The Night We Said Yes

by Gibaldi,Lauren

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Advance Reader’s e-proof

  courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers

  This is an advance reader’s e-proof made from digital files of the uncorrected proofs. Readers are reminded that changes may be made prior to publication, including to the type, design, layout, or content, that are not reflected in this e-proof, and that this e-pub may not reflect the final edition. Any material to be quoted or excerpted in a review should be checked against the final published edition. Dates, prices, and manufacturing details are subject to change or cancellation without notice.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DEDICATION

  To my parents for encouraging my dreams.

  And to Samir, who held my hand as I pursued them.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Title

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

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  NOW

  8:00 P.M.

  Meg is in front of my house in ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

  “You’re late,” I joke, sinking into her car’s leather seats.

  “Shut up,” she says, smiling. “You ready?”

  “Sure,” I answer, somewhat hesitantly.

  “It’ll be fun, I promise. Rumor has it there may be a bounce house. And if I know you, I know you can’t resist a bounce house.” She tosses her blond hair over her shoulder, perfectly flipped as if she styled it to stay there. She knows I’m not much of a partier, not anymore at least, so she’s clearly trying to be as enthusiastic as possible and hoping it rubs off on me. I can’t help but laugh at her efforts.

  “You know all my weaknesses,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. She grins, knowing she won, and pulls the car out of the driveway. I watch the streetlights pass by, illuminating our drive, guiding our path. It’s silent out, a normal Friday night, one in which I’d rather be home than going to a college party. But here I am. As we approach the University of Central Florida, the streets get louder, more crowded. Cars honk, voices yell. College students aching to stretch their legs—and livers—are out in full swing. Meg loves this. I . . . used to.

  We were here just a week earlier for graduation. Our senior class was so large that the ceremony had to be hosted at the university’s basketball arena. As we sat waiting for our names to be called, many of my classmates, Meg included, looked around, taking in their future campus. I, on the other hand, had nothing to get attached to; I’m moving four hours north to attend Florida State University. I need to get away and try something new. You can only be hurt in a town so many times before giving up on it. Meg still kind of hates me for my decision, in that best friend sort of way that makes me feel loved.

  “We’re here,” Meg says, parking her car not on the crowded street like everyone else, but in the driveway. Being the sister of the host, she has a designated spot.

  “Here we go!” I say in the cheesiest, peppiest voice possible. She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car.

  “El, we have three months before college. Let’s try to have some fun, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say, following her to the house. Okay, she was right, I guess I could try.

  Inside, the living room is already crowded, a mess of sweat, booze, and skimpy clothing. Meg is next to me, moving her body to the beat of the music. The thump, thump, thump of the bass, blasting off an iPod in the corner, is irresistible to her. I notice a few guys already starting to look; it’s hard not to—she’s five foot nine without heels, and stunning. I stand next to her, basking in my invisibility. I tried the center-of-attention thing before; it didn’t go as planned.

  “Shall we do a walk-around? Find Evan?” she yells over the music, looking at the room instead of me.

  “Sure,” I answer. She grabs my hand and leads me through the living room, snaking around a few people too absorbed in each other to notice us.

  “Meg! Ella!” Evan calls out as soon as we walk into the kitchen.

  We wave, smiling, and walk over to him. Meg and Evan have always been close, ever since I’ve known them. It probably stemmed from all the times she’s stood up for him while growing up, which was actually how we met. When a sixth-grader called Evan a princess, Meg punched him in the face. Hard. I ran to get her ice for her fist, completely in awe of her. I’d never gotten into a fight, much less started one. I was more of the cry-into-my-pillow type of girl. But after years of being picked on for my giant glasses, I understood why she’d do it. And we’ve been inseparable ever since—the amazing Wonder Woman and her sidekick, Ella.

  Evan greets me with a giant, all-consuming hug.

  “So glad you guys came. Isn’t it amazing?” he asks, looking around the room. He has the same natural platinum blond hair as Meg, and is just as tall. I used to joke that their biological parents were Swedish giants. He used to get back at me by saying my parents were carnies because I’m so short.

  “New record?” Meg asks, referring to Evan’s ongoing count of how many people he can fit inside his tiny, two-bedroom house.

  “Not yet, but the night is still young,” he answers, brushing his hair back.

  “Hey, where’s the new boyfriend? I need to meet him,” Meg demands.

  “He’s on a pizza run,” Evan says, a smile playing at his mouth. “I’m starved. I spent all day cleaning and forgot to eat.”

  “No drinking for you then,” Meg says, taking his cup away. “But for us . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, little sis,” he says, rolling his eyes at her, and then reaching back to hand a second filled cup to me.

  “Now, who can we meet? Anyone interesting? Who’s, you know, not gay?” Meg asks, sipping her stolen drink.

