Love Songs & Other Lies(36)

She looks at me pointedly. “That was a joke.”

Obviously. “Is this about Logan? About what people will say?”

“I don’t care what people say—”

Yes, you totally do.

She looks down at her toe, stabbing it into the concrete next to mine. “But I do care what Logan says. What happens when we make … whatever this is … official? He’ll know I didn’t want a relationship with him. I just don’t want to rub it in his face. Everything’s already weird, Cam.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “And the band knows what went down with Logan and me. They’ll think I’m a hussy for hooking up with you.”

“You’re overreacting. No one’s going to think you’re a … hussy.” I shake my head trying not to smile, but I can’t help it. “No one even says the word ‘hussy.’” Vee looks like she wants to smack me again. I wouldn’t mind her touching me.

“There’s this nurse who wears red lipstick and scrubs with black stilettos on them. Nonni calls her a hussy.” She giggles nervously as she rests her forehead against my chest. Instinctively, my hands go to her back, holding her. She sighs, bumping her forehead against my chest again, like she wishes it was a wall and she could do some real damage.

“Who cares what other people think?”

“I care,” she finally admits, her breath hot against my chest. “Sometimes I care a lot.”

“Dakota doesn’t care.” I push a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I think Dakota’s pretty amazing.”

She sighs.

“We don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not even Logan. Our relationship is our business.”

She looks up at me. “We have a relationship?” Her face is covered in shadows from the nearby streetlight.

“We don’t have to label it, if you don’t want to,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I don’t.”

Part of me wants to argue with her. To stake a claim and push for what I’m pretty sure I want. But what does a title matter? What right do I even have asking for one? I can’t promise her anything.

I’m frozen on the sidewalk, not sure what to do, until she finally looks up at me again.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay … whatever. Dakota’s in.” Suddenly she can’t look at me, her eyes roaming from my chest to her hands, to the street. “Just no making it official, or whatever.” She gives me a sly smile. “Whatever, I guess. We’ll do this relationship our way.”

“Whatever?” I can’t help the dopey grin that I know has invaded my face. “That’s very romantic. You should write greeting cards. They’d say really poignant things, like ‘I think you’re better than a stick in the eye’ and ‘Will you maybe be my valentine if no one else is available?’ Forget college or music—that’s your calling.”

“Whatever,” she says, pulling away from me and nudging my shoulder with hers. That move, I’ve learned, is as close to “I’m sorry” as Vee gets. She smacks me when she’s mad, nudges when she’s sorry, and pokes me in the ribs when I’m embarrassing her.

“Okay then.” I take her hand and pull her back onto the sidewalk, pushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before leading her toward the house.





VIRGINIA


This isn’t the first party I’ve been to. It’s not even the third, or the seventh. It is the first one I’ve ever felt truly comfortable at. Maybe it’s stupid or naive, but I feel like someone is watching out for me now. Cam doesn’t just like me—he fought for me. He made me feel wanted. Tonight, my goal is to not think so much—to see what it’s like to really let go. I should probably know my limits before I head to college next year. I’m not going to play babysitter to Cort or anyone else. Cam has promised to stay sober so he can make sure no one slips something in my drink or shoves me in a trunk. He’s my insurance policy against ending up on a MISSING poster tonight. Tonight, I’m getting tipsy in the name of making Nonni proud. Not weird at all.

“Ohhhmigosh.” Cort throws herself at me as I enter the marble-covered entryway of the ultra-contemporary condo we’ve just entered. She wraps her arms around my waist, and tries to pick me up, even though I’m a head taller than her. It’s only been a month since the last time she was home, and already she looks different again. Her hair has gone from a shoulder-length bob to a shaggy blond pixie cut, with tiny streaks of green. Her nose has a tiny diamond stud in it that’s still pink around the edges. “I can’t be-lieeve it! You’re actually going to do it!”

Cort sets me back down and almost topples onto me in the process. She’s wearing tight jeans, black ankle-breaking heels, and a strapless red top—in October. She looks like she belongs in a dance club, and I wonder if this is how everyone dresses at the college parties she’s going to now.

I have lots of experience with Drunk Cort. She’s a louder, more emotional (if it’s even possible) version of Sober Cort. And she’s physical. Sober Vee wakes up with bruises the morning after a party, thanks to Cort’s bear hugs and couch tackles. Sometimes being her friend is literally painful.