by Jenna Scott
After a few weeks, we’re all settled in at the Becks’ pool house. My mom has the big bedroom where I walked in on Hunter and that girl he had on his lap, and I have the small one, thank the Lord. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep in a room where I’d witnessed something so blatantly X-rated happening.
It’s funny. I’d always thought this place looked big enough for a family to live in. That I’d actually end up here myself is not something I ever imagined. I still can’t believe my mom made us move in. I’ve never been so angry (or humiliated) in my life.
Our living situation is perfectly fine, to be fair. It’s much nicer here than any other place we’ve rented, and we’ve got luxury accommodations in comparison. Gleaming hardwood floors, brand new Restoration Hardware furniture, crisp white linens, huge flatscreen TV, state-of-the-art kitchen appliances, reliable Wi-Fi… But if anyone at the academy finds out my mom and I are such a charity case that we had to move into our employers’ pool house? I will be raked over the coals of shame.
It hasn’t escaped me that no one at school seems to know about it though. Which can only mean that Hunter hasn’t spilled my secret. Yet. And I still can’t figure out why. He had no problem telling his little cronies that I was his brother’s nanny; I would have expected him to leap at the chance to embarrass me further. But he hasn’t.
All I can figure is that he’s holding back because it would be as embarrassing for him as it is for me. Or maybe he’s just biding his time so he can use it against me as blackmail or something. Who knows? Hunter Beck is an enigma.
I’m currently sitting on a floor cushion in the living room, my homework spread out on the coffee table in front of me, but I can’t concentrate. The space has recovered nicely from the catastrophe that was Hunter’s last party. The floors are shining, the couch spotless and draped in a thick knit throw, the coffee table sporting a few cute succulents and fancy photography books instead of beer bottles and red plastic cups. Mom spent an entire day (and I an entire afternoon) getting this place back in shape after Hunter’s friends were through with it, and we’ve kept it immaculate ever since.
Even still, the knowledge that my mother is passed out in her room next to an empty bottle of booze is ruining my concentration. It was one thing to drink at home, but now that we’re here, she’s technically drinking on the job. Sort of. And I guess some small part of me was holding out hope that this move might be an opportunity for her to quit drinking entirely. Or at least cut back. But no. She’s as bad as ever.
We might fight, and she might be hard to live with sometimes, but she’s my mom, and I love her and hate seeing her like this. I don’t want her to die. I want her to get better. And there’s nothing I can do. Which is why I’m having such a hard time outlining my research paper, which I’ve titled “The Consequences of Colonialism.”
Next to my history book, my phone buzzes. I quickly snap it up and unlock it, glad to see Isabel’s name on the screen.
Before I can even say hello, Isabel’s mouth is going a mile a minute. “Hey, you wanna hit up The Sweet Spot? I got a two-for-one deal on Groupon. I’m dying for a shake. Say yes. They have salted caramel, your favorite.”
I laugh. “How could I possibly say no to that?”
“Cool. Meet you there in like twenty? I’m calling a Lyft now.”
“Ish. I’ll text you an ETA once I’m on the bus. See you soon.”
After leaving a note out for my mom, I practically run out the door. The past few weeks have been nothing but stress and agony, and that milkshake is calling my name. It won’t be enough to erase everything I’ve been through with the move and Hunter and school—that’d require an entire bakery and half a library—but I’ll take what I can get.
When I get to the parking lot at The Sweet Spot, Isabel immediately sweeps me into a hug before we head inside. She’s in a cute red polka-dot dress that resembles a vintage apron, with ruby red sandals and a headband to match. It’s almost like she jumped out of an episode of I Love Lucy.
“You look adorable,” I tell her. It boggles my mind how Hillary & Co. use the way Isabel dresses outside the academy against her. The girl has flair.
“Thanks! And I knew that sweater was totally made for you,” she says.
