Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(19)

Bram just watches us, not saying a word, which makes me even more self-conscious. I tug my dress down and stare at my knees. Maybe I could send a telepathic message backstage to the powers that be. Dear God and/or Cal Price: please start this show now. Dim the lights so I can disappear.

Garrett nudges me. “So, did you get my texts?”

And . . . fuck my life.

“Yeah. Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone just . . .” I trail off uselessly.

“No worries. Just wanted to hear what you thought of the game!”

God, I can’t. I’m sorry. I should tell him, but I can’t. I’m like an actual fuse. Overload me, and I shut down. I guess Garrett’s the hair dryer who pushes me over the limit.

I lie. “It was cool.”

“Yeah. Ha. If you forget about the first half.”

“Mmhmm.” I nod vaguely.

“Where’d you run off to afterward?” Bram pipes up. “We missed you.”

“Oh. Um. My mom needed the car, so . . .” I swallow.

“That sucks.”

“Yup.”

The houselights dim. Thank God thank God thank God.

The overture begins, and my whole body sighs.





9


HOURS LATER, I’M IN SIMON’S backseat, driving to Martin Addison’s house, of all places.

“Who let him host this?” I ask. I can’t help but growl a little when I talk about Martin. Abby, sitting next to me, shrugs and shakes her head.

“I don’t know,” says Simon. “He offered.”

“We should have had our own party,” Abby says.

“Can we just suck it up? Please? It’s the last cast party.” Simon’s voice skids on the word last. He’s never been good at endings.

“You okay?” Bram asks softly.

Simon pauses. “Yeah.”

The light turns green, and Simon makes a left. Martin lives at the end of a cul-de-sac in one of those leafy neighborhoods off Creekside Drive. I’ve only been there once. It was freshman year for a history project. Me, Martin, and Morgan. And we chose one another, too. What a joke.

No one talks for the rest of the ride. Bram fiddles with the music, and Abby stares out the window, lips tightly pursed. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her look so upset. And I know she hates Martin, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s more than that. Maybe Morgan said something to her.

Martin’s whole street is lined with cars, and it’s almost dark when we get there. We pull in behind Garrett’s minivan, which is parked but still running. He drove here with Nick—they turn off the car and step out when they see us. And wow. It’s ridiculously cold out, especially in a cotton dress and a cardigan. I’ll just say my out-of-this-world boobs are extra out of this world tonight.

We end up walking in twosomes. Nick and Garrett, Abby and Bram, Simon and me. It’s weird that Abby and Nick aren’t walking together. I lean toward Simon, close enough that our arms touch. “Hey, is something up with Nick and Abby?”

Simon grimaces and shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know. I talked to Nick for a minute earlier. I think they’re fighting.”

“About what?”

“Well, Nick got into Tufts yesterday.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I know, he’s psyched,” Simon says, “but then I guess he and Abby had the talk.”

“The talk?”

“The are-we-doing-long-distance-or-what talk.”

“Oh.” Something tugs in my chest. “Okay.”

“Yeah. It didn’t go well.”

I glance up at Abby, paces ahead of me, thoroughly bundled in an oversized cardigan. She’s walking so close to Bram, you’d think they were conjoined.

“Okay, so translate that,” I say quickly.

“Translate what?”

“Didn’t go well. What does that mean?”

Simon frowns. “I don’t know. Nick wants to stay together, but Abby doesn’t want to do long distance.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

We walk in silence for a minute, almost at Martin’s house. There’s music coming from the basement—the soundtrack to Joseph. A little too on the nose for the Joseph cast party, in my opinion, but what do I know?

“I’m scared they’ll break up,” Simon says finally, his voice barely audible. “I think it could ruin us.”

“You and Bram?”

“No. God. No. We’re good.” Simon smiles. “No, I mean us.” He waves his hands around vaguely. “Our group. Our posse.”

I snort. “Our posse.”

“I’m serious. What if there’s drama and it gets weird and we have to go to prom in separate limos?”

“Oh no. Not separate limos.” I try not to smile.

“Shut up. It would be sad and you know it.”

“Aww, Spier. Why are you sad?” Garrett bursts between us, hooking his arms around our shoulders. “Don’t be sad. We’re about to walk into a partaaaay.”

“Are you already drunk?” I ask.

“No.” He scoffs. “I’m naturally like this.”

“I actually believe that.”