She twisted her head around. “Oooooooooooh noooooooo.” A weak and scratchy wheeze, but still too loud. She winced. He woke.
“Unnnh?” Adam shook his head and propped himself up, then dropped back down to the ground. “What am I ... what are you ... ?”
There was a party, Miranda remembered. Images floated across her brain.
Beer. Lots of beer.
Kane’s arms holding her up.
More beer.
Kane and ... A sharp pain cut through the dull throbbing in her head. Harper.
The trees. Adam. Unbuttoning her shirt. His tongue . . .
“What did I do?” she whispered. Her throat burned. “Adam,” she croaked. His eyes had slipped shut again. His chest was bare. “Adam!”
“Uh?”
Her arm was still lying on top of him. She jerked it away, heaved herself over onto her back. “Do you remember what . . . what did we . . .” No. Not possible. She closed her eyes. No, no, no. Maybe. She had to know.
“Did we . . .”
“. . . you know?”
Shut up, he thought. Her voice hurt. Everything hurt. Every noise was another bottle broken over his head. And hangovers turned him into an asshole.
Home. That was what he needed. His bed. His dark room. His Ultimate Hangover Cure (milk, orange juice, honey, bananas). Just what the doctor ordered. But that would mean standing up, and he was too tired to move.
And then there was Miranda. Who wouldn’t shut up.
“Adam, what happened?”
Be nice. “Okay, okay,” he groaned. “Just stop yelling. We kissed, okay?”
“And?”
“And that’s it.” Adam opened his eyes again. Her lower lip wobbled, and her eyes bugged out. He sighed. “And then you, uh, kind of puked. A lot.”
“Oh, god. On you?”
“Well . . .” He took a big whiff. Almost choked. Yeah, on him. He forced a smile. “No big deal. Really.”
“This is so humiliating,” Miranda moaned, turning away from him and curling up into a tight ball.
“It’s fine.” Comfort her, he told himself. But that would take so much damn effort. He stifled a yawn. “It’s already forgotten.”
“We can’t tell anyone.”
“Yeah.”
“Promise” Miranda insisted.
“Uh-huh. I promise.” He stretched out, feeling like he hadn’t moved in months. “We should probably get going.”
“Yeah.”
Minutes passed. No one spoke. No one moved.
“Or we could just rest for a while,” Miranda suggested.
But no one heard. Adam was already asleep.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Beth opened her eyes. Her whole body ached. The thin sleeping bag offered no protection for her from the hard-packed desert gravel. She was tired. Thirsty.
Happy.
My parents are going to kill me.
It didn’t seem to matter.
Maybe the pot permanently warped my brain. Maybe I just don’t care anymore.
It sounded like heaven.
She had awoken in the night, shivering in the dark. Reed had wrapped an arm around her; she’d snuggled up against his chest. Now she could feel him breathe.
She felt like a stranger. And it felt good. As long as she stayed out here, she could be someone else. She could be the kind of girl who didn’t care what happened next.
“Reed?” Her head was nestled into the space beneath his chin. He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t see his face.
The calm couldn’t last forever. But maybe when he woke up, he’d pull out his small plastic bag again. He’d roll the ashy, dark green flakes into a neat white tube. She would inhale more of the magic potion.
I shouldn’t . . .
It was a quiet voice, and easy to ignore. To smother, until it stopped flailing and gave up the fight.
She closed her eyes and shifted against him. It felt good—a warm body beside her, the weight of someone’s arms around her. She’d been so alone.
She knew she deserved to be alone.
But in the sunrise, in the desert air, in Reed’s arms, she could almost allow herself to forget.
“I wish I could tell you the truth,” she whispered as he slept. “I wish we could stay here forever.”
I have to get out of here, Reed thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t speak. Don’t move. If she knew he was awake, she’d want to talk. And he wasn’t ready.
So he pretended to be asleep. He pretended to be somewhere else. Not here, lying next to her, with his arms around her, breathing in her hair, wishing he could—
Stop.
He wasn’t betraying Kaia. Nothing had happened. Nothing had to happen. It was innocent. But didn’t he want more?
Didn’t he like the way her body felt against his? He was comfortable with Beth, safe. He could talk to her—in a way he’d never talked to Kaia.
That was the betrayal.
I miss her, he said silently, as he did every morning. And every morning, he woke up with a hole inside of him. Feeling like if he looked down he would see that a part of his chest was just missing, or that his legs had suddenly become transparent. He felt unwhole.
Except that this morning, he didn’t.
It didn’t feel like Kaia was watching, or that he could ask for forgiveness. She felt far away, like someone he’d imagined. Reed wanted to push Beth aside, stand up, brush off all traces of her, and leave her behind as he drove home, alone. And Reed always did exactly what he wanted.
He kept still. He kept silent. He stayed.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Some asshole was trying to wake her. She’d kick his ass. Except that would mean sitting up.
“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty,” Kane said, standing up and dumping her to the ground. She’d fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against his shoulder, and now she found herself facefirst in the dirt. Asshole was right.
