“If you call just the two of us a slumber party,” Whitney says.
“Oh, I definitely call that a slumber party,” Evan says, raising his eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“You can come too,” Whitney says to Evan. “We’re having it at my house.”
“Oh, really?” Evan licks his lips and rubs his hands together, like there’s going to be all kinds of debauchery happening. Which is ridiculous. And kind of creepy.
But Whitney doesn’t seem to mind. She giggles. “You guys can’t sleep over, though. We’ll just watch movies or something.”
Evan looks a little disappointed, like he thought he was going to actually be able to spend the night. Which is stupid for a few reasons, not the least of which is that Evan’s mom is the strictest parent I know. I think that’s maybe why he’s always trying to do crazy stunts—it’s like he’s rebelling, only instead of doing drugs or alcohol, he takes chances with his safety.
“I’ll watch movies,” Evan says. “I’ll bring some scary ones.”
Kari looks at me. “You in?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not?” It will give me something to do to get my mind off Peyton. Although with the way I’m feeling right now, that’s going to be a tall order. I hope Evan brings a really, really good movie.
• • •
“Do I look okay?” Evan asks me as we walk up the driveway of Whitney’s house later that night. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater. “I just bought this sweater,” he says proudly. “It’s Gucci.”
I roll my eyes, then reach over and pull the Old Navy tag off the back. “You left the tag on.”
“Oh.” Evan frowns, then rips it in half and throws it on the ground.
“Jesus,” I say, picking it up. “You like this girl and you’re disrespecting her property like that?” I shove the tag back into his hand. “Throw it in the garbage when you get inside.”
He looks aghast. “No way. What if she sees it?”
“What if she sees it out here?”
“Jace, she’s not going to see some random tag out here on the lawn. And if she does, maybe she’ll think it blew over from a neighboring house.”
“A neighboring house?” I shake my head. “Why are you talking like that?”
“I’m trying to seem more refined.” He squares his shoulders. “I think it’s important to cultivate a good vocabulary.”
We’re not even inside yet and this is already turning into a debacle. “Look,” I say. “Whitney likes you. Otherwise she wouldn’t have invited you here tonight. Now you should just be yourself.”
Evan looks horrified. “I would never be myself,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because myself isn’t really all that likeable.”
“That’s not true,” I say, even though it kind of is. If I were a chick, I doubt I’d be that interested in Evan. Although all those guys from Jackass seem to get a lot of women, so maybe he’s onto something. Besides, what the hell do I know?
Up until this Christmas, when I met Peyton, I’d been doing pretty well with the ladies. It seemed like every month I had a new one. (I was starting to get a little worried about myself, honestly, wondering if maybe I was turning into a male slut.)
And then I met Peyton at the Christmas party, and it was like I got sucker punched. Suddenly, I didn’t want any other girls. I didn’t even want to look at another girl or talk to another girl, much less hook up with one. It was pretty intense. And then after Peyton and I stopped talking, I never really recovered. I could still appreciate when a girl was good-looking, of course. It just wasn’t the same.
“Look,” I say to Evan now, “you should just be yourself. Otherwise you’re going to get stuck playing a part the whole time you’re around her.”
He frowns, considering what I’ve just said. “You think?”
“Absolutely.” I reach out and ring the doorbell. “Don’t go changing just because of some chick.”
“Yeah!” he says, nodding his head. “I’m not going to go around changing for any chick.”
“Just be honest and be yourself.” I meet Evan’s outstretched fist with mine for a pound.
“Hey,” Whitney says when she opens the door. “Come on in, guys. Kari’s in the kitchen ordering pizza.”
Evan holds his hand out to Whitney and she looks at him, puzzled. “Can you throw this away?” He uncurls his fingers to reveal the ripped Old Navy tag. “I bought this sweater at Old Navy today in an effort to impress you and I forgot to take the tag off.”
“Um, sure,” Whitney says, taking it. She looks at me as I brush by her and into the house.
“Don’t ask.” I shake my head. Maybe that wasn’t the best advice, telling Evan to be himself. After all, I was myself with Peyton, and look where that got me.
Saturday, June 26, 11:23 a.m.
Siesta Key, Florida
“Is this car even safe?” Peyton asks as we pull out onto the road.
“Of course it’s safe,” I say. “I’m very good about upkeep.” That’s bullshit. I’m good about keeping the inside of my car clean just in case I happen to have a girl in here or something, but other than that, I’m pretty lax. I’m not the best with oil changes. One time I heard from a mechanic that you don’t have to have your oil changed more than once every five thousand miles, and if you do, you’re just getting ripped off. I took the advice to heart.
“Somehow I doubt that.” She scans the backseat, looking for something she can call me out on, some misplaced fast-food wrapper or empty soda can. But there’s nothing. The only thing back there is Hector. My dog.
Well, not my dog exactly. A few days ago, Evan showed up at my house with Hector, a golden retriever mix, and somehow conned me into letting the dog stay. Hector was supposed to be a present for Whitney, but it turns out she’s allergic. So now Evan’s trying to find a new home for him, and since Evan’s parents are super strict and wouldn’t let the dog stay at their house, I got stuck with him.
