She shrugs and gives me that smirk she often reserves for when she’s mocking someone in the Break Up Support Group. “You never know,” she says, closing the purse and tossing the silver chain handle over her shoulder. “Emory is a womanizer, and I’m just looking out for you.”
“So not happening.” I toss the condom next to my makeup bag and hope the layers of foundation I just applied will cover the deeply horrifying blush I feel sliding over my cheeks.
With fifteen minutes left until Emory had promised he’d pick me up, I waste about thirty seconds of my life wondering if he would have rented a limo for another girl. For a real date, and not a fake one like me. But then I decide that it doesn’t matter and that whatever Emory would do with a real date is none of my business.
When it comes to high school homecoming, my experiences are the definition of been there, done that. Nate and I got a limo with our friends every year and the after homecoming party sophomore year was my first experience in getting so drunk I puked. And although your senior year is supposed to be the most important year for this kind of stuff, I almost feel like I’m over all of it. High school was 75 percent Nate Miles and the rest of it I’m just making up as I go along.
The sound of the doorbell makes my heart seize up and crawl into my throat. My eyes are wide orbs decorated in silvery eyeshadow as I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Emory is ten minutes early.
My cell phone has no new messages, and I stare at it for a moment, wondering why he didn’t tell me he was here. Nate always texted me before dates so that I could meet him at the door and he wouldn’t have to suffer through small talk with my parents.
“Isla, honey,” Mom calls out, her voice ringing with pleasantries in the presence of company. “Emory is here.”
An entire afternoon of dressing and primping and yet I am not prepared for this.
Okay. My reflection looks good. Perfectly applied makeup, a casual yet gorgeous hairstyle, and a blue dress with little beading that shimmers with all the magic of a dark night sky. Tonight is simply a way to make Bastian and the Break Up Support Group happy. It is not a real date. So why am I so damned nervous?
With one last glance in the mirror, I grab the condom off my vanity and shove it into my purse. I won’t be needing it tonight, but I’m happy to avoid having my mother find it and ask questions later. Still, my brain finds a way to slip unwanted thoughts into my mind as I step into the hallway. Does Emory bring condoms on dates?
My heart goes on a rampage beneath my dress. I don’t know why I’m nervous of all things. I see Emory every day at school. We’re friends. Surviving tonight should be a cinch.
I can hear the low rumble of Emory’s voice as I make my way toward the living room. Whatever he just said, it makes my dad laugh. Dad says, “The Warriors just need a tighter defense, and they’ll be back to winning.”
“Seems like an excuse to let the offense slack off,” Emory says. I stop at the end of the hallway and peer into the living room before making my grand entrance. Emory wears that sarcastic expression on his face, the one he always uses when he’s messing with me.
Dad draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shaking his head in a way that takes all responsibility for the high school football team’s failures. “You’re right about that,” he says. And then he does something I never thought would happen on my one and only fake date with Emory Underwood: he grabs Emory’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You’re a good kid.”
“Becket, don’t embarrass the boy,” Mom chides. “Isla!”
“I’m here,” I say, stepping onto the gray carpet. All eyes swing toward my direction, and I swear it’s like a scene out of some stupid teen movie. Mom and Dad’s jaws drop, as they gape at me in awe, starstruck by the wonders of makeup and a two-hundred-dollar formal dress.
And Emory, standing tall between both of my parents, his hands clasped together in front of him, takes me in like he’s never seen me before. Like I’m some nerdy loser transformed into a princess by the hands of a fairy godmother. It’s cheesy and embarrassing, and the worst part is that I like it.
Emory’s dark eyes drink up the sight of me in my blue dress, and he shifts on his feet a little. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Are you ready?” he asks, gesturing toward the door.
I nod. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. Emory’s usual t-shirt and jeans have been replaced with a charcoal gray tux that fits so well it could have been sewn onto him. He looks a foot taller in formal wear, his piercing eyes now seem like he knows every answer to any question I’d ever ask. I have to force myself to look away before my brain can form a logical thought.
I turn to my mom. “Do I have a curfew?”
She glances at Dad and then they both look from Emory to me. “Nah,” Mom says, waving her hand.
“You two have a blast and be careful.” Dad grabs Emory’s shoulder again and gives him a smile that can only be described as appreciative. “It was great meeting you, Emory. You should come by more often.”
“Dad, we’re just friends,” I say, feeling a heat rise in my cheeks.
“Friends are the best kind of people to have over,” he says.
I step forward and grab Emory’s arm. “You ready to go?”
Mom tsks and holds up her cell phone. “Not without a picture, Isla.” She motions to us with her hand. “Now stand in front of the fireplace and smile.”
“I’m sorry about this,” I mutter to Emory as we do what Mom asks.
“No worries,” he says back, flashing me a grin. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, lining us up for the perfect homecoming photo.
Mom snaps a few pictures, all the while beaming as if this were my wedding day instead of a silly homecoming dance. “Absolutely beautiful,” she says, nodding to her phone as she reviews the pictures.
“Yes, she is,” Emory says, glancing down at me. Chills tingle down my spine as we step away from the fireplace. He shakes my dad’s hand. “Thanks for letting me spend the evening with your daughter, Mr. Rush.”