It’s a V-neck she gave me, saying it wasn’t her style—sky blue, featherweight cashmere with three-quarter sleeves. It feels like a dream, but this is the first time I’ve had a chance to wear it in public. Admittedly, the neckline dips a little low.
“Not too much cleavage?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious. My mom told me I could keep the silver star necklace I borrowed for Matt’s party, and I’ve been wearing it lately. Unfortunately, with this sweater, it seems to draw attention directly to my boobs.
“Hells no,” she assures me. “Just the right amount.”
With that, she links arms with me and half drags me through the glass doors.
It’s gotta be jealousy on Hillary’s part. Not only is Isabel friendly and kind and cute as a button, she’s also smart, like straight-A, genius-level smart. She’s won every science fair she’s entered since second grade, she’s on track for valedictorian, and she’s so fluent in Spanish and French that she’s taking Latin at school for her foreign language. The other day she showed me her sketchbook, and even at that, she excels.
The Sweet Spot is busy, but there are still a few U-shaped booths open, so Isabel asks the host to seat us in one. The place has that classic diner aesthetic with a stainless-steel counter along one wall, little jukeboxes at every table, and red vinyl seats.
“God, I love it here,” Isabel sighs, dropping a few quarters into the jukebox and punching the code for a Chuck Berry song. “Want to pick one?”
“Are The Archies on there?” I ask. “I love that one song.”
“All they have is ‘Sugar Sugar,’” she says after flicking through the tabs.
I grin. “That’s it. My mom used to play that on Sundays and make us banana pancakes.” A wave of sadness hits. “I guess it was forever ago, but I still remember.”
Isabel pushes the buttons on the jukebox and then gets settled across from me.
“So, life at Douche HQ still treating you rough? You look peaked.”
Okay, so I told Isabel about my living arrangements. I had to talk to someone, and she always offers open ears and zero judgment.
I shrug. “Meh. Same old.”
“It’s not forever,” she offers. “And besides, if Hunter keeps acting up, maybe his dad will ship him off to a military school. Then you’ll be footloose and fancy-free.”
“I wish,” I say, but I’m not totally sure I mean it.
A peppy waitress in a checkered apron with her hair in a topknot comes over and introduces herself as Brenda. She takes our drink orders and tells us about the special of the day—chicken fried steak—before leaving us to peruse the laminated menus.
“Okay, I’ve chosen.” Isabel fans herself with the menu and stretches her legs. “What are you gonna have?”
“Not sure.” My eyebrows knit as I look over the plethora of offerings.
“Don’t come here much?”
“Maybe twice in the last four years, but all I need is my caramel shake, and I’m happy.” My eye catches on the burger section. “Actually, a veggie burger sounds good.”
“I usually get that! It’s super yum,” she says. “But not today. Today I want to taste grill marks and feel meat juice dripping down my chin—sorry, is that gross?”
“You’re fine,” I tell her. “As long as you use a napkin. Or five.”
The waitress comes back to take our order and drop off our shakes. Isabel got a strawberry banana, and mine is a perfectly sweet and salty caramel confection with a huge tower of whipped cream and little flakes of sea salt on top.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage as I suck down the first cold strawful.
“Sounds orgasmic. Can I try it?” Isabel asks.
“Of course.” I slide the shake over to her and watch her face as she
shovels a few spoons of it into her mouth.
“This is like a religious experience,” she tells me, her eyes gone dreamy.
“Told you.”
Our burgers come out, along with two sides of extra well-done fries. I dip one into the lake of ketchup I’ve squeezed onto my plate and take a big bite. Perfectly crunchy. Isabel and I talk about nothing and everything, and it’s so comfortable that I can’t help bemoaning the fact that I can’t live with her instead of the Becks’.
“You probably could,” she says. “I mean, I can ask my mom if you want. We could even get bunk beds!”
“That sounds amazing, but my mom would never go for it,” I tell her. “Plus, I’m at the Becks’ so often already, it’d just make my bus scheduling even more complicated. But thank you. For real. Maybe one day we can have our own apartment.”
