Beautifully Ruined (13 page)

I expect him to leave, to join his sister and leave me alone on the swing set while they play and have fun, but he doesn’t. He just shrugs and starts to pump his legs until he’s once again flying through the air, soaring past me.

The sky starts to darken, the stars start to lightly reveal themselves, and Aidan reappears to usher us to the car, taking us back to the new house. I keep talking to Zephyr, mainly because he keeps asking me questions about Texas.

“Have you ever seen a tumbleweed?” he asks me as we walk through the front door. I hear many voices inside the living room, I hear laughter, and follow the line of people into the large room, spotting their parents and my aunt seated and on the couch and recliner by the window.

From the looks of the room, all the boxes are broken down and leaning against the wall and all the paintings are hanging. It looks nice and livable—it looks like a home I could be proud to call mine one day.

“How was the park?” Molly asks her oldest son from the couch. Her gaze follows us as we move through the room. Jamie drops to the floor in front of her dad and she leans against his legs. I walk near Hilary, Zephyr in tow, and take a seat at the dining room table I remember from her small apartment in Texas. He takes the neighboring seat.

“Fine,” Aidan answers as he drops onto the couch next to his mother. Her hand snakes up and fixes his messy hair, attempting to smooth down the wild curls only for them to spring back up and out.

“We saw a lot on our way here,” I tell Zephyr, continuing our conversation. “Tumbleweeds look funny.”

The room falls into an eerie silence once the words leave my lips and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The air in the room shifts, the tensions grows thick, and I suddenly feel the need to crawl under the table to hide.

“Josephine?” Hilary asks from the recliner behind me. I turn to look at her, her shocked face scaring me so much I need to look away.

I slowly turn back to Zephyr, ignoring the shock in the room.

It’s harder to do when no one’s speaking.

“Have you ever seen a roadrunner?” Zephyr asks me, pretending like nothing weird just happened.

I laugh. “I don’t even know what a roadrunner is,” I tell him. He’s been spending too much time with Saturday morning cartoons and
Looney Tunes
.

No one speaks for a few more moments but I just focus on Zephyr. If I focus on Zephyr then the weirdness isn’t happening.
Everything is normal—everything is fine
.

For the rest of the night, my aunt continues to steal glances of me, her face covered in fascination as she waited for me to do something unusual. But I never said anything to her or anyone else in the room. I only spoke to the boy from next door. For the first three months, anyone that wanted to talk to me had to go through Zephyr.

He was even the person to tell my aunt that I wanted to be called Joey.

“How do you feel about parties?” Milo asks as he slides up behind my chair in the library, his hands clamping down on the back of it, slightly leaning me backward with his weight as he rests on it.

“Hate them,” I answer with my attention focused on the rough draft of my
Catch-22
paper due next week. I don’t have the time to talk about my likes and dislikes of the typical high school social experience.

Given my track record with parties—namely, the ones I’ve been to this year, I’d say
hate
is the nicest term I could use when the topic swings to large groups of teenagers drinking and swaying pathetically along with loud, annoying music.

“Okay, how about bonfires?” He pulls back the chair opposite mine and sits down, folding his hands in front of him, his smile large, beaming, and begging. Blonde hair falls into his eyes, hair he flips away quickly. As much as I want to deny him, I don’t think I’ll be able to successfully with the way he’s looking at me.

But I need to hold my resolve. “Will there also be a
party
?” I ask, knowing the answer.

Milo nods and shrugs. “In all technical terms, yes,” he answers.

I nod slowly. “Pass.”

“Come on, Joey.” His arms jut out, his hands moving into my sight, sliding across my notebook. “Please go,” he begs.

I try my best to ignore him. “I don’t succumb to the wishing of a begging man, Cowboy.” I drop my pen. “How are you even invited to a party? I thought everyone was scared of you or some crap like that?”

Milo shrugs, tugging his arms back to his side of the table. “They are. Which I don’t understand because I’m a delight.” His grin blooms, crooked and cocky. I can’t help but to roll my eyes. “But that’s beside the point. I
was
invited.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know, someone handed me a flyer—and I want my best friend to accompany me.” Milo clasps his hands together, jutting out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout that annoys me. But it’s one I may not be able to turn down.

Damn
.

“I hate parties,” I say—actually, I whine loudly. Milo smiles, knowing his previous pout is working on me. “Like, you don’t understand, I don’t have a good track record at these things,” I explain but I can’t bring myself to talk about the last party I attended. “I’m not social; no one really likes me, and trust that feeling is usually mutual.”