“You’re quite welcome, son,” Dad says, grasping Emory’s hand with both of his. “You two have fun.”
Nothing of these last few minutes has been the same as my last four years of dating. I knew that a fake date with Emory would never be exactly like my old dates with Nate, but I hadn’t expected how drastically different they would be. The feeling of butterflies when a new guy opens the door for me and the excitement of the night ahead of us—none of those feelings happened quite like this before.
Emory says something about my parents being nice as we walk down the sidewalk and to his Camaro, which is parked on the side of the road.
“I didn’t know they could be so nice until someone charmed the pants off of them,” I say, playfully nudging him in the ribs with my elbow.
Emory turns a coy gaze in my direction. “What can I say? I’m good with parents.”
He leans forward and opens the passenger door for me. I can’t help but gawk in surprise. “And you open doors? You’re some kind of supreme gentleman.”
“Of the highest order,” he says with a flourish of his hand. I climb into the car. He throws me a wink before closing the door, and I’m left feeling a thousand emotions at once.
The biggest one is fear that I will regret this.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the engine cranks to life, I feel a small thrill at riding with Emory for the first time. When we ate pizza in here a few days ago, I hadn’t heard the roar of the engine or felt the soft vibrations beneath my feet. This car is alive.
He shifts into first gear and pulls out into the road, weaving through the neighborhood streets as easily as if it were his own subdivision. The silence stretches on for a few minutes, but I spend that time admiring Emory. The way he grips the steering wheel, the laser-sharp focus in his eyes when we cross an intersection.
“You’re a good driver,” I say on impulse. The only other teenaged guys I’ve ridden with
made hard stops and too-sharp turns. Plus, there’s something to be said about riding low in a sports car. The entire experience is amusing in a way you can’t have in the front seat of a monster truck. Of course, you can’t make out in the front seat of a Camaro as easily as you could in Nate’s truck.
Not that it matters.
“I’ve had plenty of practice,” he says, shifting into a higher gear.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
I lift an eyebrow. “That’s as much practice as I have,” I say with a snort. “And I don’t look as suave as you do when I’m driving.”
“Well … have you driven across the country a few times?” I shake my head, and he flashes me a smile as we pull up to a red light. “Then I have more practice than you.”
We’re nearly at the high school now, and I feel a pang of anxiety because our drive is almost over. Soon we’ll be surrounded by people and this intimate time where it’s just the two of us will be gone. I slide my fingertips down the side of my car seat, tracing the stitching on the leather. “Where have you been?”
“East coast, west coast. Not much up north,” he says. His focus seems to sharpen as he thinks back. “Of course, my longest road trips were this summer when I had tons of free time to kill. Now I have to wait until the winter break to go anywhere fun.”
“I bet girls love going on road trips with you.” The moment the words are out of my mouth I feel like an idiot of epic proportions. My teeth dig into my inside of my lip. Emory grins as he turns the car into the parking lot and rolls slowly over a speed bump.
“We’re friends, Iz-la. You can just ask if I took a girl with me.”
I pretend to look confused, but I know that’s fooling no one. Emory finds a parking space near the back of the lot and cuts the engine. “You want to pull that for me?” he asks, gesturing to where my hand lies wrapped around the parking brake.
I lift the rod and the brake clicks into place. With the motor off, the sudden silence awakens a swarm of nervous butterflies in my stomach. I still want to know the answer to the road trip question, but I’m not about to ask it again.
Emory’s shoulders straighten as he turns to look at me. “Okay, so, homecoming,” he says, pressing his hands against the center console. “Now that we’re officially here, let’s switch this into date mode.”
“Date mode?” I ask. The butterflies find a way to freak out even more.
He nods. “This can’t be just me and you hanging out at some stupid high school dance. This is for the support group, as part of the therapy that our fearless leader Bastian, who has no formal training, by the way, has assigned to you.”
Oh. Right.
I plaster on a bored expression and wait for him to continue. I do not think about how gorgeous his eyes look from the glow of the dome light overhead.
Emory pulls the car keys out of the ignition and stares at them while he talks. “From now on, I’m not the Emory you know. I’m just a guy, named Emory, who asked you on a date.”
“So this is some kind of role-playing?” I ask.
His tongue flicks across his bottom lip. He does that a lot, not that I’m complaining. “It’s role-playing for me. I’m just a normal guy taking you on a normal date. I think Bastian would want you to be yourself, a normal girl, who is new to the dating scene.” He levels a gaze at me and my heartbeat quickens. “You can’t go into this thinking it’s just me, your friend. Pretend I’m some guy you just met and just go with it.” He smiles. “Just enjoy the date, okay? And no comparing it to when you dated that other guy.”
My chest rises. This entire night is a ruse, one where I am a willing participant. It’s all for the support group. It’s all for the sake of healing my broken heart and moving on. I pop open my car door. “Let’s do this.”
“So, um,” Emory says, walking around the car to me. “You’re new to this school, right? How do you like it so far?”
I roll my eyes and play along with this ruse. “It’s okay, I guess. I miss my old school a little bit less each day.”