“Aren’t you supposed to wake me with a kiss?” Harper groaned.
“I would think you had enough of that last night.”
“Uch.” Harper spat into the dirt. “Don’t remind me.”
“Glad to know it was as good for you as it was for me,” Kane said dryly, sitting down again, a safe distance away.
Harper stayed where she was. She remembered everything. Unfortunately. “Don’t be bitter just because you didn’t get anything more than a kiss,” she chided him. “I’m sure you’ll get over it, in time.”
Kane snorted. “I’m the one who pushed you away, lovergirl. Or have you forgotten, ‘Kane, I want you! I need you! Give it to me now!’?” he asked, affecting a high, nasal voice.
“I did not” Harper said indignantly.
“You tell yourself whatever you need to get by, dearest—we both know what really happened.” Kane yawned and pulled a small flask out of his pocket. He took a gulp. “Hair of the dog. Want some?” She waved it away. “How do you feel?” he asked in a softer voice.
Physically, she felt fine.
“I feel like shit,” she said, curling up and burying her head in her arms. “Like somebody flushed me down the toilet and I ended up lying in a puddle of crap at the bottom of the sewer system.”
In other words, same as always. But he didn’t need to know that.
“I’m just going to go back to sleep,” she lied, closing her eyes. That was the answer. She’d escape into the hangover. She wouldn’t have to talk, she wouldn’t have to smile. She could just be—and be miserable.
Her voice faded, and she was out. Kane rolled his eyes. He was wide awake, despite the fact that he’d been sitting up most of the night. Not to keep an eye on her, he told himself. Just because how the hell was he supposed to sleep sitting up, leaning against a giant, lumpy rock, with a girl passed out on top of him.
And not even a real girl—just Harper.
She was a mess. Not that she’d ever admit it. She wasn’t a whiner; she didn’t cry and cling to you like she’d fall down if you weren’t there to hold her up. She�
�d rather crash.
And let him pick up the pieces.
No one had made him stay, of course. No one was making him stay now. And no one had made him untangle himself from a horny Harper and sit her down on the rocks, forcing her to calm down and stop groping him. He’d ditched the action to tend to her, keeping her out of trouble and pretending he didn’t notice her tears. And he had no one to blame but himself.
It was the party of the year, and he’d spent the whole thing tending to drunken friends. Being solicitous. Exercising restraint.
Kane didn’t do hangovers. But the thought of all that wasted potential was enough to make him sick.
chapter
_______________
11
Achy and bleary-eyed, Beth stepped through her front door—and into an ambush.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Are you okay?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Why didn’t you call?”
Beth sighed, ducked her head, and waited for the yelling to stop.
“Well?” Her father loomed over her, fuming, while her mother slumped onto the frayed living-room couch, her eyes rimmed with red. Beth supposed she should feel sorry for causing concern, but all she had to offer was surprise and a mild disgust.
“Well what?” she asked. “I told you I was going to a party. I stayed over.”
Her father s eyes widened. She knew what they’d been expecting. Sweet, mild-mannered Beth, always responsible and always apologetic. She was sick of it.
“Do you know how we felt when we woke up and saw you never came home last night?” her father boomed. “Do you know what we thought?”
“That you’d actually have to make your own breakfast for once?” Beth snapped, horrified as soon as the words popped out of her mouth. But there was no taking them back, and she didn’t particularly want to.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Beth, Beth, sweetie.” Her mother shook her head sorrowfully, giving Beth her well-practiced martyr look. “Things around here are hard enough without... we really expected more of you.”
Beth wanted to kick something. “Too bad!” she cried, all the stress of the last week shooting out of her. “I’m seventeen, Mom. I’m not your maid, I’m not your babysitter, I’m not your cook, I’m your daughter, and sometimes I screw up. Deal with it.”
“That’s it!” her father shouted. “Go up to your room. Your mother and I don’t have time to deal with your temper tantrum right now.”
Cue the guilt: Her parents both worked triple shifts and were constantly exhausted. The twins took a lot of work. The house was always a mess. It was Beth’s responsibility to pitch in and shut up. She knew all that—but today, she just didn’t care.
“I’m out of here,” she muttered, turning her back on her parents.
“Don’t you disobey me,” her father warned. “Get back here.”
“Or what?” Beth kept her back to him, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. “You’ll punish me? You’ll disown me? If it turns out I’m not one hundred percent perfect, you’ll just stop loving me?”
“Beth, what are you—?” Her mothers voice broke. Beth forced herself not to give in to the inevitable tears. She slipped out the door before her father could issue any more threats or her mother any pleas.
I’m not who they think I am, she told herself, getting into the car without knowing where to go next. Better they find that out now.
Tyson versus Holyfield.
Bush versus Gore.
Jennifer versus Angelina.
As all-time grudge matches go, they had nothing on this.
In one corner: Miranda Sellers, five feet of fighting force powered by jealousy, humiliation, a world-class hangover, two months of repressed anger, and eighteen years of repressed everything else.
