I reply quickly and definitively.
Yes.
“Wait, wait! I don’t know if I can do this.” We’ve just gotten out of Tyson’s truck, but I’m assaulted by a stomach full of nerves. “You really want to go to a Preston Prep party? At Campbell’s house?”
Tyson glances at Presley. “Babe, give me and Gwen a second?”
“Sure.” She kisses him on the cheek and climbs back into the truck. He and I stand on the sidewalk outside the massive house overlooking the lake.
“I know this isn’t what you normally do, but Presley really wanted to come. You know she’s into all my school stuff. She just wants to be involved.”
I wrinkle my nose. “But Campbell Clarke? You don’t know these people, Tyson. They’re the worst. And beyond that, they really don’t like me. And beyond that, I’m definitely not invited.”
“Well, I am invited—by one of the guys on the diving team—and if I want you and Presley to come with me, then there shouldn’t be any problem.” He cuts his eyes at me. “And, from the way Hamilton’s been looking at you lately, I’m not sure I’m buying that they all hate you.”
My cheeks heat at Hamilton’s name, and I’m suddenly very glad it’s dark outside. I know Tyson has noticed something going on with us, but I’m no more ready to tell him than anyone else. However, after talking to Skylar and listening to the way she talks about her life, the growing understanding she’s gaining about her own issues, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I need to accept that I have more control over my place at Preston than anyone else. Including the Devils.
The only thing I have control over is myself.
And then there’s Hamilton. I’m not ready any more than he is to go public, but sharing a social space? If we can’t manage it at a simple house party, then there’s no way we can make this work.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling slowly, “but if things go sideways, or if anyone is a mega asshole, I’m leaving.”
He smiles and gives me a hug. “You’ve got it.”
I dither for a moment, trying to decide if I should take off Hamilton’s hoodie before going in. I’d put it on earlier, partly because I knew it’d be cold outside, wherever we went, and partly because of something far more complicated and difficult to put into words.
It still smells like him.
That harder-to-define part of myself is what eventually decides to leave it on.
Five minutes later, we’ve made it past the foyer. The pulse of my heart beating in my ears is louder than the bass of the music coming from the speakers wired throughout the house. Campbell’s home is massive. Really. Just a true monument to the arrogance of man. Seeing this many people recklessly moving about makes me over-warm, anxious, and uncomfortable.
“Whoa, look at this place,” Presley says, verbalizing, sort of, what we’re all thinking. She looks at me with wide eyes. “Is your house like this, too?”
“No.” I snort, scuffing the toe of my sneaker against the shiny floors. “I mean, we have a nice house, but my parents aren’t really into materialism. They’d rather go save a rainforest or build a school or something.” She raises her eyebrows, and I concede, “Yeah, those are totally pretentious in their own special way. But it’s just different.”
“I need a drink,” Tyson declares, bringing his hands together in an excited clap. “Anyone else?”
I shake my head, because there is no way I’m drinking around these people. He heads toward the back porch and as I follow, I pretend like I don’t notice the stares. The whisper. The elbow-jabs between friends. I also pretend like I’m not searching the room for a particular, tall, broad-shouldered, ridiculously handsome Devil.
I don’t see him, but I do see the others. Emory is leaning against the fireplace, arm around Campbell’s shoulder. Over by the kitchen, Ansel is chatting up two girls, happily replenishing their cups. Xavier is in the dining room playing beer pong on a massive glass tabletop. We make eye contact, and he seems as surprised as anyone else, but he actually waves.
“See? Not everyone is unhappy to see you,” Tyson declares, catching the exchange. We walk onto the back porch, which is a multi-tiered structure that overlooks the glassy lake below. He grabs two cups and fills them with beer, handing one to Presley. A few guys from the diving team bound over to give Tyson bro-handshakes, leaving me and Presley alone. I’m trying to think of a conversation starter when her eyes widen and she asks, “Isn’t that Hamilton?”
My body reacts before my mind does, stomach lurching anxiously, but I look across the patio to see Hamilton deep in a conversation with Reagan. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, and from the way his hair is sticking up, it’s obvious he’s been running his hand through it. Reagan’s arms are crossed over her stomach, her face pale. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t think it’s good.
“If I had to guess,” Presley says, reading my mind. “That girl is getting dumped.”
Again, my stomach twists. “You really think so?”
“Oh yeah, and she did not see it coming.” She takes a sip of beer and watches with fascination.
I start to turn, feeling guilty and intrusive, but not fast enough. Hamilton’s eyes flick my way, and he reacts with the slightest twitch of the jaw. Otherwise, he’s stone-faced as he focuses back on Reagan. He says something else, something visibly final, and she storms off, swiping a hand over her cheek. This time I do turn away before she can see me, not that she’d connect the dots in any way. That’s just my own guilt speaking.
“Wow.” Presley’s eyes keep watching him over my shoulder. My skin itches with its awareness of him.
“Um, what is he doing?”