Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(71)

“ARE THERE ANY SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENIORS IN THE HOWOWOWOWOWSE?”

“YES, WE’RE SENIORS!” Abby yells. Then she catches me looking and shoots me a bashful grin.

The song changes again, the beat thumping softly, and everyone crowds in a little closer. Simon grabs my hand and lifts it, and suddenly, I’m stretching both arms skyward, smiling with my eyes closed. And it’s exactly the feeling I get when I’m drumming. I’m caught up in the music—just totally lost to it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so weightless.

Until it smacks me like a cannonball: all of this is ending.

Holy shit. We’re graduating. We have—what—five weeks of normalcy, and then the whole world resets. Intellectually, I’ve always known things would be different after graduation. That’s just life.

But I guess it’s finally hitting me—the magnitude of this change. I don’t think I’ve looked it in the eye until this moment.

“I miss you,” I say to Simon.

“WHAT?”

“I MISS YOU!”

I mean. Fuck everything. I already miss them. I miss Simon and Bram and Nick and Garrett and Nora and Anna and even Morgan. It already hurts.

“GOD, I MISS YOU, TOO,” Simon yells, smiling—and just when I think he doesn’t get it at all, he flings his arms around me tightly and leans close to my ear. “You know I’m going to lose my mind without you, right?”

“Me too,” I say softly, leaning into his chest.





33


BUT HERE’S THE WEIRD THING: I’ve barely seen Nick all night. And normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but this isn’t regular Nick—this is Sad Drunk Nick. So, I have to assume he’s either vomiting in the butterfly house or passed out next to the vulture enclosure.

Or he’s fine. He’s probably fine. Even though he’s not replying to any of my texts. Maybe he’s fine, and he just hates me. In his position, I’d hate me. Maybe Abby said something to him. Or maybe my stupid Abby crush is written plainly all over my face.

I try to shake the thought from my mind, but I can’t help peering around the edges of the space. For the record, finding a particular boy in a dimly lit, crowded pavilion is pretty near fucking impossible. The kid is wearing a black tuxedo in a sea of black tuxedos. For a moment, Martin Addison’s wardrobe choices make a twisted kind of sense.

Except then Nick whirls in out of nowhere, flushed and beaming. “Hey!” I start to say—but he cuts me off with a quick, tight hug and a wet smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Um. Are you—”

He pokes me in the nose. “Leah Burke, you’re about to have your mind blown.”

Okay, so now I’m slightly terrified.

Nick crosses the dance floor with actual swagger. This is something I’ve never before witnessed in my years of friendship with Nick Eisner. He reaches the deejay table and leans forward to say something, and then the deejay nods, and they bump fists.

“Are you watching this?” Simon asks, leaning in close.

“You mean Nick?”

Simon nods. “What do you think he’s scheming?”

“No idea.” But as soon as I say it, I catch a glimpse of Abby, her blue skirt flaring as she spins around with Nora. “Unless . . .”

Simon follows my gaze. “Oh God. Do you think he’s planning some big gesture to win her back?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I press my lips together. “Or it could be a revenge thing.”

“Like Nick taking revenge on Abby?” Simon laughs incredulously.

“Maybe something to embarrass her.”

Simon shakes his head. “Nick wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know. He’s acting really weird.”

“Yeah, but this is Nick,” Simon insists, though I catch a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”

For a moment, we just look at each other.

“I think we should talk to him,” I say finally.

“Yeah. Okay.” Simon nods. “Let’s just . . . see what he’s thinking.”

Simon grabs my hand, and we weave through the crowd on the dance floor. Nick is in a crowd of soccer guys at the very edge of the pavilion, his arms flung around Garrett’s and Bram’s shoulders. Which is reassuring, I think. If Bram’s involved—even if Garrett’s involved—there’s no way Nick is planning anything cruel. I mean, unless Bram and Garrett don’t know about the plan.

God, how do I even word this? Hey, Nick. I think you’re amazing and I totally adore you, and I just wanted to quickly confirm that you’re not a giant living, breathing human phallus.

Simon squeezes my hand and tugs me forward, inhaling sharply. “Hey, guys,” he says in his patented I’m-Simon-Spier-and-I’m-so-casual-I’m-hardly-even-squeaking voice. “Uh, Nick, can we talk to you for a sec?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” Nick smiles expectantly. But when I look over his shoulder, I see a dozen other soccer guys, also smiling expectantly.

“In private,” I add.

“Uh-oh, Eisner.” A random soccer bro ruffles Nick’s hair. “She looks pissed.”

I roll my eyes—but Nick extracts himself from the guys and follows Simon and me onto the porch. I feel instantly calmer—even though the porch is attached to the pavilion, and the music’s still loud, and there are still people everywhere. But it’s nice that the porch is totally uncovered, except for a few strings of twinkle lights. There’s a railing all around it, and beyond that, a clear, tree-lined lake. I hang my arms over the railing’s edge and take a deep breath.