Inside, the house is such a showplace it’s overwhelming and difficult to take in. Plus it’s packed with kids. So much for the somber little get-together of grieving teenagers.
I can smell beer, and the sound of rap is barely drowned out by loud boys and girls laughing. Really? On the night after the girl they all planned to vote for class president next year has died? They either don’t care or … they don’t understand death.
That’s how they can be so cavalier. They don’t know how permanent death is. But I do.
Shaking that thought, I peer past the bodies, trying to find Molly, when a hand snakes around my waist and pulls me into a big, strong, masculine chest.
“Hey, Fifth.” I can feel his mouth close to my ear. “Thought you’d never get here.”
Dena, next to me, observes the whole thing and gives me an amused look. “Like I said … YOLO.” She winks at me. “I’ll find your friend. I know who she is. You relax and have fun.”
She’s gone, and for a second I stand really still, my stomach tightening under Josh’s arm.
“That’s good advice, you know.” He slowly turns me around. “Relax and have fun.”
Holy cow, he looks good. His dark-golden hair is mussed and his eyes look smoky blue in this light, even more attractive now that they’re zeroed in on me with interest.
“Hey, Josh,” I say.
He gives me a slow smile. “Seventh grade, huh?”
I frown, trying really hard not to let my eyes drop to the way his plain white T-shirt fits his shoulders and hugs his biceps. “What about seventh grade?”
“The crush you’ve had on me since then.”
Oh, Molly. You traitor. I consider a fast and furious denial, but I can see the laughter in his eyes. And something else. Satisfaction.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” I try for a flirtatious tease.
“You know what I remember about you in middle school?”
My braces? My breastlessness? My inability to get a boy to notice me? The list is long. I shake my head, not sure I want to hear this but oddly excited by the conversation.
“You were hydrogen in our Dress Like an Element Day in science.”
Oh, God, I went to school dressed like a giant raindrop. “Probably not my finest middle school moment.”
“I thought you were cute.”
I look up at him, letting the compliment wash over me. “Then we’re even,” I say quietly, giving myself an inner high five for a banter win.
“Want a drink?” he asks, inching me away from the entry-way toward a lavish-looking living room.
“I thought this was supposed to be some kind of gathering to mourn Olivia.”
“She’d want us to be happy,” he replies. “Come and meet the king.”
“Who’s that?”
“My grandfather.”
“The king?” I laugh. “That’s what you call your grandfather? What happened to Poppa and Gramps?”
He rolls his eyes. “So not my grandfather. Anyway, his name is Rex. You’re the Latin expert. Come on, he lives to meet pretty girls.”
The way he says it makes me feel like I really am one of those pretty girls. As we walk through the house, I spy Molly in a game room with a bunch of kids surrounding a pool table. She’s laughing a little too loudly, her eyes bright with excitement, a red Solo cup inches from her mouth.
“Wait—I want to kill her, er, say hi.”
He laughs. “Don’t be mad at her. I made her tell me. And she’s deep into a beer pong match, so don’t bother her. Come this way.”
Taking my hand, he leads me to another part of the house, a two-story great room connected to a massive kitchen, also peppered with groups of kids, and I don’t think I know a single one.
“Isn’t this a Vienna High party?” I ask.
Josh nods a “ ’Sup?” to a few guys and stays ahead of me, our fingers locked as he tugs me along. “I know kids from everywhere because of sports. I play on two travel teams—hey, Ryan—and lots of these kids are from all over this side of the state.”
At my surprised look, he adds, “They all crash here tonight. We’ve got plenty of room, and tomorrow we’ll probably play touch football all day long.” He adds a slow smile and pulls me a little closer. “You should be here so I can tackle you.”
“I thought it was touch.”
Laughing, he closes the space between us. “It can get pretty dirty.”
I don’t have to answer because we stop and talk to a few kids I don’t know who are from a town on the other side of Pittsburgh. And I thought Molly had a fun house. This is a whole different world—weekend parties, kids from all over the place, and a grandfather who apparently doesn’t care if they play beer pong on his pool table.
