“Shit, I forgot we’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven: Herpes Edition.”
She laughed sharply. “What does that mean?”
“It means a chain of people kissing each other is a fabulous method of cold sore conveyance.”
“And yet, here you are.” Evelyn sat in the center of the closet in front of me. “Wait. Does that mean you kissed River Whitmore?”
I wish.
I considered the rumors Evelyn would start about River if she grew suspicious. I’d made him feel shitty enough.
“I never kiss and tell. But no. We did not kiss. In fact, I’m quite certain he hates my guts.”
“Good,” she purred. “I don’t like sharing.”
Evelyn prowled toward me, sliding her hands under my calves and then up over my knees. I’d drunk too much. Or maybe not enough. River’s agonized expression came back along with the hope that it sparked in me. A longing that I knew was impossible and doomed, because unless it was purely sexual, I wasn’t capable of being good for anyone. Including myself.
Evelyn’s hands were on my thighs now. In the dimness, her hair cascaded sexily around her cleavage. She reminded me of Camila Cabello and the song she did with Shawn Mendes.
“I love it when you call me señorita,” I sang softly. “Wish I could pretend I don’t need ya…”
“What are you saying?” Evelyn asked with a small laugh. “Never mind. Let’s not talk anymore.”
I snorted indelicately. “Anymore? Because we’ve been in a riveting tête-à-tête up until now.”
“Shh. This is what we’re here for.”
Her lips were nearly on mine, but a manic wildness was infiltrating me, fueled by old pain that was waking with a vengeance and greased by guilt for what I’d done to River.
My thoughts took off to the races—whispers from Alaska that said I was worthless, unlovable, that I ruined everything I touched…because it was true. I recalled over and over River’s expression and how I might’ve struck a chord—the right chord—but in the worst possible way. He hated me. I hated me for hurting him. My parents hated me for being myself. A cycle that fed on itself until I thought I’d shatter into a thousand pieces.
I inhaled sharply and belted, “I love it when you call me señorita…”
Evelyn reared back and sat on her heels. “The hell…?”
“Something, something, your touch. Ooh la, la…”
I couldn’t remember the words; I’d only watched the music video a thousand times for Shawn Mendes straddling a motorcycle. But the crazed energy consumed me, pushed me off the wall onto my hands and knees.
“You should be running. I keep on coming for you…”
Evelyn shot to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m serenading you. Obviously. You don’t like?”
“Umm, no. God, why do you have to be so weird and ruin everything?”
“Ah, the million-dollar-question…”
“Ugh, whatever.”
Evelyn threw open the door and I dove out of the closet after her, catching her by the ankle and singing loudly. I got up on one knee and took her hand, imploring her as a sea of partygoers watched with phones out.
Recording our love.
Evelyn’s face twisted in rage and embarrassment. She tore her hand out of my grasp. “God, you’re fucking crazy.”
She stormed through the living room toward the kitchen.