In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(51)

“What year did you graduate high school?” he asked.

“I was a year ahead of Faith.”

“Really?” He turned to look at her. God, he was just beautiful. The salt air had made his hair curl a little, as if he needed something extra to make him more appealing. “Why’d you move?”

He’d kissed her today. Largely to distract himself from a panic attack, but he’d kissed her, and it had been a soft, gentle, amazing kiss that made her throb with...with something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Tenderness.

And lust, yes. No sense in pretending otherwise. It had taken all her self-control not to climb right onto his lap and take a bite, he was so delicious.

“None of my business. Sorry,” Jack said.

Oh, right, he’d asked a question. “I was bullied.”

This was usually when the response was, “Really? You? You’re so tough/badass/scary, Em,” and Em would either agree or change the subject. Not that she brought it up much.

“Must’ve been pretty bad if you had to move to get away from it,” he said, looking out at the ocean.

“Yeah.”

“Kids can be such little shits.”

“I won’t disagree.”

“Why’d they bully you?”

“I stuttered.”

He looked at her again, then put his arm around her. He was warm and solid, and, for a second, she felt the prick of tears in her eyes. Don’t get carried away here, a little voice warned her.

“Also, Kevin went to boarding school in Connecticut. And he was... We were very close.”

Kevin’s kindness had been an antidote to the casual, razor-sharp cruelty of her meaner classmates. And even worse, the kids who didn’t instigate but just stood by, pretending not to hear, unwilling to take a chance on a nobody like Emmaline.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. How was that for a T-shirt?

“It must’ve been tough, not being able to speak your mind,” Jack said.

“Yep. It was.” She cleared her throat, took another sip of wine. “I had this imaginary friend. Horatio.”

“Horatio?”

“My parents read a lot of Shakespeare. Sue me.”

“So what was Horatio like?”

She slipped off her sandals and dug her feet into the cool sand. “Well, he was very loyal, of course. I’d psychically tell him everything I couldn’t get out, and he thought I was very smart and funny.”

“You are very funny and smart. You also have a wicked hip check.” He gave her another grin. “I had an imaginary friend, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But mine had a cool name, unlike poor Horatio.”

“Listen, bub. Horatio is incredibly cool.”

“Mine was named Otis.”

“Otis is not a cool name, Jack. It’s sad that you think so. I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Horatio wins this round.”

“Says you.”

“Did Otis serve a purpose?”

“Absolutely. Whenever I got into trouble, I’d tell my parents that Otis had done it. And that he talked to me at night. Totally freaked out my sisters. They thought either our house was haunted or I was possessed.”

“And are you?”

He laughed, and the sound caused her stomach to pull in a wonderful, warm ache. “I don’t think so. Not anymore, at any rate.”

“Emmaline?” came a woman’s voice. “Oh, my God! Is it really you?”

Em looked up. “Uh...hi!”

The woman, who was thin as a whippet and had very long hair, gave her a disbelieving look. “You don’t remember me?” She swept some hair around to the front and began stroking the ends.

“I’m sorry. The light isn’t very good here.”

“It’s me! Lyric! Lyric Adams? We went to school together!”

Oh, yes. Em finished her wine and got to her feet. She remembered Lyric, all right. The meanest of the mean kids. “Hi.”

“Wow! You look...uh, great!” Lyric said.

“And you look very, uh, good,” Emmaline said. Lyric had had a little work done, as the saying went. Or, more precisely, a lot. Weirdly inflated lips—the famous trout pout—huge br**sts exploding out of her tiny, underfed rib cage and a much thinner nose than she’d sported as a kid.

“I know!” Lyric said, her voice taking on a different tone. “I work out with this amazing trainer? And Pilates four times a week. No gluten, no meat, no dairy, plus these cleanses? You should try them! Wheatgrass and fish oil. Amazing.”

“I’ll have to pass,” Em said.

“OMG! You don’t stutter anymore! I barely recognize your voice. Remember how bad you sounded? ‘H-h-hi, I’m Eh-eh-eh-maline.’ It took you forever to get a sentence out!” She laughed merrily, her mouth barely moving, courtesy of whatever toxin she’d had injected.

“This is my friend Jack,” Emmaline said, trying to ignore the burn in her cheeks. Lyric had been a piranha at age twelve. No reason to think she’d gotten any nicer.

Jack stood up. “Jack Holland,” he said, putting his arm around Emmaline. “Em’s fiancé.”

“Hi!” Lyric said. “I’m Lyric, Lyric Adams-Rabinowitz. And yes, my father is that Travis Adams. I’m an old friend of Em’s.”