“And who do we have here, Josh?”
I turn at the sound of a man’s voice, meeting eyes the same gorgeous blue as Josh’s, only icier and feathered with crow’s-feet.
“This is Kenzie Summerall.” The way he says it, I know they’ve already talked about me.
“Kenzie.” The older man nods in approval. “Of course.” Flashing an easy, wide smile, he looks down—way down—at me. Instantly, I can see where Josh gets his gifts—his height, the build, the sort of raw masculinity mixed with charm that rolls off him. That’s hereditary, I suppose.
The older man puts a familiar hand on my shoulder, and I’m immediately at ease. Another gift. “Rex Collier,” he says, studying me like nothing could make him take his eyes off my face. It’s disconcerting, and flattering. “You were absolutely correct, Josh. She is a refreshing change.”
Josh just shakes his head, laughing. “And you thought you wanted to kill Molly?” he asks me. “How do you think I feel right now?”
Rex shoos his grandson’s comment. “Nothing wrong with honesty, young man. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“You’ve taught me everything,” Josh says, a respectful note in his voice. “Including how to pick quality girls.”
“Indeed.” The older man gives me one more thorough inspection. “Quality, and an improvement.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Over what?”
That makes Rex laugh, wrinkling his face but not making him any less imposing or regal. “Over the ones that have their bosoms spilling out and wear makeup like Cleopatra.” He lifts a glass. No Solo cup for the king; he’s got a crystal water glass filled with something amber over ice. “I’m guessing you don’t drink beer,” he says.
“You’re guessing right.”
“Some wine? Champagne? I have a lovely port.”
I almost laugh comparing, once again, Josh’s home life with mine. “I don’t need anything,” I say. “I’m driving home.” At least, I am if that was beer in Molly’s Solo cup.
“Good call, Mackenzie,” Rex says, still smiling and somehow inching me away from Josh to a bar that takes up one whole corner of the family room.
I fleetingly wonder how Rex knows my full first name, but then he guides me to a barstool and sits in the one next to me. “My grandson likes you. He’s been talking about you for a while.”
The announcement surprises me on so many levels I don’t know where to start. So I just smile, perplexed that this old guy—I’m no judge of age, but he’s got to be well into his sixties—is even attending a high school party, let alone sharing secrets.
“Do you like him?” he asks.
I glance back to Josh, who’s already high-fiving and joking around with a few guys I don’t know.
“Yes, of course I like him.”
“Enough to go out with him?”
I laugh softly. “Are you asking for him?”
“He likes to have my blessing on these things. We’re close. You know, his parents are gone.”
“I’ve heard,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I consider adding that I know he saved Josh’s life, but I don’t want him to know I’ve been talking about the family.
He gives me a thoughtful, sad nod. “It was tragic, but I’m just glad that I am healthy an
d wealthy enough to make Josh comfortable and ensure that he has everything he needs.”
“Yeah, I see that he does.” I glance around, already a bit anxious to end the conversation. I can’t catch Josh’s eye and it would be rude to walk away. Plus, something tells me not much gets by Rex Collier.
“It’s not easy being an only child,” he says on a serious sigh.
“No, it isn’t.”
“You’re an only child.” He dips his head and adds, “Now.”
Oh, he knows. Not a surprise; Conner’s death was big news in Vienna, the loss of a local boy in a tragic, freak accident.
My heart stops and then breaks, as it always does. My throat starts to close in preparation for the fight against tears. Will this response ever go away? It’s been almost two years.
“Sadly, that’s true,” I say.
“How are your parents holding up?”
I appreciate the question because so few people ask about them, but I suppose adults see the loss from their own point of view. “They’re getting a divorce,” I say stiffly, surprised by my honesty.
“What’s the statistic about parents of a dead child? Close to ninety percent divorce?”
