“I’m not a gentleman…” he repeats back the words like they taste funny in his mouth. He steps toward me, his movement sending a rush of cool air around me and I tremble. I tell myself it’s from the chill, but I’m not so sure that’s true. Closer up, I realize how tall he is. He’s got a foot on me at least.
“No.” I tip my head up. I will not let him talk down to me. I will not be intimidated.
“How are you getting out of here, Princess?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say coldly.
“I bet that’s what your daddy calls you, isn’t it?” He moves until our faces are inches apart. I can smell his cologne—spicy and strong—and mint on his breath. There isn’t a trace of alcohol on him. “You’re not a lucky princess?”
My father has never called me ‘Princess’ a day in my life. I force my face into a blank slate—indifferent and disinterested. “What did your daddy call you?” I ask. “Or let me guess, you don’t have one? Is that your story?”
There’s a crack I don’t quite understand, but my body does because I shrink against the wall he’s just put his fist through. When he pulls it out of the plaster, it’s covered in blood and dust. He shifts forward to press his palms to the wall, ignoring his maimed hand, his strong arms caging me to the spot. I stare at the boy who’s just put a hole in the wall. A boy as vicious as my empty words. He’s beautiful poison. I want him to stay away. All the warning signs are there. But somewhere deep inside me, I want to take a drink. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I hate myself as much as he hates me. This close I can see his eyes are a blue as bright as a sunny sky but colder than midnight. I’m locked in place, afraid to move. I am a butterfly, fragile wings pinned to the wall, and I don’t know if he wants to watch me struggle or if he’s going to crush me. I only know I’m at his mercy.
“Don’t open books you can’t read.” The warning is laced with dark roughness. But then his arms fall and he moves away from me. He doesn’t look at me when I scramble away from him. I guess a predator always knows where his prey will run.
I’m nearly to the front door when Poppy’s British lilt calls my name. I don’t stop. I can’t. Picking up the pace, which is easy to do barefoot, I race down the front steps, past the front lawn until the sounds of the party fade and night swallows me whole. I turn, half-expecting him to have followed me, but there’s no one behind me. The evening air is heavy and humid, filled with distant shouts and cricket song. I’d acted on instinct when I ran. Now, halfway down the block with no shoes on my feet, I feel a little silly. Why had I run out of the party?
I have lived in Valmont my whole life. My friends are at that party. My family name is on more than one building on this campus. I belong here—at that party. And to make things worse, I probably scared the shit out of Poppy. Whipping my phone out, I discover I have service and ten missed calls. I feel like screaming, but someone would probably call security, and I don’t need the night to end with a visit from the campus police.
But the calls aren’t from Poppy. Eight are from my brother, Malcolm. Two from his fiancée. A terrible coldness creeps through my veins. They’d been trying to reach me half the night. The calls are time stamped from about the time I got to the party. I don’t know how long I stare at my phone, torn between calling back and waiting for it to ring—dreading both possibilities.
“Adair!” Poppy’s panicked voice startles me and I nearly drop the phone.
I owe her an explanation, I think, but as she draws closer, I notice her eyes are wide and frantic.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I just—”
“Your brother is trying to reach you,” she cuts me off as more of our friends join us.
Cyrus and Ava and Money.
Even him.
Somehow I know what she needs to tell me. I feel it. Out here in the night, away from the chaos of the party, the night is clear and I can see it in her face. I want to tell her not to say it. I want to run again.
I just stand there, vaguely aware of a rock under my bare foot, phone shaking in my hand.
“Your parents,” she finally manages.
I shake my head not wanting to hear more. My hands go to my ears as though I can avoid that truth if I block her out.
Poppy takes my hands gingerly in her own before squeezing them tightly. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“I don’t have a car.” Or my purse. Heat stings my eyes and I realize my cheeks are wet.
“I’ll drive you,” Money says, lurching toward us.
“You’re drunk,” Poppy accuses. “We’re all…”
I look at them, staggered protectively around me, and realize the horrible truth. My friends have been drinking at the party all night—the party at the house with the terrible reception. The reception that kept me from getting the calls from my brother. Oh God.
“I’m not.” He steps from the shadows, calm, his eyes cast to the ground.
I open my mouth to say no—that I can’t accept a ride from him—but I can’t bring myself to say it. I’m not sure I have a choice.
“Take mine. It’s in the student lot.” Cyrus tosses a set of keys toward him, and he catches them easily, even in the dark. He really is the only sober one. He’s all I have.
I wait for him to laugh and drop the keys. I wait for the cruel boy to come out to play.
