Bright Before Sunrise (23 page)

“Whatever. I didn’t say it did.” I’m leaning away, shoving my hands in my pockets.

“Come on! Quitting baseball. Asking a zillion questions about everyone
here
but not offering a single detail about your life there—it makes so much more sense now.”

“Don’t act like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“But I
do
.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder. “Jonah, I know you. I guess I just didn’t realize how hard this move was for you.”

She approaches me and holds out her arms. I lean into the hug, and she rests her head in the space between my shoulder and chin, a space that’s always seemed designed for her. I inhale the scent of her hair spray and cherry lip gloss while I rub her shoulder. Too relieved, exhausted, and surprised to say anything.

“You should’ve told me,” she coos. “I would’ve understood.”

“I
tried
to tell you. You were too busy giving me shopping lists.”

“What?”

“All you ever want to hear are stories about their money.”

“What!” she repeats. It’s not a question this time, and she’s leaning back to look up at me. “When have I
ever
cared about money or designers? I think you might be confusing me with Brighton.”

“How about when you asked to see the label on my new jeans?”

“Um, to get you
out
of them?”

“And the limo, and the earrings, and cupcakes from that ridiculous CP bakery. Do you know how expensive all that is? I don’t have a job anymore, Carly. I’m scraping the bottom of my bank account to get you all these things you ‘need’ to be happy.”

“
I need?
Jonah, you used to talk nonstop about how ridiculous everyone was with their money. It was the one thing you
would
talk about.” She’s blinking back tears. “The limo was fun, the earring are pretty—but what I really wanted was for you to say, ‘I still love you.’ I wanted you not to be too embarrassed to bring me to Cross Pointe. I wanted to walk down their Main Street holding hands, without you
worrying that everyone who saw us would think I was your maid or something.”

“They wouldn’t have.” This was a truth I wouldn’t have believed earlier in the night, but that didn’t make it any less true. “Carly, they’re not like that. At least, not most of them.”

“I wish you’d just been honest with me. I don’t want us to fight anymore.”

“Me either,” I say.

She reaches up and places a thumb on each of my temples, rubbing gently at tension I hadn’t paid attention to until then. It makes me smile, thinking of all the other times she’s massaged away stress: before my baseball games, after the SATs, all those nights when my parents yelled and yelled and I escaped to the cheerful chaos of her house.

Then she’s pulling my head down. Kissing me. My mouth responds. Immediately. Instinctively. But it no longer feels right.

I turn my head to break the kiss and end up with a mouthful of braided hair. “What are you doing?”

She tries to smile; it looks forced and wobbly. Her voice when she tries to tease sounds fake. “Jo-nah! You really need a definition?”

“You broke up with me.”

“Yeah, but I get it now that you explained.” She tries to slide her hands up my chest. “Don’t you think we could … I mean, shouldn’t we
try
?”

“No.” I take a step back and cross my arms, too surprised by her actions and my answer to elaborate.

“Is this because of Brighton?”

I swallow and look around the driveway, like her name
could make her appear. God, I hope she’s okay. “It has nothing to do with Cross Pointe. It’s about
me … us
. I don’t think our breakup was a mistake.”

“Since when?” She’s giving me a don’t-be-an-idiot look.

“Since …”
Since I realized that the most appealing part of dating you is your zip code
. I can’t stay with her for her access to my old life or because then I can pretend my whole world hasn’t changed. “We had two great years … but it hasn’t been good lately.”

“You get that I believe you now, right?” she says, but she’s taking a step backward too. “I know you never cheated.”

“Yeah, but it was never just about that flyer. If we were still solid you would’ve laughed at that. Or
asked
me. We don’t work anymore—you just noticed sooner than I did.”

Carly looks embarrassed, but when she stops shaking her head, her expression has hardened. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Well, it’s not the first one I’ve made tonight.” I reach out to touch her hair. A farewell gesture that can’t be interpreted as an invitation for more. “I’m sorry.”

She jerks away, hands going up to smooth her braids. It’s an excuse to lower her head, not because she cares about her hairstyle. She whispers, “I guess that means good-bye, Jonah,” before running across the driveway and yanking open the door to the basement and the heart of the party.

28
 
 
Brighton
 
 
11:42 P.M.

The door from the driveway slams shut behind a girl.

A short girl. A pretty girl with a crown of braids and a pissed-off expression.

It’s her.

The girl whose picture was in the frame I dropped and destroyed.

Carly.

