by Geneva Lee
I swallow at the term of endearment. So, Jameson West still thinks of me as his girlfriend? Does it matter? Judging from the butterflies whirling around my stomach, it matters a lot.
A shadow passes over Cheryl’s face but she recovers admirably. “Of course. I know your mother.”
And not my father, I add silently. I’ve always loved my name but right now I’m reminded that it carries a history with it that’s not entirely my own. I can’t help but wonder which tragedy she’s recalling in her head: my alcoholic father, my parents’ divorce, or my sister’s death. All of them seem like the kind of low-hanging fruit, someone like her would take a bite from.
We continue our pleasantries until Cheryl pops her head in the door. “Frank, Leighton has some visitors. Let’s give them a moment with her.” She turns back to us. “It will give me a chance to get some food in him. He hasn’t left her side since she woke up. He’s almost as bad as her boyfriend. I should warn you that she doesn’t remember everything. The doctor says it will come back with time.”
“Her boyfriend,” Jameson repeats, zeroing in on that small aside, and I can’t help but notice how his smile tightens.
Cheryl winks at him. “She couldn’t moon after you forever.”
I shoot Jameson a meaningful look. Apparently, he’d left out some bits about his relationship to his younger sister’s bestie.
“Don’t be jealous Duchess. She was just some kid who always hung around when I was home,” he whispers as Leighton’s mother ducks into the room for her purse.
“I was just some kid hanging around,” I remind him tartly.
“Jealousy suits you,” he teases.
Before I can give him more grief about how many of my peers he’s strung along with his impish smile, we’re welcomed in to her room. There are less machines tracking her every heartbeat and breath. A dozen fresh flower arrangements take up every flat surface. No doubt well wishes from her numerous pals who sent flowers rather than interrupt their Mediterranean summer holidays. Before when I’d visited the room felt cold and sterile, but now it’s as alive as the girl sitting up in her hospital bed with a wide smile on her face. But she’s not looking at us. Instead her gaze is fixed on her boyfriend.
Hugo Roth can barely tear his eyes away from her as if she might vanish, but he nods a hello.
“We’ll leave you kids alone,” Cheryl calls, tugging her husband out the door.
Kids. The repeated use of the term annoys me. We aren’t kids anymore. Our childhood was stolen by this city and its sins. Pretending that we’re going to have some Leave It to Beaver catch-up session is as naïve as believing you could raise us kids here in the first place.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly by way of greeting as the door shuts behind them.
Leighton blinks owlishly as if her vision needs adjustment. Then she realizes she’s not seeing things. “Hi…Emma.”
“I hope you don’t mind us stopping by.” Jameson interjects himself before things can get any weirder.
Maybe I should have brought her flowers. I could have played the part of concerned friend better and she might have thought she’d forgotten our relationship. As it is, whatever Leighton can’t remember, she knows I don’t belong here.
“Of course not.” She waves him off with a tired hand. “I’m surprised. I expected to see a West today, just not…”
She trails off and I know what she’s hinting at. She didn’t expect to see Jameson. Not when she’s spent the last three years being Monroe West’s pet sidekick.
“I’m not certain my sister has heard yet,” Jameson lies smoothly.
“Ugh.” Leighton smacks the plastic, hospital mattress with an audible thwack. “My parents are being tyrants about letting me have my phone. I’ve had to use Hugo’s.”
At the mention of his name, Hugo startles out of his reverie and runs his hand over his spiky hair. “Sorry, guys. What?”
“Your girlfriend was just telling us about your chivalry,” I say dryly. As of a few months ago, Hugo’s reputation as a party boy had been intact. I’d witnessed his devotion to her firsthand the night that Nathaniel West died when he’d been surrounded by a gaggle of freshmen girls. “I didn’t know you two were dating.”
“We weren’t.” Leighton flushes. “Not really.”
“And now?” I ask pointedly. Hooking up while one party was unconscious seems like a strange way to start a relationship. But what do I know? My romance is the result of needing an alibi.
“Things are different,” Hugo says as if that settles it. I open my mouth to press the point but he shuts me up by adding, “I’m sure you both understand how quickly things change.”
That I did.
“Tell me,” Hugo continues, shirking some of the facade of respectability. “Are the rumors true?”
“Which ones?” Jameson asks with the practiced air of a tycoon’s son.
“All of them. Murder of the century is quite the accomplishment,” he says with a smirk.
So much for no one reading the tabloids. Leighton leans forward, some color returning to her usually tan face. Apparently gossip can serve to heal as much as damage. One person’s nightmare is another person’s Lifetime movie of the week.
“You know better than to believe rumors.” Jameson takes the interrogation in stride, but I can’t help looking at the floor. Maybe someday I’ll get used to being analyzed by everyone we meet, even people we already know, but today’s not that day.
As it is my patience with social pleasantries is up. “Look, we came for a reason. I didn’t see who pushed us through that window, but I know you did.”
Jameson sighs next to me, but I ignore him. His social caste might get off on their games of cat and mouse, but I live in the real world where bluntness will suffice.
“I don’t remember,” Leighton says in a small voice.
