CHAPTER 16

“Pass me that bottle.” I hand Carla the booze in the car. She leans over me, shoving her chest in my face. “I can’t believe you bailed on Chris,” one of the minions says. “Can’t you?” Carla coos, eyeing me. “I’m glad you came to your senses. I don’t know why you’ve been hanging around that trash lately.” Every breath takes effort. “It’s easy. I live at her house.” It was one thing to pretend Emily was nothing when I held her at a distance, when the person I said it to didn’t know her and never would. Now, I’m saying it to her worst enemy. I hate the lies. I hate that I’m here with Carla, but it was the only option. Every second the limo glides through the silent night, I remind myself why I’m doing this. It’s about you needing to have control. No way. It’s for her. If she thinks I’d be here if this wasn’t the only way to save her ass, she’s nuts. Prom’s being held at a museum. The limo pulls up outside, and I shift out first. I force myself to hold out a hand, and Carla takes it, smiling. “Aren’t you a gentleman? I hope you’re not a gentleman all night.” Bile rises in my throat as she steps closer and runs a hand up my chest under my jacket. “Come on, you guys!” someone calls from ahead of us. “I’ll be right there,” I tell Carla, nodding toward the doors. She pouts but starts after her friends. I check my phone. No missed calls from Emily. Some part of me hoped she’d try to reach me. She’d been furious when I left, and all I wanted to do was grab her and kiss the hell out of her. On impulse, I pull up the image of her in that dress. She’s beautiful. Making a face at the camera, holding her hair up with one hand, the other on her hip. Every muscle in my body squeezes at once, my heart most of all. I wanted to bring her. I wanted to ask her yesterday before I realized this was the only option to fix the problem I created. Carla and I head inside, her hand tucked in my arm. I feel eyes on us everywhere. “You realize it’s as good as done,” she murmurs near my ear. I turn my head to avoid her lips. “What is?” “Prom king and queen.” Carla blinks as if she’s surprised I’m not thinking about this. The last thing I want to do is spend another second with her, and the more public it is, the more I’m reminded that everyone will think it’s real. At least I’m doing a good job of selling it. “I’m going to make a lap,” Carla informs me. My gaze locks on an incredulous face by the bar. “I need to see someone first.” I don’t wait to hear her response as I cross to Brandon and Avery. Avery looks murderous. “What the hell are you doing here, fucker!?” “Dude,” Brandon says, looking back to where Carla’s giggling with her friends. I rub a hand through my hair, lowering my voice. “Carla’s blackmailing Emily. I’m fixing it.” The anger on Avery’s face fades to disbelief. “We went dress shopping.” “She showed me the purple one.” “Did she tell you she bought it?” The sadness in her voice is a kick in the gut. “No, she didn’t.” I rub a hand over my face. I swore I’d never put myself in a position like I was with my Dad, where I felt as if I owed him something, where I compromised myself for another person. But here I am, caught between obligations. Prostituting myself for a girl I can’t stop thinking about. And somehow, I feel like the asshole. This is why you don’t fall for someone. Why you don’t lay yourself on the line for them. Why you don’t depend on them, let them depend on you. I need a drink. I signal the bartender, then glance at Brandon. I figured I’d stay sober to get through this, but now, I’m not sure I can stand it. There’s an ounce of relief as Brandon slips a flask from his pocket. “You really care about her, don’t you?” Avery sounds concerned as I take the spiked drink and toss it back. Whatever’s on my face seems to convince her. “Then leave.” “I can’t. And this is going to get worse before it gets better.” I survey the room. “Carla took something that doesn’t belong to her, and I need to get it back.” Avery shakes her head. “Emily’s never going to forgive you.” The possibility settles into my stomach, burning at my insides like the alcohol. “I hope you’re wrong.” I return to Carla’s side. We mingle, and she drinks. I try to feed her alcohol—not so much as to get her incapacitated, but enough to keep her oblivious to my limited attention. I figure it’s working until she drags me onto the dance floor. “So, when do you want to get out of here?” I deliberately pitch my voice lower, trying to sound as if I’m looking forward to getting her alone and not counting the seconds until I can ditch her. “We can go back to your place.” “I’m not leaving prom early. Not even for you.” My hope fades. There’s no way she has the letter on her. I need to get to her house, her room. Which means getting close to her. She narrows her eyes. “You don’t seem excited to be here.” Her suspicious expression has me on alert. “It’s a dance,” I drawl. “It’s not my scene.” “Whatever. I should’ve brought Chris.” She looks past me. Shit. “I should’ve—” I grab Carla’s waist and pull her against me. I kiss her and hate the second her mouth softens under mine. I hate her and every person smiling and drinking and having a good time. Everyone who wants to see and be seen and use people to do it. Most of all, I hate myself for staying away from Emily when all I want is to hold her close. If we both get through tonight, I’m never letting her out of my sight again. When I pull back, Carla’s smiling and breathless, her fingers lingering on the skin above my