We’re happily eating and chatting, and I can physically feel myself relaxing, my shoulders loosening up.
When I’m with Isabel, I feel like there’s nothing I can say that’ll be wrong or stupid or awkward. We love a lot of the same things—like Jenny Han and beach days and (secretly) Disneyland—and whatever we don’t agree on isn’t a deal-breaker. Her penchant for classical music isn’t something I share, but I’d never hold it against her, just like she doesn’t hold my very passionate defense of Twilight against me.
Look, I know most people hate it, and that its popularity is long past. But it was the easiest YA series to get my hands on at the public library, and it basically normalized stories where girls my age find themselves inexplicably attracted to a guy who won’t give them the time of day. If that isn’t true to almost every teenage girl’s lived experience, then I don’t know what is.
We’re giggling, halfway into our meal, when the little bell on the front door jingles, and I look up to see a familiar and completely unwelcome set of kids come into the restaurant.
My heart sinks. Figures that out of all the burger places in La Jolla, Hunter ends up crashing the one where I’m actually having fun.
“Ugh. My God,” I mutter under my breath as I shift in my seat. “Hunter and his entourage just walked in.”
Isabel leans forward to whisper, “I’m not turning around, but is Steve there?”
I steal a glance at the group and unfortunately recognize Steve’s black hair, all gelled-up into spiky ends, like he thinks it’s the 90s or something. “Affirmative.”
“Ugh,” she echoes, slouching down. “Hopefully they won’t look this way.”
As soon as those words leave her lips, Hunter’s eyes fall on me, and here they stay. I immediately turn my head, directing my gaze out the window, readying myself for the inevitable sounds of derision aimed my way.
My spine is straight, my limbs tense as the group passes our booth. Meanwhile, Isabel animatedly tells a long and pointless story about a missing sock, just so she can pretend to not see them.
“What’s the deal with Steve anyway?” I ask her once it’s safe to assume the boys are seated.
Isabel fiddles with her straw, and after several seconds, she sighs. “Okay, don’t judge me for this—it was super long ago, and I had yet to develop standards.” She takes a long sip of her shake.
“Do tell,” I say, rubbing my hands together like a greedy villain.
“So I sort of drunkenly made out with him once? Because I was sixteen, and I wanted to get my first kiss over with?” Her cheeks go pink. “I mean, it wasn’t even a thing! It felt like nothing. But he hasn’t let up since.”
“That doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever,” I tell her.
“It kind of was. We were in the kink closet, and everybody whistled when we came out.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I tell her. “My first kiss wasn’t all that great either.”
“Now you have to share!” she insists.
“I promise I will tell you, but not right now,” I say. “I need to work up to it.”
“Oh, fine. You’re no fun. But don’t think you’re getting out of it.”
That’s the other thing I love about Isabel. She knows when not to push.
“I’m glad Emmett isn’t in Hunter’s group though,” she goes on. “I couldn’t bear it if I had to stop dropping by his house because I might run into those a-holes.”
Isabel claims she’s constantly dropping by his place to score cookies, but I suspect the reason is something else entirely.
The check comes, and we decide to split the bill and head out. As we wait by the cash register, Isabel informs me that Hunter is looking at me, but he doesn’t make a move. Aside from that first moment of eye contact, he’s completely ignored me.
I tell myself I’m glad and not at all disappointed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Camilla
When the cashier rings us up, Isabel begrudgingly accepts my crumpled dollars, then does something I’d never thought I’d witness from a girl who knows all the best consignment shops in town. She saunters back to our booth and leaves a hundred-dollar bill under the salt shaker as a tip.
As we walk out the door, I’m still wide-eyed and stunned.
“Why’d you leave such a big tip?” I ask.
Isabel shrugs. “Waiters only make minimum wage, and ours was really nice. Besides, my dad’s an arbitration lawyer, and my mom’s architecture firm designs houses for celebrities. I’m happy to spread their money around to people who work just as hard as they do but get paid way less.”