It’s probably best that there are still a few monitors hooked up to her, because I really want to shake an answer out of her. Instead I’ll have to stick to gentle encouragement. Two traits I’m not known for.
“I remember your face right before the…accident.” I decide to go with the lie. If Leighton doesn’t believe she’s ratting someone out maybe we’ll get more out of her. “You looked happy.”
“Happy?” Her voice is hollow as she repeats me. I realize then that she’s as lost as to who did it as I am. But maybe I can draw her a map.
“We were talking about someone,” I remind her, taking a step forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hugo stiffen and I stop. No need to upset her guard dog. “Do you remember?”
Her blue eyes are misty as she shakes her head.
Okay, I have to give her a little more to work with. “I thought I overheard you talking to Monroe about Jameson, but you told me you were talking to her about Jonas.”
“Jonas?” Hugo says. “What does he have to do with anything?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” My words grate off my tongue as I try to hold on to gentle or encouraging—and fail.
“I don’t remember,” she says miserably.
“She just woke up,” Hugo reminds us.
If I’d just woken up from a coma after some psycho pushed me out a window, I’d be screaming his or her name until they were under arrest. But comme ci, comme ça.
“I don’t think Jonas was the one who pushed us.” There’s an apology written in her voice.
“Was he even in town?” Jameson asks and I realize I’d left my boyfriend out of my manic, conspiracy theories.
“Yeah, he wasn’t on my list either until…”
“Until what?” Hugo’s face darkens. Apparently in the war between the girl he loves and his best friend, Hugo’s already taken sides.
“Until I saw this.” I pull up the screen shot of The Dealer’s Instagram account on my phone. “He erased this but I took a picture.”
“That’s Josie,” Jameson points out in a quiet voice.
“Yeah, but she’s not the only one in the pictur
e,” I inform them, not bothering to smother my annoyance. No one had been safe from The Dealer’s unwanted attention this summer and he’d used that to his advantage. We’d all been too distracted by analyzing the people in the photos to notice something like a reflection.
“I never saw this photo,” Hugo says slowly.
“The Dealer deleted this photo, and there’s a reason.” They pass my phone around, studying the picture. No one speaks, which is how I know that they all see exactly what I saw.
“Why is Jonas posting pictures as The Dealer?” Hugo asks.
“Who’s The Dealer?” Leighton’s confusion is excusable since she’s been in a coma.
“Someone’s been posting pictures.” I explain the whole thing to her, but it doesn’t seem like she processes it. I’ve known her long enough that I’m not certain if her slowness is the result of her injuries or her IQ. But before I can explain anymore, Hugo is on his feet.
“Where are you going?” I ask as he leans down and kisses Leighton’s head in a gesture of farewell.
“I need to talk to my best friend.” He pushes past me, and I shoot a pleading look to Jameson. He takes the hint and follows him.
“What’s happening?” Leighton cries out.
I’m torn between running after them and comforting her. “I think I just started a fight.”
“Emma, he isn’t the one who pushed us,” she says firmly. “You can’t let Hugo attack him. He’ll never forgive himself.”
“How can you be so certain?” If there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that people aren’t always what they seem.
“Because I remember why I was talking to Monroe about Jonas.”
“And?” I demand.
“I can’t tell you, but he’s not the one. He couldn’t be.”
There’s enough certainty in her words to make me doubt my own cynicism, but if I give that up, what will I have left?
Chapter 7
Jameson weaves in and out of traffic, trying to keep up with the taillights of Hugo’s Porsche. I’m torn between my desire to batter him with questions and my need to clutch the armrest for dear life.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Jonas? About the picture?” His eyes flicker over to mine before returning to the pursuit.
“We haven’t really been talking,” I remind him through clenched teeth.
“And why is that, Duchess? Why are you avoiding me?”
I gasp as he narrowly misses a car pulling into traffic. “That’s kind of complicated.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’d rather you drive, West,” I hiss as he swerves into another lane. “Does he even know where he’s going?”
We’re not on the way to Jonas’s house, but Hugo hadn’t hesitated when he went flying out of the hospital parking lot. I’d barely slammed my door shut before we had to take off after him.
“Don’t change the subject,” Jameson warns me. “I’ve been patient, but if you wanted out, you could have told me.”
“Out?” I repeat. As if whatever this was between us could ever be that easy. “Why would you think that?”
I’m in love with you. My heart pounds against my chest as if trying to break free of the cage I’m keeping it in. It hurts like hell to hold the words back, but I know I have to until I know the truth.
Jameson slams on the brakes and I’m surprised to see we’re parked in front of the Belle Mère gymnasium. He shuts off the engine and dares one look at me. “Because why else would you want to hurt me?”
He’s out of the car and heading inside after Hugo before I can process what he’s said. Tears sting my eyes. I want him to understand. I want to explain why I’ve stayed away, but how can I? Either way, I’m destined to hurt him.
“Now is not the time,” I coach myself. It takes a good deal of effort to climb out of the car, but once my feet hit the pavement I’m running toward the double doors. I have no idea what anyone is doing here so late, but the school must not be locked up. Or Jonas has a key.