She’s scanning the room. I pull my shoulders in, slide down on the couch cushion. While trying to become invisible I unintentionally lean closer to Digg. He responds by putting an arm on the back of the couch, his thumb touching the bare skin inside the collar of my dress. I want to jerk away, but I want to remain unseen more.

Carly calls to someone at the Ping-Pong table. She crosses the room to join the group of players. I don’t exhale until she’s passed the couch. Only then do I pull away from the finger that Digg’s started tracing along the back of my neck and open my mouth to tell him a hasty I’ve-got-to-go-
now
.

I’m not fast enough.

“Oh. My. God. You’re her!” The words make my skin prickle. For a millisecond I think Digg’s touching me again, but no, his hand is hovering near my shoulder. I see it when I turn to look. Carly’s stopped just beyond the couch. She’s shoulder to shoulder with the girl who hugged Jonah when we arrived, and the girl’s expression is pure vindictive victory. Her finger is still pointed at me.

Carly back steps until she’s directly in front of me. “
You’re
the girl from Cross Pointe. He said you left—what the hell are you still doing here?”

I flinch from her words. Her anger. Flinch right back into Digg, whose hand clamps down on my shoulder and pulls me toward him. The movement throws me off-balance and I almost fall into his lap. The hand I throw out to stop myself braces against the bare skin of his knee.

Carly’s eyes narrow. She smirks and shakes her head. “And now you’re hanging out with
him
?”

Digg laughs. “Nice to see you too. Want to catch up on
our
old times later?” He ends his statement with a wink.

She curls her lip in disgust. “Go to hell, Daniel. And take her with you.”

“Cute, as always,” Digg—Daniel?—answers. “I forgot how feisty you are.”

I’m so aware of the fact that I haven’t said anything yet. But this makes it even harder to form words. I don’t know what to deny first or how to stand up to her accusations.

“Actually, this is perfect.” She laughs, but it’s not friendly. “No. Seriously, you two are just perfect together. Don’t let me interrupt.”

She reaches out, and I think she’s going to hit me. I
squeeze my eyes shut and tense for the blow. I’m caught off guard when she shoves my shoulder instead, sending me careening back into Digg’s lap. His arms tighten around me, and when I open my eyes, his are looming close. His whole face is too close, his beer breath sticky on my cheeks.

“Careful, angel.”

I yank myself out of his grip and away from him. Carly’s gone to join the group. Digg’s scooting closer on the couch. “What was that about?” he asks.

I pick up my soda and raise the can to my mouth, ready to avoid answering and hide my embarrassment behind a sip. Before my lips close around the rim, a coconut smell makes me freeze. I hold out the can like it’s radioactive. “This isn’t just Pepsi.”

Digg shrugs and taps his can against mine. “I splashed a little fun in it. Drink up.”

I stand. “I told you I didn’t want to drink.”

“Ahhh, c’mon, I even used the flavored rum—it’ll taste like candy.” He reaches for my wrist, but I take another step back.

“I told you I didn’t want to drink.” My voice is louder, but my words are the same. I don’t need any additional arguments.

“Man, you’re wound tight. That’s ’zactly why you need to be a good girl and drink up. You’ll have a much better time if you relax.” He chugs.

My breath is coming in quick gasps. “Listen, asshole, what part of
no
don’t you understand?”

I could just let this go. Should probably just leave.

Flight.

I’m flight, and everything in me wants to run away from this. But I can’t. It’s the condescension. It’s the disrespect. It’s the assumption that his agenda of getting me drunk is more important than my decision not to drink.

I tip the can, angling it over him. It takes Digg a second or two to react, and then another second for the reaction to move from wide eyes and a gaping mouth to grabbing the can from my hand. It isn’t close to empty, but there’s a satisfyingly sized wet spot on the crotch of his shorts.

“You’re dead,” he snarls, standing up and seizing my arm.

29
 
 
Jonah
 
 
11:47 P.M.

When Felix strolls by, I’m sitting on the trunk of my car trying to decide if I need to say good-bye to Jeff, or if it’s better for everyone if I just leave.

“That Cross Pointe girl gets around,” he says with a grin. He’s carrying a lighter and something in a brown bag, en route to do who-gives-a-crap to the mailbox.

“Brighton? What do you mean?” I demand, already standing up. My stomach sours. Something about his smile makes me want to punch it off his face.

“She’s in the basement with Digg.” Felix waggles his eyebrows.

I’m tearing up the walk, cursing her for having no sense of self-preservation. Digg? Really? No girl who’s interested in ending the night clothed hangs out with him. I get that she doesn’t know his I-get-it-on-with-anything-with-boobs history, but how could she not see that he’s skeezy? How could she possibly be interested in
him
?