  “Go roam. I’m sure you’ll meet someone up to your very high standards,” Evan answers, leaning against his counters. “And, Ella, try not to have too much fun,” he adds.

  “Ha ha,” I say, offering him a nice fake smile. “See? Fun.”

  “Meg, get her drunk or something. I’m tired of mopey Ella.”

  “Mopey Ella was promised a bounce house. That will make her happy,” I say.

  “Bounce house is coming later, with the boyfriend. Which reminds me . . . I’m going to check on him. He’s been gone for, like, forty minutes. I’m beginning to think he’s run off with the pizza guy.”

  “Good luck,” Meg answers. He gives us b
oth a hug and returns to the party. Since the house is packed, we head to the backyard. The humidity hugs my skin as soon as I step outside. The air is thick, a wall I have to push through. It’s a typical Florida summer, and I’m instantly grateful I’m wearing a loose tank top and shorts. I pull my hair into a ponytail, exposing my neck to the stagnant night air.

  Outside it’s less crowded. Pockets of people are littered throughout the yard, but we can talk without yelling, and hear without pressing our mouths to each other’s ears. I breathe out, more comfortable in the open than jammed inside.

  “Oh, hey.” Meg jumps, turning to me. “Are you working at the bookstore tomorrow night? If not, there’s a band Jake likes that’s playing downtown. I forget the name, but we should go.”

  “Yeah, totally,” I answer, my mood turning around. I do love a good show. “I usually like Jake’s recommendations. Speaking of, is he coming tonight?” I ask, still holding my drink. I don’t really feel like drinking, but I grasp the cup anyway. At least no one bothers you when you’re holding something.

  “Nope, the guys are recording,” Meg answers, tossing her hair back. Her lips purse, and I know she’s thinking about Jake, wondering if any female groupies will be crashing their recording session. Clearly, I shouldn’t have asked.

  “Hey, let’s go check out the tiki bar,” I answer, changing the subject. Unofficially she may be in charge of protecting me from bullies, but I’m in charge of protecting her from herself.

  “Yeah, cool.”

  The bar, which Evan constructed himself, has a deep brown hardwood surface, a thatched roof, and matching tiki torches. Behind it is the appointed bartender. He’s muscular, with sandy blond hair and a wide mouth. His eyes are a little glazed over, like he’s had two too many drinks, and there’s a sly grin plastered on his face. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt, and though he’s not my type (too bulky), it’s obvious Meg is instantly attracted to him. She’s walking taller, and her eyebrows are cocked. This probably won’t go well.

  “Hey, you’re Meg, right?” he asks as soon as we approach.

  “Yep, and who are you?” she asks, with a tilt of her head and a wry grin.

  “Anthony, a friend of Evan’s.”

  “Well hello, Anthony, friend of Evan’s. This is Ella, a friend of mine.”

  “Hey,” I say, shaking his slightly clammy hand, and I can tell Meg is wondering what kind of “friend” he is to Evan. “So, do you go to school here?”

  “Yeah, just started. Majoring in business. What about you?” he asks Meg, not me.

  “Acting,” Meg answers, despite the fact that she’s not exactly in college yet. Minor detail.

  “Well, that’s not boring at all.” He smirks, leaning closer to her, across the bar. Clearly not gay. I smile to myself, knowing what will happen next. There’s no way of saving him now. “Have I seen you in anything?”

  “Not yet, but you will soon.” She puts her hand on her waist authoritatively.

  “I look forward to it.”

  My phone vibrates against my leg.

  At recording studio. Jake already hit on every girl here. It’s been 10 minutes. New record?

  I bite the side of my lip, closing Barker’s text message before Meg can see it. I feel a little guilty, but now is not the time to bring her mood down. She doesn’t need that, not after everything she and Jake have been through. She needs the distraction of Anthony and the mental assurance that Jake’s just off playing music. As I stuff my phone back in my pocket, the ongoing flirtation in front of me comes back in full force.

  “Oh, hey, guys, meet my roommate, Matt. Matt, this is Meg and Ella,” Anthony says.

  I’m still looking down as the words hit my consciousness. He says the name so casually, obviously unaware of what it means to me. Matt. I know it’s not him, it can’t be, but every time I hear that name my heart stops and I’m gone. It’s as if my mind can’t process what would happen if he were to come back, so instead of reacting, it gives up, checks out, and leaves town. Just like Matt did. But I know it can’t be him. It never is, and it never will be.

  And then Meg gasps.

  And her hand shoots down and I feel her fingers lace through mine.

  And then my heart wakes up and it drums, pounds, shows that it’s alive and that I, too, am alive and should look up.

  So I do, and when our eyes meet, I swear I stop breathing.

  Because it is him. Here. Standing in front of me. Looking like he never left. Looking like this is any other night and he’s just stopping by to say hi.

  And I don’t know what to say because my heart is in my throat and I don’t know if I want to throw up or cry or scream or smile.

