First & Then(59)

I reached them as Stanton was middunk. Stanton looked at me blankly for a second when I surfaced, and I took the opportunity to kick him hard. I wasn’t aiming for any particular place, but I managed to connect with one that was pretty effective.

He let go of Ezra at once, and I seized the front of Ezra’s shirt. I don’t know what I expected Ezra to do.… I guess I figured he’d break away, all offended, and claim that he didn’t need my help. Maybe he’d accuse me of crashing his party and have armed security guards escort me from the premises, just for good measure.

But the split-second look he gave me said nothing of the sort. He just wrapped his arms around my neck and clung on.

I couldn’t support us both. My head slipped under, and I pumped my arms and legs furiously to keep us afloat.

“Come on,” I choked, kicking frantically. “Come on, swim.”

But Ezra didn’t swim, he just clutched harder, sinking us both.

Stanton had yelled out in pain, loud enough to call attention to us. A couple of guys swam over and helped guide Ezra and me to the side. A couple of others were keeping Stanton afloat as he cursed loud enough to draw the attention of at least the first tier of onlookers standing around the pool.

“You f*cking bitch!” he yelled as Marty Engelson helped us out of the water and onto the concrete surrounding the pool. Ezra lay on his back, taking big gulping breaths, and I sat there in a puddle of formal wear, unable to stand. I realized I was shaking. “What’s your problem?”

I couldn’t speak. I had successfully saved Ezra from Stanton, but who would save me?

Before I could think, an object flew through the air and hit Stanton square in the head. It took me a moment to recognize what it was as it bounced off Stanton and landed on the ground nearby: a leather dress shoe.

I looked at the pair of feet standing next to me—one shoe on and one shoe off—and I turned my eyes up to take in Foster’s face. There was firm defiance all over it.

“Don’t talk about my sister like that.”

Stanton pulled himself up and pushed his way through the crowd to our side of the pool. Foster stepped in front of Ezra and me, and in front of Foster stepped Emir Zurivic.

Stanton stopped short.

I hadn’t seen Emir all night. His hair was slicked back and he was in all black. He stood perfectly at ease, a small smile on his face, his hands in his pockets. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Stanton’s lip curled, but he stopped a few feet short of us. Emir wasn’t big like Stanton, or aggressive like Stanton, or a bully like Stanton, but Emir was not to be trifled with.

“Yeah. We were just having some fun, and then that bitch went and kicked me for no reason.”

“Excuse me?” Emir’s smile was dangerous.

Stanton faltered for a moment. “Tell your dumbass friends to leave me the f*ck alone,” he snarled, and then he shoved off through the crowd, followed by two or three guys who eyed Emir with as much anger as they dared.

Emir turned to Ezra, who was still gulping air, and pulled him easily to his feet.

“There we go,” he said, slapping him hard on the back a few times. “No harm done.” He turned to the crowd at-large, which was looking on in a stunned hush, and gave a simple cry of “Party time!” which broke the ice and revived the sounds of conversation.

“Nothing like an evening swim,” Emir said, now pulling me up with surprisingly strong arms.

“Thanks. Thank you,” I said weakly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, and then, touching two fingers to his forehead in a cool salute, he melted back into the crowd.

I looked over at Ezra, but the spot where he had stood was empty.





31


We found Ezra throwing up on the front lawn. I wasn’t sure what to do, but Foster just went up and put a hand on his back, stooping a little with him and saying quietly, “It’s okay.” Ezra retched a couple of more times, spit, and stayed bent over, as if waiting for more to come.

When he finally straightened up and looked at me, the game and the dance and crashing the party all seemed light-years away. “Are you okay?” he asked. He had puke on his shirt, and that black tie was a limp rag.

“Yeah.” My voice was strained. “Are you?”

Ezra nodded but didn’t speak.

A silence followed that Foster broke only when I gave a particularly violent shiver. “Maybe Dev could have, like, a towel or something.”

“Yeah. Shit, yeah, sorry.” He turned abruptly and headed up the front steps of the house. After a moment’s hesitation, Foster and I followed.

The inside of Ezra’s house was just as impressive as the outside, but somehow still managed to feel … accessible. Not so chic or expensive-looking that you were afraid to touch anything. Not like walking into a museum.

Ezra had disappeared by the time we got inside, so Foster and I hovered in the entryway; he eyed the rooms branching off the hall past the staircase, and I gathered up the ends of my dress to keep from dripping on the floor. It wasn’t really helping.

In a moment Ezra emerged with a big fluffy towel. He handed it to me and said, “I can grab you some dry clothes if you want.”

In Jane’s time, that was the sort of thing that propriety called upon you to refuse. The other party would then press you to accept, and then you’d refuse again; and then when they pressed a second time, I guess you’d know they really meant it, or they’d know you’d shown a proper amount of restraint or selflessness or whatever. But people in Jane’s time didn’t have scratchy department store Homecoming dresses for 45 percent off, and they certainly didn’t have them soaking wet.