“But
I
will be there,” Milo offers, as if that were tempting enough for me to give up a night of vegging on the couch with Netflix. “I’ll be there to shield you from whatever hell may come your way.”

I think about it. A night to do absolutely nothing but hang around a giant fire pit people can possibly throw me into. Yeah, that sounds like a complete blast to me.

But Milo wants to go. And he’s right—I’m his only friend.

And he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend these days. Best friends do things like this for each other.

“Fine,” I say reluctantly. “Let’s party like it’s 1999,” I say, deadpan.





The person hosting the bonfire is a senior I’ve never heard of—some dude with access to an empty field in the weirdest part of Seattle I’ve ever seen. Stepping from the car, I tug down the hem of one of the sweatshirts I’m wearing, trying to stop the cold creeping beneath the fabric. I’m wearing yellow cut-off gloves, which was a horrible decision because these things don’t help my hands at all, and fuzzy ankle boots.

Immediately, I regret my decision to wear boots. They’re not too warm. Especially when wet and I just stepped in the middle of a large puddle.

Just great.

Milo walks over, smiling wide and happy. It’s like he’s never been to a party before, the joy on his face. I’m sure he had friends down in Texas who invited him out, so I wonder what’s with the look of joy.

“All right, Cowboy,” I begin, pulling my hat further onto my head to cover my ears. “Why am I here?” I ask before shoving my freezing hands deep in my pockets.

“No reason,” Milo whispers, his eyes searching for something… or someone.

I mentally call bullshit but I can’t call him out, he did drag me here—he can leave me here. It’s a long walk back to Lynnwood.

Okay, let me try a better question. “Why did
you
want to come here?”

A small smile tugs the corners of his lips. “No reason.” He lightly shoves his elbow into my shoulder. I’m not buying any of this. I hope he knows that as I glare at him.

“Now that’s bullshit if I ever heard it,” I tell him with a return punch to the arm. We start walking toward the fire pit, the heat radiating, killing every last bit of chill within me with exception to my feet. “Be honest with me, Milo.”

“Well…” he trails, his eyes searching through the surrounding crowd. “There may be a girl I’m looking for.”

I punch him in the arm again. Harder. “You brought me here because of a girl?” Milo laughs, moving to dodge my second—really, the third—punch of the evening. And there
will
be plenty more.

“Yeah, she’s in my science class, we talk a lot.” His blue eyes drift through the crowd again, sweeping back and forth. “She said she’d be here, so I snagged a flyer from someone before they could notice me taking it.”

I giggle quietly, looking up to my friend as he eagerly searches. “So who’s this goddess?” I ask.

“Alexia Cavanaugh.”

I stop in mid-step, grabbing his arm and tugging him back beside me. He can’t possibly mean the same Alexia I have been avoiding for the past month. No, he can’t. But looking up at him, I can tell I’m wrong.

Milo’s eyes widen as a familiar blonde form emerges from the condensed crowd. Alone. With her hands stuffed in her jacket, she makes her way toward us, tenderly stepping to avoid holes and rocks. The last thing she needs is to trip. I’d only laugh. Loudly. With pointing. I turn to edge away, I don’t need to witness his fail, but Milo has other plans. Grabbing my arm, he tugs me closer to his side as he marches toward Alexia.

“Alexia,” he calls as we near her. I’m stumbling over stones and logs before he stops in front of her. “Hey.” He sounds breathless.

“Milo, hey. How are you?” she asks, giving him her complete attention. Her eyes sparkle when looking up to him—as surprising as that is to me, it’s quite adorable. If she has to go for anyone, at least it’s a decent human being, like Milo.

“I’m good,” Milo answers slowly.

It is laughable how mesmerized he is with Alexia. If I knew that, I would have tried harder to stay home. Hell, I may ask someone for a ride home in ten minutes—just as soon as Milo releases his vice grip.

“Joey,” Alexia says, turning to me. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” I yank my arm from Milo’s grip. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Alexia nods. “We’re partners in science,” she answers, looking at Milo with a shy smile.
Is she serious?
“I told him I’d be here.”

That explains so much.

“Well, this was fun, kids, but I’m needed”—I look around—“over there.” I point to a tree before I bolt, looking for anyone else I may know to distract me from whatever is going on between Milo and Alexia. I don’t need to witness whatever’s blooming.

I see plenty of familiar faces as I push through the crowd. Mostly juniors and seniors, the occasional sophomore and freshman, but they’re a rarity.

Rounding the fire, I spot someone I didn’t expect to see tonight—Zephyr. He stands in the center of a large group, his arms bare except for the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows. He could always handle the cold better than I could. Even more unexpected—Blondie latched onto his arm. The sight of them is enough to stop me in my tracks.