I wish everyone was more like Isabel.
See, there are rich people like Hunter and his friends who act like assholes about their money and make sure everyone knows they’re loaded. And then there are rich people like Isabel and her family who are even more obscenely wealthy, and yet they never give any indication of it until you witness moments like this.
Isabel’s Lyft arrives, and she tries to get me to share it with her, but I tell her I’d rather walk. There’s a slight chill in the air, but I’m looking forward to having some time and space to shake off the aggravation that I’m feeling thanks to seeing Hunter.
“You sure you don’t want a ride to the bus stop, at least?” she offers. “I don’t like you walking by yourself at night.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’ve walked this way by myself plenty of times. And plus, I need some time to think.”
She bites her lip. “Okay. But text me the second you get home, or I’m calling the cops. I mean it.”
I wait for her ride to pull out of the parking lot and then heave a big sigh as I make my way toward the sidewalk. The streets are pretty dark, and this isn’t exactly the nicest part of town. But I’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. Besides, this isn’t anything new. I’ve walked alone at night in La Jolla plenty of times before.
But just as I start down the street, I hear footsteps behind me. I start walking faster, and the steps speed up to keep pace with me. Heart pounding, I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1, my finger hovering over the call button.
“Camilla, stop!” Hunter’s voice calls from over my shoulder.
I whip around with a gasp. He’s just a few feet away, hands casually in his pockets. In the parking lot of The Sweet Spot, his friends are nowhere in sight.
“What do you want?” I ask, breathing hard. I’m doubly annoyed at him for not only chasing me down and commanding me to stop, but also scaring me half to death.
Hunter tilts his head toward his BMW. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
“Not a chance.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “So why don’t you run back to your friends now, before they notice you’re out here with ‘the help’?”
Under the yellow street lights, his expression hardens. “We’re going. Now.”
The rudeness in his tone is unbearable, and I can’t help but laugh at how he expects me to follow his orders. “Are we? Okay. You planning to throw me over your shoulder or just drag me by my hair like a Neanderthal?”
/>
His chest puffs out, and he shakes his head. “Cut the shit, Milla. You aren’t walking alone at night. It’s non-negotiable.”
Wait a second… Did he just call me Milla? No one but my friends and Harrison call me that; Hunter certainly has made a point of never using my nickname before. But no. I’m reading too much into it. It was probably a slip of the tongue.
I regard him in silence, considering my options.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks, moving closer.
My mouth goes dry, my stomach doing a little tumble. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Stalking past him, I make my way back to the lot, where his stupid BMW gleams under the harsh sodium lights. The thing looks like a spaceship with its clean, curved lines and tinted windows. I’ve never been inside it before.
Without a word, Hunter unlocks the car with his key fob and slides into the driver’s seat. I get in on the passenger side and make sure to slam the door extra hard before buckling my seatbelt. It smells like new leather in here. And, faintly, Hunter’s cologne. He must get his car detailed every week for it to be so clean. Or maybe he’s just a neat freak, and I never realized it.
“Music?” is all he says.
“Whatever,” I answer.
He punches a button to start the car, and the sound of Tamino fills the cabin.
“Is this ‘Indigo Night’ live?” I blurt. “I love this song.”
“Yeah.”
Ah. So he’s back to monosyllables. Fine. Why do I even bother?
And yet I have to admit, I’m kind of impressed. Hunter Beck does not strike me as the indie rock type. I suppose it’s possible he has more depth than I give him credit for. That doesn’t mean he’s not still a total jackass though.
We pull out of the lot, and as I relax into my seat, I realize it has a seat warmer that’s heating up my back and my ass. God, this is heaven. I could fall asleep right here.
Glancing at Hunter from the corner of my eye, I see how tensely his jaw is set. I bet he’s hating this. Well, good then. He’s the one who insisted on driving me out of some sense of obligatory chivalry. Next time maybe he’ll just let me walk.