And since I couldn’t leave Hector at home while my family went to the wedding, he was with me in my hotel room last night. Which means he’s now coming on this road trip.
Peyton gives Hector a scratch on the chin, and he licks her hand. “Good boy,” she says, all gentle. “You’re so beautiful.”
I snort.
She glares at me. “Only a jerk hates a dog.”
“I don’t hate him,” I say. “I just don’t understand why everyone loves him so much. Yes, he’s cute, but looks aren’t everything now, are they?”
“I don’t know,” she says, all snotty. “You tell me.”
She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes before I can come up with a witty comeback. I sneak a glance at her. God, she’s beautiful. I shake my head, disgusted with myself for having these thoughts, and pull the car down the curving road of the yacht club and toward the exit. When I get through the gate at the end of the winding drive, I pull my car onto the main road and start to coast toward the highway.
“Um, hello?” I say to Peyton.
“What?” she snaps, her eyes still closed. She reaches down and hits the lever on the side of the seat and drops it back. Hector moves forward and rests his chin next to Peyton’s head, then gives a happy little sigh. Great. Now it’s two against one. Figures.
“Do you have directions?” I ask.
“To where?”
“Um, to Connecticut?”
Her eyes pop open. “No,” she says, looking a little panicked. “I don’t have directions.”
“So then how are we supposed to get there?”
She bites her lip, thinking about it. “Can’t we just drive north?” she asks. “Connecticut’s north. We’re bound to hit it eventually.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s a really great plan,” I say. “Just keep driving north until we ‘hit it eventually.’ ” I shake my head. “For someone who was so worried about the safety of my car, you’re not really that prepared.”
“Sorry I don’t have directio
ns to my house in Connecticut,” she says, rummaging around in her purse. “But I thought I was going to North Carolina. And besides, don’t you have a GPS?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No! Why would I have a GPS? Until this morning, I was planning on going home right after brunch, which is a fifteen-minute drive that I know very well, not a fifteen-hour drive that is going to take me God knows where.”
“Twenty-seven,” she says.
“What?”
“Twenty-seven-hour drive.”
“It’s twenty-seven hours to your house?”
She shrugs. “I thought you knew.”
“And how would I have—?” I cut myself off. Nothing good is going to come of us arguing the whole time. Besides, it’s way too early in the trip for us to be fighting at all. Shouldn’t our fights be reserved for later in the day, when things have gone wrong and we’re tired and cranky? “Look, never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “We need to stop and buy a GPS.”
“Hold on,” she says. “I think I have one on my cell.” She has her phone out, and she’s looking down at the screen. “What the hell?” She frowns, then turns it off and then back on again. “My phone’s not working.”
“Did you drop it or something?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Well, I hope you backed up all your pictures,” I say. “We wouldn’t want you losing any of those now, would we?”
But she’s not listening. She’s just staring down at her phone, with a look of understanding on her face. “What?” I ask. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“My phone’s shut off,” she says. “It . . . it’s not broken, it just . . . ”
“What, you forgot to pay the bill or something?”
“Yeah, or something.” She sighs, then rubs her temples with her fingertips. She looks so small just sitting there like that that I start to feel a little bad for her.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I say. “We’re going to stop and get a GPS. And if you need to use my phone to make calls, you can. It’s not a big deal.”
She shakes her head slightly, and gets a faraway look in her eyes, and I’m afraid that maybe she’s going to start crying again. “Peyton,” I say softly. “It’s okay. I’m going to take care of everything. Don’t worry, all right?”
And after a second, she nods.
• • •
When we pull into a parking lot of a Target about fifteen minutes later, Peyton seems to have calmed down a little bit. She slides her sunglasses down over her eyes and walks with me through the parking lot toward the store, still not saying anything.
She grabs a basket when we get inside. “A basket just for a GPS?” I ask.
“I need a few things that I forgot,” she says. “Um, shampoo, stuff like that.” She doesn’t say it bratty, though.
“Okay.”
“You might want to get some stuff, too,” she says. “You know, just in case we have to spend the night somewhere.”
The thought of spending the night with her makes my pulse race. Just the two of us. Alone in a motel room. Maybe there will only be one room left, with one bed. I’ll try to sleep on the floor of course, but then in the middle of the night it will be bothering my back too much and I’ll have to sneak up—
“Hey!” a voice booms out in front of me. I look up to see a guy standing in front of us. For a second, I can’t really place him, but then, when I do, my heart sinks. B.J. “Peyton and Jace! Nice to see you two crazy kids!”
“Nice to see you, too,” Peyton says. Which I really wish she wouldn’t have done.
B.J. has a screw loose. He’s Courtney’s boyfriend Jordan’s best friend, and he’s definitely not all there. Who knows what kind of shenanigans he’s up to?
I give him a slight smile, then take Peyton’s arm and start trying to steer her past him.
