Made You Up(28)

I sat down on the other end of the bench (“the other end” being five inches away), checked him from head to toe for sharp objects, and tugged on my hair. If he was my only point of normalcy in this party from hell, I’d take him. He’d ditched his school uniform for a worn pair of jeans, thick-soled work boots, a white-and-blue baseball shirt, and a heavy bomber jacket that looked like it’d come straight out of World War II.

“What brings you to the fireside?” he asked, lifting his skewer and watching the marshmallow burn without the slightest hint of interest.

“It’s too crowded.” I didn’t know what he was playing at—if anything—or if he was going to snap back to regular old Miles. “And too noisy. Mob mentality is running rampant in there.”

Miles grunted.

“So why’d you make Celia invite me?” I asked. “I can’t believe you’re that hard up for company.”

Miles shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Consider it payback.” The marshmallow dropped dead into the fiery depths. He started on a second. “I asked off work for this. You’d think with all the alcohol consumption and the people groping each other”—he motioned to our Jaws of Life bench friends—“and the anonymous bedroom sex, it’d be a little more interesting.”

I shivered. “I definitely kind of walked in on someone in a bedroom upstairs.”

Miles made a weird coughing sound, like he was holding back a laugh. I’d never heard him laugh. “You walked in on them? What did they do?”

“I didn’t actually walk in. The door was cracked open, and I heard someone talking—”

“Who was it?”

“Ria. I don’t know who the guy was, but it wasn’t Cliff.”

Miles’s eyebrows set in a hard line above his eyes. The second marshmallow fell. He grabbed a third. “Whoever he was, I hope he doesn’t mind having his nose cartilage lodged in the back of his skull. Cliff can be territorial.”

“You sound like you’ve experienced this. Does it have something to do with why you hate Ria? Ooh, were you one of those guys? The ones that she . . . y’know . . .”

“No.” His look was deadly. “I hate Ria because there’s nothing going on inside her head besides volleyball and sparkly things. I hate Cliff for the same reason, only football instead of volleyball and sex instead of sparkly things.”

It certainly hadn’t taken long for Evil Miles to show up again. He didn’t say anything else. We sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the snap of the fire and the music from the deck and the sounds coming from the bench couple, who were really going at it. Even with them making out right there and the bowling ball being so conspicuous, I still wanted to take a picture of it all.

Miles burned his way through another three marshmallows. “I think Celia may hate you now,” he said finally.

“No kidding? I wasn’t sure—that viper glare she gave me when you made her invite me didn’t quite get the message across, I guess.” I grabbed a skewer and jammed the prongs into a burning log. “What’s with her, anyway? She’s all over you. Is she your ex-girlfriend or something?”

“No. I’ve never”—he switched gears in the blink of an eye—“she’s always been like that. I don’t know why.”

“She likes you.” I still stood by what I’d said to Theo, even if she thought it was weird.

“That’s . . . stupid.”

“Oh, so you think so, too?” I said.

Miles looked over at me. “Do you hate me?”

The question was so sudden, and his voice was so bland and devoid of emotion, that I wondered if he even wanted an answer. “Um. You’re a bit of a jerk.”

He seemed unconvinced.

“Okay, okay, you’re a complete douche bag. You’re the biggest asshat on the planet. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, the truth’ll do fine.”

“Okay. You’re a jerk.” And you have beautiful eyes. “But no, I don’t hate you.” I became very intent on moving ashes into piles. I didn’t want to look at him again, but I could feel his eyes on me. “I do think the gutting of the books was a step too far.”

“And gluing my locker shut wasn’t? Good job on not admitting that, by the way.”

“Thanks. How’s your hand?”