow as he directs my hand to the back of his neck. My fingers dig into the hair curling at his nape.
"Good girl," he whispers in my ear, voice hoarse.
Two simple words and I freeze. My muscles stutter and lock up, barely long enough to notice before Grayson guides me back into his body's movements, but I swear—I fucking swear—I feel him smirk against my skin.
Asshole.
He's taunting me, even now. Always having the upper hand. But he doesn't know how easy it is to twist the warmth coursing through my veins into determined rage.
I can lie pretty easily if I don't have to speak. I can pretend I know exactly what I'm doing.
He smiles into my skin when I move his hands to my thighs and dig my hips deeper into him. His plays with the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric between his fingers.
I'm sure he can feel the goosebumps between my skin and his fingertips, can feel my heart on his chest as it races against my spine. Just as much as I can feel him—every warm, hard surface that's pressed flush against me.
My fingers tangle deeper into the ends of his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into the crook of my neck.
"Clarke, we—"
Something knocks into us. Hard. Grayson stumbles away from me, cursing under his breath.
I resist the urge to groan. Just when I was winning.
"Dude, get the fuck off of her." Theo's eyes are murderous, dark and bloodshot. He tugs me behind his shoulder, as if to protect me from the big bad Grayson Katz.
God, it's almost laughable. Honestly, I probably would laugh if I wasn't suddenly so out of breath.
I'd forgotten to notice if he was watching or not. I suppose he was, based on this overreaction. Either that, or he's always this pissed off.
"Dude," Theo hisses. "She's drunk."
He talks as if I'm not here. As if I'm not coherent enough to understand the very simple words he's throwing at Grayson as accusations.
"I am not."
I am a little drunk. But just enough to feel it. Tipsy. Not enough to need some heroic saving. If I'm sober enough to stand here and plan Theo Drake's untraceable murder, I'm sober enough to consensually dance with another person.
Grayson's jaw tightens. "She's an adult."
"She's not even twenty-one."
Oh my god.
"My birthday's in less than a month."
"Her birthday's in less than a month," Grayson parrots. He's seemingly bypassed his immediate annoyance much quicker than I have. His eyes are amused and light as he regards Theo as if he's nothing more than an entertaining intermission of the night. "Plus, weren't you the one bragging to the team the other night about shotgunning seven beers when you were fifteen?"
I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. And then, because unbothered is the route I'm allowing Grayson to steer us down, I swallow my urge to kick Theo in the dick and plaster on the mask of someone who does not give a single fuck about the person standing in front of them.
"Seven?" I snort. I don't even know what I'm saying at this point. "Amateur."
"I was fifteen."
"Aha! So, it's true." Of course it's true. He'd told me the story at least ten times when we started dating. He'd stolen them from the fridge in his garage and had to bribe his neighbor to buy replacements so his parent's never found out. "You can lay off now, Dad."
A few paces across from me, the lips of my partner in crime curl into a loose grin. "The lady has spoken—"
A hand snakes around his bicep and cuts him off. Black fingernails tap his arm, gold serpent ring glinting under the glittering lights.
"Gray," Andy says sweetly. "Wanna dance?"
"You'd have to ask Theo."
She frowns up at him and turns a questioning stare toward Theo, who still looks like he believes his stand-off is doing anything other than pissing everyone off. Her gaze slides from him to over his shoulder where I stand. Her smile falters at the edges, just enough to know it means something different than the one she gave Grayson.
"Oh, hey Emmy. I didn't know you were here." Her voice is so perfected—so easily crafted with an undertone sweetened to the tune of my, my, what a nice surprise!—that I almost miss the fuck you buried somewhere between the lines. Almost. Because it is there. Just as it's there in the too-wide smile I greet her with. "Nice costume. What are you, a cannibal?"
I don't even try to dignify her with a response. I've exhausted every muscle capable of believable acting. Social burnout taps at my shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.
"We were just leaving."
"We were?" Grayson shoots me a curious look, as if to say: blasphemy! the fun is only beginning.
"Yes, we were," I grind out. I step out behind Theo, bumping into his shoulder, and shoot Grayson pleading eyes.