I don’t even know her name but I hate her. I hate her with an unruly passion and it’s taking all I can muster not to march over to her and demand she keep her grubby mitts
off
my man
while ripping out her hair.

See, I’m turning into a cartoon character.

I stumble, catching myself before I tumble into the fire. No one near me can see me—well, they can, they’re just not paying attention. They have other important things to focus their attention on. I’m only thankful no one tried to push me into the flames. To be honest, no one here is really above it.

Zephyr laughs, his voice carries through the air, tugging at a heartstring I long ago thought was taut and immune to him. I look around, hoping for something or someone to distract me, anything that seems like a better option than just standing here, staring at the two of them as they smile and laugh at each other. But there’s nothing. Walking past the group unnoticed, I find the cooler.
Alcohol it is
. I reach in, pulling out a Coors, and popping the tab, to down half the can.

It’s disgusting going down, the taste bitter and stale on my tongue, but I’m ready for this release. Chugging half the can, I lean back and wait patiently for it to take effect. I’m a lightweight—it shouldn’t take long.

“Easy there, it isn’t a race,” someone says next to me. I look over; spotting a senior I’ve passed in the halls several times. I think his name is Everett, like the city, which makes me feel bad for the kid.

“If it were, I think I’d be winning.” I resume my drinking, downing the rest and tossing the can into the nearest garbage can. At least they’re all responsible. I pop the tab of a new can.

“Honey, it’s going to go straight to your head,” he tells me, stepping closer, further into the light, illuminating his sharp features, like his cheekbones and broad jaw. His brown hair falls over his forehead, just barely touching his lashes. Dark brown eyes stare back at me coupled with a smile that really does nothing for me. What a shame. He’s cute.

“Good,” I say, pushing away from the tree I’m leaning against. “And don’t call me
honey
,” I tell him as I grab another beer from the cooler and head toward the tree line, sitting on a fallen log to drink alone and in peace.

I remember health class telling us underage drinking was bad.
Don’t do it
, Mrs. Bennett from freshman year told us.
Don’t even go near alcohol
. It was easier back then to entertain the idea of remaining abstinent to alcohol and all things inappropriate for us younger teens. It was easier to think that I’d never touch a drop of alcohol, but here I am.
But if you do decide to drink while underage
, Mrs. Bennett continued that day in class,
drink responsibly
. I think this is the exact opposite of what she was hoping. I’m drinking by myself at a high school party where I know a total of five people—maybe. This seems like the dumbest thing I can do but I can’t leave.

On my third beer, things start to get fuzzy. By my fourth, I just want to dance. Thankfully and like the grace of the alcohol gods—that could be Dionysus but my knowledge of Greek Gods is a bit rusty while intoxicated—there is a makeshift dance floor filled with grinding bodies, not to mention the music blaring through
pairs of giant speakers someone set up around the area. I charge my way over and start making my moves, feeling sexier than ever.

I’m not sure what happened to Milo over the course of the two hours we’ve been here, but I’m sure he would’ve stopped me if he saw me. But he hasn’t so I’m in the clear to do whatever the hell I please right now.
Goody freaking gum drops
. Milo is nowhere to be found.

Hands grab my hips and move along with me. I spin around, facing a guy I don’t remember. He could be a student at the school or some random passerby who couldn’t pass up a good party, I don’t care—I only want to dance. I just want to move. He’s helping.

As I enjoy the music—something bouncy and fun I’m really getting into—the hands around my hips disappear, as does the guy with whom I’m dancing. Soon, I’m standing alone wondering what happened. I stop, looking around dumbly, letting my hand pull through my hair. I lost my hat somewhere.

“What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?” someone yells by my ear. Surprised, I stumble backward, holding out my arms to keep my balance. “Have you not learned anything in the past year or have you completely lost your mind?”

I look up, searching for the angry voice, and my breath catches in my throat.

Zephyr.

He’s standing before me, his chocolate eyes dark with anger.

“It’s you,” I slur, reaching out a hand but quickly taking it back, my joy replacing itself with makeshift-indifference. “Why do you care?” I bark, shoving past him in search of my next drink. As much as I crave it, I don’t wait for his answer.

“Joey, where are you going?”

“To find my next beer,” I shout over my shoulder, pathetically pushing my way through the crowd and stumbling with every step. “Got a problem with that?”

His hand grabs my arm, pulling me back until I press against his body. The momentary contact surprises then calms me, taking me back to place I used to love, a place I still love. But I need to move on. I try to pull away but his grip only tightens. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem. You’re not drinking anymore,” he tells me.