“I’m glad you agreed to be my date,” he says, holding out his elbow. I tuck my arm into his, and we fall into step together, walking toward the front entrance of the school.
“Well, you know,” I say, deciding that if I’m going to play along with this pretend date, then I might as well go all out, “I had several date options, but I chose you so don’t screw it up.”
“I don’t intend on it.” Emory’s eyes meet mine and for a few seconds, the entrance of the school blurs into the background, mixing with the other students and teacher chaperones until nothing else matters but that one dimple in Emory’s smile. I get the feeling he reserves that smile for special occasions.
Granite Hills High has been transformed into a Starry Night, with balloons and lights and waves of fabric that accentuate the homecoming theme to perfection. Blue sparkly balloons make an archway in front of the main hallway that leads into the gym. Emory and I walk arm in arm down the hallway basked in a purple-blue glow. The walls are covered in dark blue tulle with hundreds of strands of clear lights behind them.
“Hey, Em,” a short girl with black ringlets of hair says, all while holding on to her date’s hand.
He gives her a nod, and I find myself sliding my hand down his forearm until, in a moment of perfect sync, he reaches up and grabs my palm. Our fingers lace together at the entrance of the gym, and a shudder ripples through my body.
“Wow.” I breathe as we step into what used to be a basketball court. “They know how to decorate for a dance at this school.”
Emory snorts, tugging me toward the right so we get out of the way of the dozen senior girls who just flounced into the gymnasium, smelling of perfume and alcohol. “The budget for this probably cost more than my car.”
Above us, the metal roof railings are covered in blue and silver drapes of shimmery fabric that pull together in the center, making several massive circles that cover the ceiling. In the middle of each one is a disco ball that casts shimmery stars all over the floor. There’s a celestial balloon star to the right and a photographer taking pictures of happy couples standing in the center of it.
Ice sculptures of shooting stars line the food table, which is highlighted by tiers of blue iced cupcakes taller than I am. The punch bowl is a fountain, pouring a blue drink over the edges of the crystal like a whimsical waterfall.
A live band plays from a silver stage in the center of the room, giving everyone a three hundred and sixty-degree experience of the music. Students are everywhere, laughing and dancing and being glamorous party versions of themselves.
“What shall we do first?” Emory asks. “Get some electric blue punch or dance to whatever the hell this band is playing?”
I consider the options. No less than two girls are currently staring at us, yet I don’t feel the same way I did when I’d field jealous stares from girls at Deer Valley High. Those girls wanted to be me because I had Nate. They were friendly, eager to join my second tier club of Spirit girls. These girls offer nothing more than venom in their stares.
“Let’s dance,” I say.
“Good call. We’ll wait until the punch is spiked. He flashes me a wink and leads me onto the dance floor.
I’ve danced with Nate a dozen times. At least once at the beginning of every school dance we went to, followed by another slow dance when they did last call. The rest of the time dances were usually spent hanging out with groups of our friends or getting crazy with my girlfriends during the fast songs. So I’m no stranger to the art of holding on to a guy and swaying back and forth while casually staring into each other’s eyes.
But dancing with Emory is different. His warm fingers slide around my waist, tugging me closer to him than I’ve ever been. His other and holds on to mine while he leads us around the dance floor. My feet fall into step with his, and soon our movements are as fluid as if we’d practiced them a million times.
We don’t speak for a while, but it�
��s not awkward. I find myself smiling and admiring the tight knot in the navy blue tie around his neck. I wonder if he tied it himself or if he had help. I wonder a lot of things, and none of them are about Nate.
The song ends and another begins, a slightly faster tempo that makes Emory’s feet shuffle a little quicker. We twist and slide through other couples, and I gaze into his eyes, marveling at how the starry night lights give everything a whimsical feel.
When this song rolls to a stop, the lead singer leans toward his microphone, sweat dripping from his forehead. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes, kids.”
A hip-hop track begins to blare out of the speakers. Emory releases me, and something about losing the feel of his hands on my dress brings me back to reality. “Time for a drink?” he says, casting a dubious glance at the two girls getting their twerk on next to us.
“Please,” I say, unable to hold back my laughter. Those girls are doing no justice to the twerk movement.
Again, Emory’s hand finds mine, as if this were something we did all the time, and I hold on tightly as he leads me through the throngs of people. We pour ourselves a clear plastic champagne glass of blue punch and take a sip at the same time.
“Definitely not spiked yet,” Emory says, furrowing his brow as if he genuinely thought someone would have dumped a forty into it by now.
“Are you saying you need to get drunk to hang out with me?” I tease, tipping the cup to my lips again. I’m not sure what the drink is supposed to be, but it tastes good enough that I pour some more.
“Quite the opposite. I’m hoping you’ll get drunk so you’ll enjoy being with me,” he says, that one-dimpled grin beaming at me again.
“How’d you learn to dance so well?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t want to discuss anything too intimate and test the blush-concealing strength of my foundation and matte powder.
“I took lessons in Spain,” he says, grabbing a cube of cheese with a toothpick. He bites the cheese off and stabs the toothpick into another square. “At a little studio in Barcelona.”
The Breakup Support Group Page 17