Bright Before Sunrise(47)

“Ah.” He nods. “Is that why you’re so tense? Damn finals.”

He moves like he might give me a back rub, so I sit up and lean away, pointing to the various baseball pennants and paraphernalia tacked to the walls around the room. “Are you a Phillies fan?”

“Hells, yeah! Aren’t you?” He leans in to finger the edge of a poster tacked to the wall behind my head.

“Sure.” I try to think of a follow-up question.

“Good, because I’d hate to have to despise you. You’re too damn pretty to despise.”

I blush and roll my eyes. He’s flirting, yes, but it’s casual. Familiar. In fact, his praise makes me more comfortable. In control. I know how to respond to guys in these situations. It’s Jonah’s personalized barbs I can’t handle.

“Let’s grab drinks and I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

“The rest?” I instinctively lean even farther away. “That’s okay, I don’t need to see the bedrooms.”

Digg laughs far too loud—people turn to see what’s so funny, and while I couldn’t answer if they asked, I find myself laughing along. He stops only when he starts coughing. Then he puts a hand on my shoulder like he’s so winded he can’t hold himself up.

“You kill me. I didn’t mean the upstairs. I mean the kitchen and stuff.”

“Oh. I’ve already seen them.” And have no desire to revisit the site of the earlier drama or run into any of those people. “Let’s stay here.”

“How about Ping-Pong? One of the perks of it being my table is I can call next game anytime.” Digg’s stretching his legs out in front of him and drumming his thumbs on the couch. I can tell he’s getting bored, that he doesn’t want to just sit any longer, but when I look behind me at the party crowd, I see all the faces that attacked me in the kitchen.

“I’m hopeless at Ping-Pong.”

He’s on his feet and holding out a hand. “Then you’ve come to the right place. I’ve got skillz with a z, and I might be willing to teach you.”

“I’m fine right here.” I sound painfully lame and rude. Any second he’s going to bail and I’ll be left alone again. “Maybe in a little bit. Tell me more about school.”

Digg’s still standing in the middle of the tile floor. He shrugs and points to a mini-fridge. “Drink?”

“Diet Coke?”

He crouches and opens the fridge. “Okay. What do you want in it?”

“Just Diet Coke. I’m not drinking tonight.” I watch his back, which is wider than the little fridge.

He turns around with a snort. “Why the hell not? This is a party, you know.”

“I know, but I have plans in the morning.” Speaking of which, it’s getting late and I have to try Amelia again. I pull my phone from my purse—11:30.

“One drink won’t kill you.”

“No, thank you. I’ll stick to soda tonight.” I text her. Call me.

He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Compromise: a shot, then a Coke chaser.”

My phone is still silent. Where is she? I can taste frustration on the back of my teeth as I answer: “Just the soda. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Diet Pepsi okay, or are you a Coke purist? There’s probably one here somewhere …,” he says over the metallic fumblings of cans being jostled.

I exhale, relieved he finally let it go. “Either is fine.”

There’s the hiss of two cans popping open, and he takes a swig from one and fumbles some more. I send Amelia another message: You there? I consider texting Peter too—most likely Amelia’s lost her phone or let the battery run out.

“Trying to find you a straw. I know there are some down here.”

“That’s okay, I don’t need one.”

I start to stand. I could get twenty sodas in the time it’s taken him to find one. Digg slams the fridge, passes me the can, and sits back on the couch. He’s opened a beer for himself and raises an eyebrow as he sips it. “You’re sure you’re good with a soda? I’d be a bad host if I didn’t ask one last time.”

“I’m sure.” I’m sick of this conversation and the insinuation that I’ll be more fun if I’m drinking. I don’t feel like “being fun” tonight. I feel like getting home. Why hasn’t Amelia gotten back to me yet? I could excuse myself to go find the bathroom, but then what? My alternative to sitting here and making awkward conversation is to go outside and hope I don’t get hit by mailbox debris while waiting for my phone to beep or ring. At least down here with Digg I blend in. And it shouldn’t be much longer. I hope.





25

Jonah

11:13 P.M.


EPIC FAIL


“Do you think she’s okay?” We’re standing in the foyer, and I’m waiting for Jeff or Maya to get around to telling me whatever the hell they thought was so important. Trying to pay attention to them when all I want to do is go find Brighton and make her listen to whatever version of the truth it takes for her to forgive me.

“I think,” says Maya, “that you’re a tool for coming here with that girl.”

“Why did you, man?” asks Jeff. “I mean, assuming you’re not sleeping with her, and from her reaction, I’d say that’s pretty clear.”