"Yeah..." His eyes trail over my face. He frowns. "We—"
"Well, where are you going?" Andy shoves her arm into the crook of Grayson's elbow and wraps another hand around his bicep. She's always been touchy—staking her claim with a mere touch of her painted fingernail. "I mean, the night's barely begun! Scream 3 hasn't even started yet."
She doesn't care about the movies. No one here cares about the goddamn movies.
I glare at her grip on Grayson's arm. She's waiting for a reason. They all are.
I can't very well announce to the two of them that Katz and I are leaving to go bang each other's brains out, not only would that be a lie, it would definitely be way too blatant. Not at all subtle. Theo would see right through it.
Him and Andy already know the answer. They knew the answer the second they saw me here: the one party a year I actually come to entirely by my own free will and still, always leave early.
They're waiting for me to say, because I want to.
Grayson pokes me in the side. Everyone's staring at me.
"Hey." His forehead scrunches, eyebrows disappearing behind the wavy locks hanging over his forehead. "Where'd you go?"
"I'm hungry," I blurt out. It's not entirely a lie, so it slides between my teeth with little effort.
"Okay," Grayson says slowly. One side of his lips tilt up in slow motion, like he's trying to hold it back. Of course he would find this—me flailing helplessly—absolutely hilarious. "So, then, we'll leave and go get you something to eat." He withdraws his arm from Andy and wraps it around my shoulder. He tips his head toward Theo. "Gotta keep my girl happy and fed."
"Great." Theo grins. "Mind if we join you?"
I stiffen. "You?"
"Us?" asks Andy.
Grayson holds Theo's stare. "Not at all."
"Great." Theo reaches forward and grabs Andy's hand, pulling her toward the door. "We're starved."
Well. How fucking perfect.
∿
SINCE IT'S the only place open, we go to McDonald's. Which is essentially the best possible choice because I'd literally kill for a chocolate milkshake right now.
When we get inside—Theo and Andy regretfully right behind us—Grayson addresses the glowing menu with a dramatic sweep of his hands. "What would you like, my lady?"
"Chicken nuggets and a chocolate shake."
The order comes from Theo's mouth, not mine. His lips flounder as both Grayson and I swivel stares his way.
"Do we need to reestablish the nature of our relationship, Drake?" Grayson drawls, voice dry.
"Sorry. That just slipped out." Theo laughs to himself, whimsical and soft. "The things she'd do for a chocolate milkshake..." He trails off.
My throat tightens. It's comments like these—reminders—that poke holes in the Theo-shaped box I'd stashed far, far away. I keep my eyes carefully trained on the sticky brown floor tiles.
"Rem," Grayson prods. "What do you want?"
"I..." A part of me debates ordering something else, just to show Theo I'm not the same person he knew. That even this small, insignificant thing has changed since him.
But I really want my fucking milkshake.
I sigh. "Chicken nuggets and a chocolate milkshake."
Grayson presses his lips into a flatline, obviously annoyed at my lack of ability to stick it to him, I guess. Hell, I'm pissed at myself. Theo's probably patting himself on the back for knowing me better than the guy I'm supposedly seeing or sleeping with or whatever it is everyone who sees us is assuming.
He turns to the menu and the sleepy-eyed teenager manning the counter. "Uh, can we get a chocolate milkshake and—"
"Machine's down." She blinks vacant eyes our way. "Sorry."
I blink at her. A piece of my heart breaks off and drops into the pit of disappointment forever residing in my gut.
I suppose she's who I'll be killing for that milkshake—
Andy rolls her eyes and shoulders past Theo. "Well, I want an iced tea." Her ponytail bounces as she leans into the counter beside Grayson. "And then I want to get the fuck out of here."
"Really?" Grayson tilts his chin toward her. He smiles crookedly. The kind of smile that is all hidden meanings and slanted agendas. "And go where?"
I eye them and their hushed conversation warily. Theo steps up to the counter and orders for all of us, paying without being asked. I wander away to find a table and sit myself down by the frosted window, mapping out precisely how long it'd take for me to slip outside and walk home.
I doubt anyone would even notice. When they all finally make it to the table—trays of greasy food in hand—Grayson and Andy are still locked into their own conversation, and Theo is too focused on glaring daggers into the back of Grayson's head to account for much of anything else.