In the other corner: the undefeated champion Harper Grace, aka the Terminator, aka the Beast, aka the Ice Queen, who would settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender.
Ladies, come out fighting—and try to keep this fair and above the belt.
As if.
Miranda and Harper circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to land the first blow. Harper had the home-court advantage, which only meant that she had nowhere to escape. Miranda had shown up at her door, dragged Harper up to her bedroom, and now, behind closed doors and with a bleary-eyed ferocity, was ready to pounce. On the wall behind her hung a bulletin board covered in photos of the dynamic duo s greatest hits: junior high dances, makeover-themed slumber parties, crappy double dates, and triumphant after-parties. It was a vivid documentary record of their friendship; but at the moment, it was irrelevant.
Miranda swung first. “How could you?” she asked, pacing around Harper in a tight circle.
“What?”
“I saw you with Kane,” Miranda snapped. “It was disgusting.”
“So?”
“So you know how I feel about him.”
Harper landed the first blow. She laughed. “So maybe I don’t care.”
“That’s obvious,” Miranda retorted. “You don’t care about anything.”
Point to Miranda.
“What do you know?” Harper yelled, her face turning red.
“Nothing!” Miranda shouted back. “Because you won’t let me!” She paused, and sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m supposed to be your best friend,” she said quietly.
Harper threw her hands in the air. “Since when? Last month you hated me, this month you love me. Gosh,” she said sarcastically, opening her eyes wide in confusion. “I just can’t keep track.”
“Last month you screwed me over and were a total bitch about it!” Miranda snapped. “This month . . .”
“Yeah.” Harper scowled. “This month you’re back, because you feel sorry for me. Like I need that!”
The gloves were off.
Miranda wanted to cry. But, instead, she balled up her fists, wishing she could land a real blow.
Harper felt the anger explode from her, and it was such a blissful release to finally let it go that she didn’t care who was in the line of fire. She didn’t care who she was really angry at—Miranda was there, and she made for an easy target. It just felt so good, after all these weeks, to shout, to scream, to unclench her muscles, to drop the fake smile.
To let herself feel.
It was almost worth it.
Even when Miranda pounded her fist against the wall, slammed through the door, and left Harper alone.
Here is what Miranda remembered as she walked down the driveway to her car, trying to keep her face turned away from Adam’s house, and trying not to cry:
The sneer on Harper’s face and the ice in her eyes.
The sound of Harper laughing at her pain.
And, most of all, Harper’s words.
“Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn annoying and in my face all! The! Time!”
“Stop pretending you can understand anything about
me!
“I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you!”
And here is what Harper remembered as she sat on the edge of her bed and let the numbness seep back in:
Miranda’s eyes blinking back tears.
Miranda’s voice shaking as she spit out everything she’d been holding back.
Miranda’s attack, the words they both knew were true.
“Why is everything always about you?”
“Of course I felt sorry for you—why else would I pretend you weren’t such a bitch?”
“I’ve been your best friend for ten fucking years—you barely even knew her!”
Mostly, both girls remembered the end.
“You want to be miserable? You want to be totally self-destructive and pathetic and blow off anyone who tries to help?” Miranda asked, disgusted. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Harper opened her bedroom door and waved her hand like an usher. “Don
’t let me stop you from leaving.”
And with that, they were both down for the count.
Reed was on his back under the truck, monkeying with the exhaust system, when she came into the garage. He could only see her feet and ankles: thin, black pumps with a low heel; pale, delicate ankles growing from them, narrow enough that he could probably encircle each with one hand. He’d seen those feet before.
“Hello? Is anybody here? Hello?”
For a moment, Reed considered hiding under the truck until she gave up and went away. And he might have, if his wrench hadn’t slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor. After that, he had no choice.
He wheeled himself out from under the truck and sat up, wiping his greasy hands against his jeans. Beth was still wearing the same outfit she’d worn the night before. It had looked perfect at the party; here, surrounded by chains and toolboxes and busted carburetors, it didn’t fit.
“What’s up?” he asked, not really wanting to know.
Her face was flushed and tearstained, and her hands kept flickering toward her head. She would twirl a strand of hair, tuck it behind her ears, put her arm down, and then, a moment later, start twirling again, as if she couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said simply. “I thought . . .”
She looked so lost and fragile, he just wanted to go to her and hug her. He wanted to fix her problem, whatever it was.
But why? he asked himself. What’s she to you?
“Can we, uh, go somewhere?” Beth asked, her lip trembling.
Reed shook his head. “I got a lot of stuff to do here,” he said. “You know.”
“Maybe I could just hang out for a while?” she asked, almost pleading. “I really just need—”
“No.” It would be too easy to be happy if she were there. And he shouldn’t be happy, not with someone else. “I told you, I’ve got stuff to do. You’d be in the way.”
“Oh.” She looked like he’d punched her. “Okay.” She began backing out of the garage, her eyes whipping back and forth, searching fruitlessly for something to focus on. “See you around, I guess.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever.”
Sloth (Seven Deadly Sins (Simon Pulse)) Page 17