  So I just stare, unable to blink, and watch as a word comes out of his mouth.

  “Hey . . .”

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  THEN

  ONE YEAR EARLIER

  8:00 P.M.

  “El, turn it up!”

  I ran across Meg’s bedroom to her laptop and adjusted the volume. Music poured through the room, covering everything with a blanket of melodies and lyrics. Smiling, I danced my way back into the bathroom, where we were getting ready.

  “I love this song. It’s perfect getting-ready music,” Meg said as I sang along to the lyrics. We were primping and plucking for the first party of the summer. We’d started this routine last year, when we realized our pre-party was oftentimes better than the actual event.

  “What time does it start again?” I asked, handing Meg her lipstick back. She took it, gave me a quick look, and grabbed a tissue.

  “Blot,” she said, holding the tissue out to me. I did as she said because in areas of fashion and makeup, Meg definitely knew best. “Jake said the first band goes on at eight thirty,” she continued, “so I’m assuming his band isn’t on until nine thirtyish. So, we should get there around nine. Not too early, but early enough to chat with the guys before they play.”

  “And you’re sure you’ll be okay?” I’d asked at least five times already, and I wasn’t afraid to go for six. Each time she’d responded with a halfhearted “yeah” or “sure,” which didn’t really answer anything. Meg had a tendency to bulldoze over questions she didn’t want to answer, so over time I learned the repetition technique. And in this case, I really needed her to answer truthfully because I didn’t want to see her hurt. Again. I knew she bounced back easily—most of the time—but I worried about her.

  “For the seventeenth time, yes. I’m fine. We’re talking and all. I mean, it’s Jake. Even though we broke up, I can’t just . . . you know . . . stop.” She stared at the mirror, darkening her lips until they were a completely different shade, transforming herself as she often did when she wanted to feel like someone else. I didn’t have the skill to do that; I wasn’t able to simply morph and pretend things were okay when they weren’t.

  “I just worry,” I admitted, packing my makeup back into my bag so as not to meet her eyes. Earlier that year, Meg ended her relationship with Jake, the lead singer and guitar player in the Pepperpots, a three-person pop punk band that we were good friends with. Their relationship was pretty much doomed from the start, so no one was surprised, including myself. They were volatile, passionate to a fault. Both had fiery personalities, which were nearly explosive when ignited. I didn’t think it would last past their first blowup when Meg literally pushed Jake into a Dumpster. They made up—and made out—right after, but still. Even though I cheered them on—I had to, I was Meg’s best friend—I was also skeptical. Clearly with reason.

  “I’m fine,” she said again. “Like I’ve said before, if he’d rather flirt with girls after a show because he thinks he’s some sort of a rock god and needs to act like the hot, single lead singer, go for it. I just can’t be around to watch.” She breathed in deep, shaking her head and grabbing gel off the counter. “I loved him, but it wasn’t
worth it.”

  “At least he’s stopped trying to get back together with you,” I said, not adding “for the time being.”

  “Yeah, but it was kind of cool having two songs written about me,” she said with a fake laugh. “Not every girl has that.”

  “Not every girl dates a self-proclaimed rock god,” I joke, brushing my dark brown hair.

  “Very true,” she said. “At least all the breakup drama is over, and we can move on.”

  “Yes, please, no more drama for a while.” We were all great friends for so long—me, Meg, Jake, and Barker, the drummer—but the breakup put up a wall, with me and Meg on one side, and the band on the other. I straddled the line at times, playing messenger for each side. I missed the guys; they were my friends, too.

  Of all things, it took a school field trip to break down the barrier. One trip to see a poorly performed Shakespeare play and we were talking again, comparing notes on which actor was worst. It was as if nothing had happened. I loved being back with them again—they were my family. I felt complete.

  “Besides,” Meg said, dabbing her lips with a tissue, “you’re the one we should be worried about.”

  I sighed. “Whatever.” Worrying about Meg allowed me to be distracted from my own breakup, which was far more recent . . . and far more questionable.

  When Nick broke up with me, it wasn’t the typical “it’s not you, it’s me.” It was so far from typical that it took me a while to really process. I met him at his car after school. As I approached, he was sitting on the hood, guitar in hand.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning over the guitar to give him a kiss. But he didn’t look up; he kept his eyes focused on his guitar. I leaned back, confused. “Is something wrong?”

  “Ella, listen.” Hearing my full first name coupled with the word “listen” made my stomach clench and I knew at that moment we were breaking up. “The band’s going to start touring soon.” (Lie. His band, No Signal, wasn’t touring for another two months, and it was only touring around Orlando, where we lived.) “And we’re getting pretty big.” (Lie. No one knew who they were.) “And I just don’t think I can have a girlfriend right now.” (Lie. He started dating someone else not long after me.) “So, how about . . . a high five for friendship?”