I shrug. “It would be nice to beat the odds, though.”
He pats my hand and shifts in his seat. “Let’s change the subject. I understand you’re on that list that does nothing but objectify lovely teenage girls.”
I’m grateful for the change of subject and even more so for someone who shares my disdain for the list. “Josh has really told you everything, hasn’t he?”
“We’re close,” he says again. “What number?”
Why dodge it? “Fifth.”
“Ah, excellent. High enough to be respectable, low enough not to piss off too many people.”
I can’t help but laugh at his dead-on assessment. “True.”
“You must be thrilled.”
Not so dead-on. “I don’t think it’s such a big deal.”
“I hear that it is.” And judging from this conversation, he hears everything.
More comfortable being honest now, I say, “I don’t think being recognized for something that has nothing to do with, you know, an accomplishment, is that important.”
He raises his glass in approval. “Good girl. You’re more worried about getting into college.”
“Absolutely. Getting into college is my number one priority right now.” Number two would be getting out of this boring conversation with an old man. I kind of want to go back to flirting with his grandson.
“Have you picked out a school?” he asks.
“Well, they have to pick me, but I have a few on my dream list.”
“Such as?”
“Columbia,” I tell him. Why not? We’ve already covered death and divorce. “I’d like to study the classics.”
His eyes light up. “Impressive. I like a girl with ambition.”
“Well, I have to get in first. And get a scholarship,” I add glumly. “So we’ll see.”
“You should try to get the Jarvis. I’d be delighted to give it to a girl for a change.”
I angle my head closer, certain I didn’t hear him correctly over the party noise. “The what?”
“The Jarvis.” When I shake my head, he laughs. “I guess we do a pretty good job of keeping it quiet, because the scholarship is really only for a Vienna High student, which was how Josh’s father willed it. Technically, it’s the Jarvis Aurelius Collier Memorial Scholarship.”
I just stare at him. “Jarvis is, was, your son?”
His eyes mist. “And a very great young man taken far too young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But his legacy lives on, right back in Nacht Woods.” He angles his head toward the back of the house. “He’s buried there, too.”
I blink at the statement. I was certain Mrs. Russell had said that Josh’s parents died at sea and their bodies were never found.
“Not him, per se,” he adds quickly, seeing my response. “But the things that mattered to him. I made a place to honor him.”
The conversation is quickly slipping from boring to awkward, so I steal a glance over his shoulder to find Josh.
Rex catches me and inches sideways just enough to block my view. “In any case, Jarvis left a stipulation in his will that every year one junior or senior student from Vienna High can receive a full scholarship to the college of his choice—or hers,” he adds with a sly smile. “With no limits on how much that can be worth.”
Okay, not boring anymore. “How do I apply?”
He chuckles. “No application necessary, dear. You just have to finish the ropes course Jarvis built in Nacht Woods.” With a quick appraisal of my body, he makes a face of approval and lifts his gray brows. “You look fairly athletic.”
Not exactly. “I’m more of, you know, a Latin nerd. Any chance there’s an ancient classics version of the ropes course?”
“Latin will, in fact, give you quite an unfair advantage. You don’t play sports?”
“My mom is kind of overprotective and has an issue with sports waivers. As in she won’t sign them.” I let out a sigh. “Field trips, too.”
He can’t hide his disbelief. “Why, that’s … un-American. Josh is in every sport he can squeeze into his life and far better for it, just like his father was.”
“I did do gymnastics until …” Grief and guilt sidelined me. “A few years ago.”
“I hear the wistfulness in your voice, young lady.” He leans closer. “You loved it, didn’t you?”
For a minute I think he said “him,” not “it,” and that he means Conner. “Of course.”
“I bet you were very good at gymnastics, too.”
“I was average at best, but I did love the challenge.”
“What happened?”