We eat in silence. I finish mine so fast I barely taste it. When everyone else is finally finishing up I mutter some excuse about waiting for Grayson in the parking lot and practically jump out of my seat.
Now that the sweat on the back of my neck and thighs has dried, the outside wind slices every inch of exposed skin. I pull Grayson's jacket closer around myself and bounce on my heels. I can feel myself crawling further inside my own head, disappearing and hiding myself in the dark places where my fraying nerves never find me.
A red mustang screeches into the parking lot. Three teens crawl out in a wave of high-pitched laughter and dirty jokes. They stumble across the parking lot and yank the door open just as Grayson, Theo, and Andy are making their way out.
Grayson and Andy have gone back to whatever conversation they were having. They walk a few paces away on the sidewalk. Andy's waving her hands around with what she's saying, but I can't read anything on Grayson's face. The tanned planes of his skin are all stoic edges, nothing resembling the loosely amused man from earlier who'd proclaimed so easily that we wouldn't mind (at all) dining with the two demons who'd tagged along.
Theo kicks at the concrete. He steps up beside me and clears his throat. "Hey, so Grayson and Andy have some stuff to work out and he, uh, he asked if I could give you a ride home."
"Did he really?" My voice is flat. At this point, I'm not feeling a thing besides resigned exhaustion. I just want to be home.
"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "Is that okay?"
I stare at Grayson for a moment longer, urging him to detach himself from Andy and announce that we were finally leaving the two of them for the night. But he doesn't. He says something else to Andy, who says something back just as fast. He throws his head back, eyes screwed shut toward the sky.
They have some stuff to work out.
"It's whatever." I step off the curb and pivot in the direction of Theo's truck. "Let's go."
The first minutes in that small space are excruciating.
The leather seats are hot and sticky, plastering to my thighs within a second of sitting. I press my straight spine to the seat and don't dare move, barely breathing as I keep my eyes trained to the blurring city outside the car windows.
Beside me, Theo's restless in a different way. He drums fingers against the steering wheel. He hums some off-key, unintelligible tune to himself. It's small noises and barely-there bursts of movement, and it only works in making the silence feel heavier. More loaded.
I can't even bring myself to reach forward to turn the radio on.
"You look good, Emmy." Theo's voice breaks through the stale air between us. "You seem good."
"I am."
"Different," he rushes on, as if correcting himself. "You seem different."
"I am. I guess." I spot the Westwood laundromat sign breeze past us on the highway. Two more turns until we'll be pulling into my apartment complex.
"I mean, hell Em, where was this girl when we were dating?"
Once it falls from his lips, it doesn't even register that he's trying to make a joke—or something along the lines of a lighthearted comment. It flatlines in the fragile space between us, too heavy to be made into this light thing Theo is trying so hard to fabricate for the show of pleasantries.
My silence following the comment pains him, apparently, because he winces.
"I didn't mean anything by that—"
"Can we just not talk, maybe? Is that possible?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure." He flicks his blinker on and turns into a parking lot. "We're here anyways."
"Fantastic." I tug off my seatbelt. Reach for the door.
"Wait, Emmy." Theo shifts into park and twists toward me in his seat. "Look. That... that night, those things you must have heard if you saw..." He swallows. "I just want you to know I didn't mean any of it. It wasn't—we—it wasn't like that."
"It doesn't really matter anymore, Theo." I sigh. "Besides, you were right, weren't you? I think we all know that."
"Emmy, no. I—"
"Goodbye, Theo." I slip out of my seat and slam the door, walking further into the dark parking lot before he can think to roll down the window and shout something else.
He pulls away before I even make it to the door. At the last sight of the back of his truck disappearing around the corner, I sag against the stairwell.
The apartment will be cold and empty when I get inside, which is suddenly all I can want. I trudge up another flight of stairs.
When I fling the door open and kick my shoes off, I realize I still have Grayson's jacket.
Maybe I'll light it on fire.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
This chapter is very, very rough and way, way too long, but alas—here it is anyways. I'm reaching the point of this novel where I begin to second guess every single thing, but I'm trying to not let the doubts in.
Enjoy, new chapter soon xx
—Amie