“I’m B.J.!” B.J. says. “Don’t act like you don’t remember, Jacey! Not after what we talked about last night.” He gives me a wink, and I pray to God he doesn’t bring up what we were talking about last night. Not in front of Peyton. “We’re friends. At least, I thought we were.” He opens the box of Twinkies he’s holding and pulls one out, breaks it in half, and licks out some of the frosting.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know, I remember. That was fun, haha.” I try to steer Peyton around him again, but he follows us.
“You want some Twinkie?” He holds it out to Peyton, probably because he can tell there’s no way in hell I would take it. He obviously doesn’t know Peyton that well, because there’s no way in hell she’s going to take it, either. She’s way too uptight.
“Thanks,” Peyton says. She reaches out and grabs the Twinkie half and takes a bite. “I’m starving.”
B.J. nods. “Me too,” he says. “You know you’re allowed to eat food in the store as long as you pay for it when you check out?”
“No,” I say, “I didn’t know that.” Not only is this dude really fucking annoying, he’s also kind of disgusting. He has frosting smeared all over his lips, which isn’t really the best look for anyone.
“I did,” Peyton says. “Whenever I go grocery shopping with my mom I always open up a bag of Oreos.”
B.J. nods. “So smart,” he says. “It’s like I’m always telling Jordan—”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Sounds good, but we’re actually in a bit of a hurry.”
“How come?” B.J. asks conversationally.
“It’s kind of classified,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Jace is driving me home to Connecticut,” Peyton reports. “My ride totally bailed on me.”
“That sucks,” B.J. says. He’s reaching into the box for another Twinkie. He breaks it in half and hands one piece to Peyton. “Hey, you know that Jordan and Courtney drove from Florida to Boston once, right? It was cool; they ended up getting back together on that trip. Well, not exactly on the trip, but—”
“Well, that will definitely not be happening to us,” I say, cutting him off. I give him a look, a look that says, “go away and don’t you dare bring up what we were talking about last night.”
“Definitely not,” Peyton agrees.
“But last night—” B.J. starts, sounding confused.
“No,” I say, giving him a firm look. And somehow, miraculously, it seems like he gets the message.
He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.” He turns to Peyton. “You’re so cool, Peyton, and Jacey’s a little . . . ” He trails off, maybe because he realizes that I’m standing right there.
“Can we just get the GPS please and get out of here?” I ask.
“What do you need a GPS for?” B.J. asks, following us.
“Because I don’t really know the way home from here,” Peyton explains.
I pick up my pace until I’m a few steps ahead of them, listening as they babble about Jordan and Courtney and road trips and a bunch of other nonsense. I’m about to lose my shit when B.J. says, “All right, well, I’ll see you guys later. I have to go look at some costumes.”
“Costumes?” Peyton asks.
He nods. “Yup. We’re going to have a big costume party on the beach tonight. At least, I’m trying to get it to be a costume party. I love costumes.” He takes another bite of Twinkie. “They’re just so fun.”
“Okay, well, I hope you have a good time,” I say. “See you later.” Or not.
Peyton says goodbye to B.J, and then he disappears into the aisles.
“That dude is crazy,” I say.
“I like him,” Peyton says. “He’s different.”
I snort. “Yeah, if by different you mean totally out of his tree.”
She rolls her eyes. “It figures you would say something like that.”
We’re in the electronics aisle now, and those moments of vulnerability she had in the car, when she was leaning back with her eyes closed, and then again when she was upset about her phone being turned off are long gone. Now she’s back to acting like she’s tota
lly in control with a little bit of brattiness thrown in for good measure.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, following her to the display of GPSs.
“Nothing.” She shrugs. “Just that you don’t like anything that’s not cookie-cutter.” She surveys the display and then shakes her head. “Why are these things so expensive?”
I follow her around the corner of the aisle while she looks at the rest of the units. “I like things that aren’t cookie-cutter,” I say, sounding defensive.
“Ha!” She kneels down and starts looking at the GPS units in a glass case. “Name one band you like that they don’t play on the radio.”
“Guru Steve.”
“Guru Steve?” she repeats, tilting her head. “Isn’t that . . . isn’t that your friend’s band?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Oh, my God.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”
“Just because I don’t like all kinds of crazy indie music, now I’m hopeless?”
“Yes.” She’s standing up now, looking around and sighing loudly. “How come I can never find a salesperson when I need one? Someone needs to open this case.”
“I’ll have you know,” I say, “that I am into a lot of things that people aren’t into at first. For example, I was the first one out of all my friends to have a Twitter account.”
“Only counts if you have your name.”
“What?”
“Were you able to score the Twitter user name Jace?”
“Well, no,” I say, “that would be impossible. And besides, I wouldn’t want that name anyway. Too much pressure.”
“Too much pressure?”
“Yeah, like if you don’t tweet interesting things all the time, people think you don’t deserve the name and that you should give it up to some other, cooler Jace.”
“Whatever.” She shakes her head. “Are you going to find me a salesperson or not?”
“Fine.” I stomp off, wondering if what she said is really true. But there’s no way I’m cookie-cutter. And the fact that she said that just proves that Peyton Miller doesn’t know anything. I scan the aisles, looking for a salesperson, but of course there aren’t any.
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