Conner died. But I just don’t want to get into my mother’s crazy hang-ups about accidents, so I go with my standard story, which really did happen but it wasn’t the thing that made me give up gymnastics. “I fell on a trampoline and my mom decided there were just too many injuries in the sport.” In any sport. In the sport of life, in fact. “So thanks for the suggestion, Mr. Collier, but if your scholarship ‘application’ is a ropes course and you need a parental signature for a minor, it’s not happening.”
He doesn’t answer right away, sipping his drink thoughtfully. “Let me work on that.”
“Hey.” Josh’s hands land on my shoulders. “Quit hittin’ on my chick, Rex.”
The older man laughs, loud enough to cover my own self-conscious giggle. Did Josh Collier just call me his girl?
As thrilling as that might be—and it is, isn’t it?—the idea of getting a full ride to Columbia from his super-rich grandfather’s scholarship sends a lot more electricity through my body. How hard could a ropes course be? I can still climb like a monkey.
“She’s too smart for you, Josh,” Rex teases. At least, I think he’s teasing; there’s not much humor in his eyes or voice.
“She’s a total brainiac,” Josh agrees, squeezing my shoulders. “I think that’s hot.”
“Quite,” his grandfather agrees.
The only thing that’s hot is my face, which is flaming as they talk about me.
“C’mon, Kenz.” Josh urges me out of the seat. “I know Rex is a ladies’ man, but I need you to cheer me on in beer pong. See ya, big guy.”
As I slide off the barstool, Rex’s weathered but strong hand lands on my arm. “Kenzie,” he says, “I never met a challenge I couldn’t find my way around or over.”
I smile at him, not doubting that. “Which is why you love a ropes course.”
“My ropes course days are done, but we’ll work this out, my dear. No matter what it takes.”
I feel my eyebrows go up at the tone and implication.
He just leans closer. “Exitus acta probat.”
The Latin rolls off his tongue like it’s his native language. And I know exactly how to translate his message.
&nbs
p; The end justifies the means.
“Sometimes it does,” I agree.
“Not sometimes,” he counters. “Always.”
CHAPTER XII
A little while later, I’m sitting on Josh’s lap in the den. The beer pong match is over, a lot of the kids have left, and we’re sharing an overstuffed chair in a secluded corner.
I haven’t had anything to drink since my one sip of grape vodka, but Molly’s borderline tipsy, so I’ve kept an eye on her all night. She’s having way more fun than I thought she would, talking to boys, comfortable with strangers. Still, I feel responsible for her and she left the room at least fifteen minutes ago, so I keep looking for her at the door.
“Hey,” Josh says, turning my face to his. “I’m over here.”
He’s so close I can see the golden tips of his lashes and the different shades of the summer sky in his eyes. I keep waiting for that crush feeling—the one I’ve had every time I’ve looked at this guy for the past four years—to wash over me. But it doesn’t. I feel giddy and excited to be this close, but not achy or dreamy like I fantasized.
“Wanna go upstairs?” he whispers. “See my room?”
In fact, I don’t. “Better not,” I say with an apologetic smile. “I don’t want Molly to think I left. I should go find her.”
“Quit worrying about her. Worry about me.” He tugs me deeper into him, leaning his head close to mine. “Worry about kissing me,” he says under his breath.
“Should I?”
“Worry or kiss me?” He smiles just as he puts his lips on mine. “What do you think?”
I meant should I go find her, but before I can explain, he’s kissing me. His mouth is warm but almost instantly wet as his tongue slips between my teeth. I wasn’t quite ready for that, but I angle my head and try not to think too hard about the fact that, except for three short, closed-mouth attempts with Steven McKeever after a study group at the library last year and, of course, that one smooch with Icky Hicky in seventh grade, this is my first kiss.
Certainly my first full-tongue kiss. I close my eyes and try to experience it—still waiting for sensations that don’t happen. My stomach isn’t fluttering, my heart isn’t jumping around, and I really don’t like the way beer tastes on his tongue. His hand is rounding my backside, too.
They All Fall Down Page 9
