“Hey, Crosby. What’s up, kid?” Weston kissed my cheek, and I felt the pricks of his stubble. He’d gotten more handsome with every year, even though I hadn’t thought it was possible. He was part Native American, and you could see it in the slight slant to his dark eyes, his strong nose, and a jaw that looked like it had been chiseled out of limestone. His parents were both professors—the whole family was smart—but Weston spent so much time with us, it felt like he was part of ours.
I accepted his kiss and smiled while still gritting my teeth. Why’d he have to call me kid? It was like those four years were some kind of impossible hurdle I’d never cross—not even when I turned sixty.
“I’m gonna hand you your ass tonight, Gutter-ball-Gertie,” he whispered so no one else could hear.
I punched his rock-hard bicep as hard as I could. We were both competitive, both always wanting to win.
“Should we go?” Mom donned her shawl and ushered us all toward the door.
Weston was a smug wall of muscle and grit. I was going to bowl my best game ever and leave on a high note of victory. I loved them both, Asa and Weston, but I was so close to freedom, I could already taste it.
Callie’s mom had gone all out and had the party catered. There were wings and chili, hot dogs and cheese fries. American fare to get my fill before I was eating nothing but Italian food. A giant sign and an arch of balloons hovered over three lanes that were reserved for the party. A banner read “Arrivederci BeBe” I blushed at the attention and felt grateful for a life filled with people who would actually miss me.
I spotted Callie by the punch bowl, teetering in six-inch heels and a floral dress that barely covered her ass. That was my best friend—leaving nothing to the imagination since 1997. Callie was also immune to the art of subtlety, but she was a badass daredevil bitch, and I, for one, admired her for it.
“BeBe!” she cried. Callie jumped up and down, splashing punch out of her plastic old-fashioned coupe glass. She had a half-eaten hot dog in one hand. The girl was a walking party, and I was going to miss the hell out of her.
“See you in the gutter, West. May luck smile on your bowling arm more than your hockey shot.” I shot him my best challenging look over my shoulder as I ran to catch up with Callie. She pulled me into a huge hug and kissed me with her glossy lips. Callie’s signature powdery-floral scent was peppered with cigarettes and hot dogs.
“I spiked the punch.”
“Of course you did.”
“Weston Abernathy huh? You can’t stop looking.”
“He’s a stick in the mud. A professional fucking party pooper.”
“Holy shit!” I opened my mouth and spat the abomination back into the glass. “What did you put in there?”
“White rum? Bacardi 100? Something like that. Your brother is a total catch too. I wonder how I never noticed it before.”
Callie was a spitfire, but she was so much fun compared to my straight and narrow. I might run a Spartan race, try new things and fail, but I would never spike the punch. I drank some of her battery-acid punch, hoping to lighten up a little.
“Asa is fine,” Callie whispered in my ear as we sat side by side watching our parents bowl. Asa and Weston were playing a heated game with a couple of guys from our high school.
“Gross. Thank you, next.” I took another sip of radioactive punch.
“Who cares about Hartford boys when you’ll be up to your neck in Italian men by this time tomorrow!” Callie tipped her head back and shouted the last part, prompting stares from everyone and death glares from Weston and Asa.
“More like up to my neck in pasta and homework and, hopefully, this internship.”
“Crosby Dashen, you are so boring, you’re super-duper lucky I’m even your friend.”
“Super.” I smiled at her as I said it, and she smiled back with glassy eyes.
“I’m gonna miss you soooooo much!” she cried. Callie covered me again in lip gloss and drunken tears until I dragged her to the bathroom.
By the time we made our way out of the ladies’, my hair had been fluffed, lipstick applied to my lips and my cheeks, fragrance spritzed, and skirt rolled and hiked up, compliments of my stylist, Callie Langdon.
As we walked past the boys bowling seriously, Weston tipped his chin at me, and I nodded my head in return. I was a little more than buzzed, but mostly high off of my upcoming Italian adventure.
“What’s a’matter, Dashen? Scared? I’ll play you both, two-on-one.”
Weston Abernathy crooked his finger in my direction. He didn’t look at Callie and her next-to-naked dress, he didn’t look at the other girls from school flocked around the boys like groupies, West looked at me like it was just the two of us. Alone in the darkness, one flickering beacon blinking to the other—an unspoken call, a summoning of sorts.