The scene that greets me looks as if it’s been staged. Jonas is frozen, basketball in hand, in the middle of the court with Hugo stopped a few feet away, screaming so loudly that I can’t understand him. Jameson glances at me from the door frame.
“Should we jump in?” I ask, my nerves rattled by Hugo’s fury.
“Give it a sec,” he advises, but we move closer. Jonas glances to us as if we might be able to explain what’s happening. But when my eyes meet his, Jonas turns away. It’s enough to confirm my suspicions. I’d given him a chance to come forward to me privately, offering him an out via text message, but he hadn’t taken it. Now he has to face the consequences.
“I don’t know what you’re asking me, man.” Jonas manages to punctuate Hugo’s screams with a response.
“Did you push her?” Hugo repeats, enunciating each word carefully.
“Who?” Jonas looks genuinely confused, but its neither a denial or a confession and Hugo is here for one or the other.
Hugo lunges at his best friend, knocking the ball out of his hands and sending them both flying into a heap.
“Who?” Jonas screams, but the repeated question is met with a right hook to his face.
“Did you push Leighton?” Hugo demands as we rush over to break up the fight, but before we reach them he’s started punching Jonas again.
“I wasn’t the one who pushed her.” Jonas’s answer is nearly lost as Hugo pummels him.
He doesn’t fight back, so by the time Jameson hauls Hugo off of him, Jonas’s face is already swelling from the repeated impact. Scrambling away from the court, Jonas slumps against the wall and wipes the back of his hand over his bloody lip. He inspects it for a second as if he’s surprised. “Let him go.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jameson’s grip on Hugo doesn’t loosen.
“He’s my best friend,” Jonas says, “and I trust him to let me tell my side of the story. I wasn’t the one who pushed Leighton.”
“It’s your funeral,” Jameson mutters before he drops his hold on Hugo. Despite the rage radiating from Hugo, he stays still. I expected Hugo to pounce again. Even after his change of heart this summer, I didn’t think Hugo could help but allow himself to be more than a mass of impulses, especially given how angry he is at the moment. Apparently, Jonas does know him better than the rest of us.
“Start explaining,” Hugo orders. His hands are still clenched into fists, a reminder that he could strike at any time.
“I wasn’t the one who pushed Leighton,” he repeats himself.
“You said that already.” Hugo practically growls the words.
Letting the two of them work this out on their own is going to get us nowhere. I step forward until I’m nearly between the two of them, and Jameson frowns. I ignore his concern. We might not have been the ones throwing punches but we’ve been a part of the fray for a while. “Then why would someone push us? She had something on you.”
“On him?” Hugo asks, his confusion growing. He moves forward and I wedge myself further between them.
“Duchess!” Jameson calls in a low voice, but I ignore his warning.
“I overheard Leighton and Monroe talking. I thought they were discussing Jameson, but Leighton told me it was Jonas. It was the last thing she said before…” There’s no need to bring up the accident again. Hugo is revved enough already. I can’t bring myself to look at Jameson. He’d thought that I trusted him that night and then I’d questioned that at the first opportunity. Whatever Jonas had to tell us now better make up for all the damage he’d been doing this summer.
Hugo relaxes a bit as if he’s interested in this explanation, but the color drains from Jonas’s face. I can see the struggle in his eyes. There’s no doubt in my mind that he knows what Leighton and Monroe were talking about that night.
“Okay, you didn’t push us,” I say when the silence drags on. “Did you kill Nathaniel?”
Jonas shakes his head. I believe him despite the guil
t written in white across his face. Apparently, Hugo does as well, because he unballs his fists. I have the sinking suspicion that whatever he’s hiding has nothing to do with us. It feels dirty and wrong to force his secrets into the open, but as long as secrets stand between us, we can’t trust each other.
The trouble is that I know what it’s like to hide out in the open. Jonas looks like a cornered animal, and I can’t bring myself to be the one who destroys him. “Then we’re done here. Whatever secret he’s keeping doesn’t affect us.”
Jameson’s head tilts in surprise as he studies me.
“You never stop surprising me, Duchess,” he whispers so only I can hear him.
But my gift of amnesty doesn’t mean that he can keep it trapped inside him any longer. Jonas slides to the ground, hanging his head to hide his face. The rest of us freeze, uncertain what to say. When he looks up to us, his face is tear-stained. No one speaks. It’s an unspoken agreement to give him the time he needs to open up to us. After a few minutes of silence, he begins.
“Monroe knows something about me. Something no one else knows. At least no one at Belle Mère Prep. She’s been keeping it a secret for a long time.”
“Yeah, she’s your girlfriend, man.” Hugo drops to the ground beside him. Could I transition from angry to supportive that quickly, even with Josie? I hope I never have to find out. Half an hour ago, I honestly thought Hugo might kill him. Now he’s practically holding his hand. Maybe he’s a better friend than I am, or maybe Hugo Roth is a better person than we’ve—okay, I’ve—given him credit for.
“I’m not sure where the story begins,” he admits.
I almost suggest he start with why he screwed Monroe at the freshman desert party but I keep the suggestion to myself. Will wonders never cease?
“We’ll listen,” Hugo says encouragingly.
