43
Everyone stares at me.
“I meant more like if you wanted to say a few words to remember him or tell some stories,” Kennedy says in a halting voice.
“An Irish wake?” Chase lifts his empty glass, and Kennedy refills it with lemonade. She looks nauseous. If they’re so sure he’s coming back, why are they acting like he’s dead?
I shake my head. “No. I think we should hold a séance. That’s what my mother wanted. Unfortunately, her request was denied.”
Kennedy blushes. “I—I didn’t have anything to do with—I don’t really have any say—”
“It is your house, though.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes. But it would be a legal violation for your mother to come here,” she says quietly. “Even her dropping you off was kind of over the line.”
Bitch. I pause. “I never said anything about inviting her. I just said it was what she wanted.”
Chase pushes his plate around in a circle. “Hey, why not? We can do that, right?” He shoots Kennedy a look. “Closure for Emily. For everyone.”
“But Ryan’s not dead,” Kennedy says. She looks pale. Nervous.
“Then what were you alluding to with the whole ‘say a few words’ thing?” he says, smiling in the way Kennedy’s parents do when they’re pretending not to fight. My parents don’t do that kind of thing. They turn it straight up to eleven and start throwingfuckwadandshitheadback and forth across the dinner table. Ryan and I were the cool kids who taught the other kids at school all the best words. Thinking back, that was probably our initial in with Kennedy and Chase. We knew the best curse words.
Now my parents never talk at all. The quiet is nice, except when it’s not.
Kennedy sucks in a controlled breath. “I was just talking about remembering. We can remember him, wherever he is. Until he comes back.”
Chelsea takes my hand with her warm, sweaty one. “Whatever you feel like, Em. We can light candles, close our eyes, and just open our minds to the possibilities. Right, Ken?”
Her earnestness is the most awful thing about her. She knows. She’s always known. The old soul. Swooping in with her innate little ghost-whispery suggestions. I wouldn’t really know the first thing about contacting the dead. That’s my mother’s area, and it’s beyond what she does, even. But Chelsea. Mom has always idolized wildflower, dreamy-eyed, no-filter Chelsea. I always wanted to scream at my mother that there is nothing special about Chelsea. She’s just weird. Everyone else at school sees it. She’s awkward and random and has no sense of taste or style or the art of kissing ass. People only like her because she’s Kennedy’s best friend. I’ve always had to put in effort to stay in Kennedy’s good graces. It’s more exhausting than studying. It is like studying, in a way. A new exam every day, every timeI open my mouth. Always being silently judged. I wonder if that’s what happened to Ryan. Maybe he finally said no to Kennedy.
But I bet that wasn’t it. She would have kicked him out of Camelot. I bet it was a bigger sin. I bet he crossed Chelsea. The Queen of Cups herself.
There’s only one way to find out.
I pick up my plate and begin to stack the other plates on top of it. Kennedy stares at me like I’ve just started peeing on the table or something. “I’ll clean up. You’ve done so much.”
She quickly jumps to her feet and starts gathering napkins and glasses, but I grab the silverware before she can get her hands on it. “Really, Emily, just sit back and relax.”
“I’ve got it, Kennedy. Let me.”
She presses her lips together and makes an odd strangled noise, and we carry our armloads into the kitchen silently. I can’t help but note the pained expression on her face with satisfaction. It’s killing her that I’m stealing her role. Kennedy is all about role-playing. Everything in its place. Everyone in their place. No one ever stepping out of line. Even to help anyone out. To save a friend from drowning? Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough.
Chase follows me upstairs, and I pull him into Kennedy’s room and lock the door behind us.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He twists his baseball cap in his hands, and I take it and toss it on the dresser and pull him onto the bed. “Whoa. I thought we were doing an ‘Earth to Ryan’ thing.”
I kiss him quickly and urgently, the way we always kiss, rolling over on my side and sliding my hands up and down hisbody until he moves on top of me, tightening his grip on me and starting on my buttons.
“Here?” he whispers into my ear. “Right now?”
“Got anything in your pocket?”
“Always. Be prepared.”
“Yes, here.”
I can’t help the way I feel about Chase. I don’t know if I love him. I don’t think it’s possible to love someone and want to hide them, and I know that feeling is mutual. I don’t know if it’s possible to love someone and hate them too, though songs and movies seem to urge that possibility. It can’t be healthy, but most of the relationships I’ve witnessed in my life aren’t. I don’t know what he saw that night, what he knows, and the fact that he won’t tell me is unforgivable. But I’ve been wanting Chase so long, I can’t turn it off. I don’t want to be his girlfriend. I don’t want to marry him. I just desire him. The messed-up part is that before Ryan disappeared, I think part of that desire had just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit to do with his pointless rivalry with Chase and the fact that Ryan is/was the Joiner family golden boy. I can’t really explain it. But every time Prince Ryan was lavished with some unearned praise, I fantasized about having Chase. It would kill Ryan. It sounds more twisted than it is. It’s a question of loyalty. Switching sides is the cruelest betrayal. I think all people have these thoughts but don’t articulate them. I’m very in touch with my feelings. My mother doesn’t see that about me. Maybe if she did, she would have said I was the one with the sight.