What I Thought Was True(44)

“No more five chicks in the hot tub, then,” I said shakily.

“Six,” he murmured, still smoothing back my hair. There was a smudge of black on his lower lip from my mascara. “But who’s counting? You have dreamboat eyes, you know that?”

“Did you use that lame line on all six?”

“Nah. Didn’t bother. None of them were looking for a deep and meaningful relationship. Neither, of course, am I. And tonight, I’m betting you aren’t either. Right?”

He was right. I wasn’t. Not that night. Viv and Nic and the hotel—Cass—flashed into my head and then zoomed out as Spence bent toward me, moving forward to my lips this time.

On the drive home from the bridge, Nic keeps glancing over at me, shoulder muscles tense.

“Look,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just . . . I mean, you’re pretty, you’re cool, and you’ve never really dated, and . . .” He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, his mouth open like he hopes the right words will 150

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just magically fly into it. Finally: “Did that ass Alex break your heart?”

“Please. Alex got nowhere near my heart. I thought he did back then, but it was nothing. He just hurt my feelings, the putz.”

“Then did Channing . . . ?” He trails off, clearly finding the thought completely impossible.

Hunching back in my seat, I kick my feet up on the glove compartment

“C’mon, Gwen. Talk. Tell me.”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

Nic reaches over and tries to pull my head to his shoulder but I’m stiff, edging him away. “I’m good,” I say. “Let’s just drive.”

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Chapter Fifteen


But “just driving” is almost worse than trying to explain that party to my baffled cousin, because it reminds me of the worst, most painful part of that night. Which I don’t want to think about. But I can’t stop.

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was—only that everything about it felt bad. I was wedged in an uncomfortable position against a wall, my dress twisted up behind my shoulder blades. My mouth was sticky-sweet and my head heavy and fogged. Someone next to me was snoring.

I lay there categorizing the feelings. 1) I was not at home.

2) I didn’t like where I was. 3) I was not alone. Then the soft snoring sound next to me and the long foot looped around mine, the distinctive smell of expensive, musky aftershave and the sickly sweet taste of strawberry pulled it together.

I was at Spence Channing’s party. In a bed with Spence Channing. And yeah, I’d chosen all this.

Unhooking his ankle from my own, I inched slowly—sll-looooowly—down to the bottom of the bed and then blinked at the dim floor, the ladder stretching up, the shelf of mattress above me.

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This was a bunk bed.

Spence muttered and groped for my waist for a second, but then rolled onto his stomach and snored louder.

I was in a bunk bed with a boy who drank strawberry dai-quiris. For some reason, probably because I was still a little buzzed, that seemed like one of the most surreal parts. I was in a bunk bed where the sheets were decorated with nautical flags. With a boy who at some point in the night had gotten up and put on paisley pajama bottoms. While across town, my best friends were in a hotel room that probably smelled like roses . . .

Don’t think about that.

I needed to get out of this room.

After bumping my head on the hard corner of a bureau, I finally reached the door, groped for the handle, and let myself out, blinking, into the hallway. The light was dim, but still hurt my eyes. There was a guy—Chris Markos?—slumped against the wall in a half-sitting, half-lying position. Out cold.

Judging from the people scattered on couches and chairs and the floor—all crashed—this was one of those parties that would be described as “epic.” There was Matt Salnitas on the couch with Kym Woo—who I knew was dating his brother.

Maybe there were enough dramas going on that no one would notice mine. Unlike the last party I’d gone to. Don’t think about that. Just find Hoop and get out of here. I peered out the window to the corner of the driveway where he’d parked his truck and my heart sank. No truck.

“C’moooon, man . . . just drive me,” said a voice from the kitchen. “It’s not even outta your way.”

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“Jimbo. We’ve been through this.” The voice in response sounded tired. “I’ve got your back. And your car keys—till morning.”

Walking into the fluorescently lit kitchen, I instantly whipped my hand in front of my eyes. Seated at stools at the counter were Jimmy Pieretti and Cass. Jimmy had a big bowl of unshelled peanuts in front of him and he was waving one at Cass for emphasis.

“I need to do something, Sundance. I need to impress this girl.”

“Trust me. Serenading her from her yard at three in the morning is not what you’re looking for. Hi, Gwen.”

In the brightness of the room—and the muddiness of my head—Cass was looking like the poster boy for WASPiness.

White T-shirt, faded khakis, tousled blond hair. All he needed was a golden retriever at his knee and a grandfather handing him an heirloom watch to complete the picture.