Seven Ways We Lie(49)

As I make my way past the study toward the wide, curling staircase, I hear someone yelling, “Shots!”

I sigh. Juniper better not join in.

I jog up the staircase that wraps around the circular foyer wall, framing a heavy chandelier that weeps golden beads. The rug on the second-floor landing is thick under my feet, hushing my steps as I pad toward Juniper’s parents’ bedroom. Plaques with Juniper’s achievements plaster the walls, first place in violin contest after violin contest.

I shoulder the door open. This room is a lavish, two-tiered confection. Oil paintings hang on paneled walls, and a mirrored bar shines on the second level, up the oak-dark stairs. A banister of the same dark wood cordons off the bar area, and looking past it, I freeze. Matt Jackson is standing by the counter. His presence is a strange, warm shock.

I break the silence. “Matt. What are you doing here?”

“I . . . everything downstairs was sort of loud, so, uh,” he says. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone I knew, and I felt weird. What are you doing?”

“I wanted lemonade,” I say lamely. “But I meant, what are you doing here-here? At Juniper’s?” I close the door, heading for the stairs. “I don’t see you out usually. Ever.”

“I was actually . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. I hop up the steps, cracking open the miniature fridge as he searches for words.

“I was hoping to maybe run into you,” he finishes.

“O-oh.” I look up. “Well. Success.”

Matt laughs. His mouth draws a bit to one side, making his laugh goofy and off-kilter.

I wonder what kissing him would be like. I wonder that about most guys, even if it’s a passing curiosity, but the thought of kissing Matt twists my stomach up. Which is weird, since, objectively, he isn’t that hot. I’ve kissed way hotter guys, guys with balanced features and actual musculature, guys who could make me forget I’m five foot ten.

But something in Matt’s guardedly blank expression makes me feel awake. Every second in his company feels acute. Maybe it’s how he holds himself, careful and calculated. Maybe it’s the sharp edges of his features and the sharper, shyer focus of his eyes.

I pull my attention away from him, crouching to grab the lemonade bottle. Among the range of fancy-looking metal implements on the bar, I find something pointy to pry the cork back out.

“Juniper’s house is, like, holy shit,” Matt says.

“I know, right?” I say. “This room is nicer than my whole house.” I take a sip. The lemonade fizzes across my tongue, sugary-sweet.

“The hell do her parents do?”

“Her mom worked on Wall Street for however long, and now she’s the owner-slash-mastermind person for the Paloma bank. And . . . well, I don’t know what her dad does, but he’s always traveling. He’s probably an international spy.” I lean against the counter. “So, what’s going on? Why were you trying to find me?” I give a coy lilt to my voice, hoping that it’s the reason guys usually seek out girls at parties.

Matt sits on one of the bar stools. “I just—I made a mistake yesterday. I shouldn’t have told you about Lucas.” My heart sinks—of course it’s about that. He goes on, looking lost: “I only found out by mistake that he’s, you know, and I was supposed to shut up about it, and he’s worried about . . . you didn’t tell Claire, did you?”

A lump rises in my throat. “I’m sorry. I told her it’s a secret, but . . . yeah, I couldn’t keep it from her.”

“Shit.” Matt closes his eyes. “She’d better not tell anyone.”

“I don’t know who she’d tell. Claire kind of considers herself above the gossip thing.”

Matt’s hands fold, unfold, and fold again. He paces down the stairs toward a weird art print on the wall. “Man, I just—I’m an idiot.”

“It was a mistake.” And I went and made it worse, telling Claire, says a merciless voice in my head. I perch on the banister and slide down to the lower level. The wood squeaks. “You talked to him, though?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t mad. He just looked . . . I don’t know. Like he dreaded having to deal with it. Which makes sense, but if it were me, I would’ve beaten me up.” Matt sinks into an armchair by the banister, stretching out his legs. A line of bare stomach above his jeans glares out, conspicuous in my peripheral vision. “Well, I guess there’s not much I can do about it now.”

“I can text Claire and be like, don’t tell a soul or I’ll poison your dog,” I offer. “Not that I would poison her dog. She doesn’t have a dog. So poisoning it would be hard.”

I spy a hint of a smile before Matt goes back to chewing on his lip. His face has this almost-strangled look, as if he’s itching to say something.

“What’re you thinking?” he asks.

I reach for my usual honesty. Can you pull your shirt down? It’s sort of distracting. Sorry, that’s blunt. But you did ask.

All that comes out of my mouth is, “Uh, nothing.”

“I doubt that.”

“How dare you doubt my totally trustworthy self?” I say. He gives me a real smile, and my mind goes blank.

With a horrible jolt, I realize I have a crush on him.

No. This cannot be happening. Crushes ruin lives and destroy souls. Crushes either lead to the inconvenience of unrequited feelings or the batshit-insane idea of having a relationship.