collar. “That’s more like it.” I want to throw up. “What is it with Ant Man?” Dad gripes. “He shouldn’t be a hero.” “He’s the Every man. It gives us hope any of us could be exceptional under the right circumstances. Like ray guns.” Dad looks across the sectional in our living room as the credits scroll. “You barely ate three bites of dinner.” “I’m not hungry.” I check my phone again. “We can jump over to Endgame,” Dad offers, searching my face. “Fine. I’ll make popcorn.” I don’t want food, but I want an excuse to be alone. Once the bag of popcorn’s in the microwave, I lean over the island and stare out the doors at the dark pool house. It’s been hours since Timothy left and no word from him. At first, I hoped Carla would see the ploy coming a mile away, that she’d realize there was no way he was into her. Apparently, that didn’t happen, because he would’ve returned by now. Now, I’m torturing myself with ideas of them together, looking beautiful and drinking and laughing and dancing. I didn’t think there was anything worse than the anguished feeling of watching him drive away from me. There is, and it’s the utter helplessness of not knowing what’s happening. What if everyone thinks they’re together? What if he forgets they’re not? What if he’d rather be with her than— “You fall asleep in here?” Dad hovers in the doorway. I startle, tugging on the hem of the pajama pants I changed into earlier. “Nope. I’m coming.” I retrieve the popcorn from the microwave, dump it in a bowl, and return to the living room. “Rehearsals going well?” Dad asks as he stretches out on the chaise section of the leather sectional, tugging a blanket over himself. I stare at him. In light of what’s happened tonight, the musical feels like a million miles away. I sigh. “Have you ever felt so shitty you couldn’t think about performing?” Even with my legs out, there’s an expanse between us, and I set the popcorn in some democratic middle zone. “No.“ He reaches for a handful, and I wait him out while he chews and swallows. “That’s when all you want to think about is performing.” I turn that over as we watch the movie. A few weeks ago, that seemed possible. Realistic even. Now, I can’t imagine forgetting what’s happening in favor of my moment in the spotlight. Somewhere during the movie, Haley walks in the door. “Did you destroy ‘em?” my Dad calls. “Not that kind of meeting,” she calls back. I hear her boots land on the floor, and she pads down the hall to us. “Did I miss Paul Rudd?” Dad rubs a hand over his face. “The guy turns into an ant, Haley.” “And you turn into a musician. I get that the appeal’s inconceivable.” She winks at me as she enters the living room, but her smile fades when she takes in my expression. “What’s wrong?” Her gaze cuts toward the back doors. “Have you seen Timothy?” The lump in my throat is back, burning. “He went to prom.” Her expression fills with compassion and something I can’t read before I train my eyes on the TV again. She squeezes my shoulders. “I’m going to check on Sophia before bed. You guys need anything, let me know.” It’s after midnight when a noise outside has me jerking straight up. Dad’s fast asleep, and for a second, I think I’ve imagined the sound. Until I hear it again. The front door. My spin straightens. The light creak of footsteps has me leaning toward the hall, peering around the corner. Timothy’s in the foyer, his hair messed up. He shrugs out of his tux jacket and vest, something falling from the pocket and hitting the floor with a clatter as he hangs both in the closet. A broken crown. Fitting. He shoves the pieces into his jacket pocket. Timothy’s tie’s long gone, the top button of his shirt undone. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as he starts toward me. I don’t pretend I’m not watching as he crosses silently to the couch, taking in the movie, my Dad, the popcorn. I’d thought I’d be in tears, but there’s nothing, almost as if what I’m feeling is too deep to be expressed. “I got your letter.” Timothy’s voice is barely audible over the hammering of my heart. He holds out a folded piece of paper, and after a moment, I take it from him and wad it in my fist, squeezing as if I can turn it to dust. I take a deep breath and return my attention to the TV. I pull my knees up to my chin and tuck the edges of the fuzzy blanket around me. Timothy sits on the couch next to me. “What are you doing?” My throat tightens. My Dad’s asleep on the other side of the couch, but Timothy presses closer. I can’t argue, can’t chew him out. Dad would wake up, and Timothy knows it. He uses it. Without asking, he moves under the blanket, his arm brushing mine. A shaky breath falls from my lips. That smallest touch sends a shiver through me. On screen, Thanos wreaks his well-intended-but-ultimately-misguided havoc. Whatever. I could handle the end of the world. Dealing with Timothy Adams is some next-level shit. Especially when his hip presses against mine, his bicep bumping my shoulder under the too-small blanket. I want him to leave. I want him to never leave again. When I lean forward an inch, he takes the invitation, shifting me so he can slide behind. I’m lying against his chest, feeling his warmth through my back. My heart’s hammering, ticking like the seconds. I try to focus on Robert Downey Jr. I swallow a sigh and resist rubbing my cheek against Timothy’s chest. But all I can think is how over the past few weeks, Timothy’s built me up, made me good, made me strong… Then in an instant, he tore it all away.