Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(17)

My eyes shut. While I was under the bleachers at the high school, mostly naked and getting videoed, my dad wrecked his car, went into a coma, and never came back. It was my sixteenth birthday. I’ve refused a party ever since, and the curse was born.

And the coldness.

My chest exhales. “We should just do it like we always do. Low key.”

I hear the tinkle of a teacup as she sets it back on the saucer. “I can’t take back the invitation. It’s rude. Any good hostess knows this. Once everyone gets here, you’ll be glad. I know you better than you think.”

I pinch my nose. “Once everyone . . .” What is she planning? “Did you invite my preschool boyfriend too?”

“What’s his name?”

“Jude—whatever, Mama, you can’t fill the house with prospective husbands! I don’t need a man. I have my work.” This is the direct opposite of my thoughts lately, but I can hardly tell her about my quest, which has nothing to do with love. Feelings don’t have to be involved at all. Just the act itself.

I glare at the wall, fingering my necklace. “If we’re doing this, I want alcohol.”

“It’s the Lord’s day.”

“Champagne. Jesus would understand.”

She pauses. “Okay.”

I stare at the phone, as if expecting to see her come through the phone with two heads. She’s . . . compromising?

I let out a sigh and grit my teeth. “I’m not dressing up.”

“Of course, dear,” she purrs, victory in her voice. “Wear your usual. You always look so nice.”

Because my style is modeled after hers.

“Uh-huh. Just you wait.”

“Don’t be bratty like your sister.”

I smirk. Elena was the one who went off to New York to college (the nerve of her leaving the South), traveled Europe, then gave up her chance to be a physician to be a librarian turned sexy-lingerie maker. She’s the rebel, and I’m the spare, the one Mama believes will never step out of line, but these days I’m teetering on a tightrope, and I don’t know which way I’ll fall. With a sigh, I end up telling her about CERN, and she can’t keep the relief out of her voice. She never wanted me to even apply. At least someone is happy about it.

Later, after the wine has chilled me, I circle back to the party. “Did you invite Devon?”

Dialogue in the background vanishes; she’s clicked off the TV. “Do you want me to?”

My hands grip the phone. “Just trying to get a feel for how many people will be there.”

“Have you seen him since the wedding?”

I don’t like her tone—it’s as if she’s taking notes.

“Briefly.” It’s not an outright lie, but I don’t want to get into a convo about Devon and all that entails.

“He’s not really your type, dear. He’s from California.”

She says it like he’s been in prison. I roll my eyes.

“And he has not one, but two earrings.”

“I can count.”

“And those tattoos? Bless.”

Which is why she’s never seen my pitiful attempt at ink.

“He’s a playboy,” she continues. “Who was that girl at the wedding? She had on enough makeup for a glamour shot.”

“All women are different, Mama. Don’t judge us.”

“Well, y’all don’t go together. You need a hometown boy and babies.”

I exhale. “Never mind him. See you soon . . .” Before she can say anything else, I rush out “I love you” and hang up.

I plop down on the couch and pour another glass. After pulling out my notebook, I find my goals and pencil in a new one, right under Go to Switzerland, V-Card Must Go, and Write a Sci-Fi.

Buy a Dress Up To My Ass.

By midnight, I’m at my desk typing away, wearing my favorite cutoff frayed shorts and a tank top, listening to the sky rumble with a summer storm. At least the front will bring cooler air. I’m headed to the kitchen for water when the power goes out, shrouding my apartment in splotchy darkness. Glow from my laptop sends shafts of light to parts of the apartment, slicing through the black. Maybe it’s the storm or a car hitting a transformer nearby. Power outages aren’t the usual, and I can’t recall a single one in the year and a half I’ve lived here.

I peek out the window and see that the rest of the city is still lit. After fumbling around, I grab a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and head to the front door, stiffening as the light catches a curl of gray mist slithering in from the hall and dancing under the crack at the bottom of my door. For a moment, I’m frozen.

The fuse box. Myrtle mentioned an electrical issue in the basement.

Fear inches up, and I snap out of my daze and jerk open my door. No flames or crackling sounds, but the smell of smoke drifts to my nose. There’s a layer of the fog around my feet, near the stairwell, and my heart flies, even as I recognize it’s not dense or thick.

Instinct takes over, and I shut my door to block as much smoke as I can and dash to the stairwell and take the steps three at a time. I fall down the last two in my haste and fall splat on my ass on the landing, not noticing any pain, and jump up. I reach the second-floor door to Myrtle’s hall and fling open the door, already running. The smoke is thicker here, two inches off the ground and rising with every second. Jerking my tank up over my lower face, I’m already screaming her name before I reach her brass knocker, beating on the wood.