At first, I hesitated. I’d hoped to hear his voice, but now that I had, I was unprepared. I felt the ghostly trace of his finger across my shoulders again. Trying to shrug it off, I ducked beneath a string of floats.
Damp clung to the air. A high-tinged scent surrounded me, old wood cut with smoke. When I rose on the other side, heat swept over me. Orange flames danced in the stone fireplace, and a silhouette stood in front of it.
Still shirtless, Will raised a bottle to me. “You get lost?”
I didn’t think he’d understand needing a breather. I was angry at Dave, not to mention exhausted from the press of so many bodies near mine.
Will, on the other hand, wore crowds like a cloak. People orbited him; he had presence and space in the middle of them. It seemed to me like Will got his energy from them.
I shook my head. “Just being nosy.”
“You ever been out here before?”
“First time,” I said, turning to take it in. Branches curved above, casting odd shadows when the light moved.
“Welcome. Make yourself at home.”
Will had made himself at home. A rowboat sat on the ground beside the fire, thick blankets heaped inside it. Two amber bottles gleamed by the hearth. I smiled when I realized the labels proclaimed them root beer.
Turning my attention to him again, I said, “Not your first time out here, huh?”
“Occasionally,” Will said, “you have to listen to the silence to appreciate the noise.”
A quizzical smile touched my lips. “Is that your secret philosophy?”
“Nothing secret about it.”
He shrugged, his bare shoulders catching the firelight just so. Orange and gold traced him, marking every elegant curve of his body. Tugging his shorts up, he gestured at the rowboat. “Take a load off. Stay a while.”
My conscience whispered a warning. Dave wouldn’t like it. And I didn’t know if it was safe. Not because I thought Will would hurt me. Completely the opposite, in fact: Will had a reputation for making girls very, very happy. A lot of girls. But I didn’t back away, and slowly, I shook my head.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Neither should I,” Will replied. “But here I am.”
This pensive, thoughtful version of Will piqued my curiosity. I’d never thought of him as somebody who . . . well, thought.
It was more like, he wasn’t a Moleskine-notebook kind of guy. He’d never penned an editorial for the school newspaper, and he wasn’t the inspirational speaker on the mic at pep rallies.
Will was the guy running up and down the court, waving his hands. He demanded a frenzy and he got it. People cheered louder and louder, until the roar filled the gym and echoed on our skin.
Until that moment, Thoughtful Will didn’t even exist in my imagination. Will Spencer was the blue-eyed bad boy, the one who walked with swagger because he had it, not because he was trying to cultivate it.
And because I couldn’t see what he’d see in me, I lowered myself into the boat. After all, the thoughtful part had come as a surprise. Maybe he really did want someone to talk to. Conversation wasn’t what most people had in mind when they thought of Will.
Most of the blankets were wool, but the comforter on top was smooth enough. I slid against it. The boat’s keel wobbled on wood instead of water. Blushing, I wanted to sit down like a normal human being, but it was a boat. On land. It was awkward just to spite me.
Graceless, I twisted in place, trying to get comfortable. Draping my legs over the side, I leaned on one elbow, then the other. Finally I gave up and propped my arms on my knees. Watching Will move in front of the fire, I wondered what the turn of his shoulders meant. If the tip of his head signified something.
Finally, I said, “You’re holding out on me.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yeah. I see you, hiding out here with the good stuff.”
Glancing toward the bottles on the hearth, I waited for him to catch my smile. The tease in my voice. I don’t know why I did it, except Will Spencer, thoughtful, had distracted me completely. I forgot to be quiet and serious. I forgot that I was the forgotten half of my own band, an introvert in a world of extroverts. He made me forget, and I liked that. To prompt him, I said, “Well?”
With a laugh, Will raised the bottle in his hand. “Last one.”
“Now I’m sad.”
His feet whispered against the smooth, wooden floor. Sinking beside me, the boat shifted under his weight. Somehow, he knew exactly how to sit in a dry-docked rowboat stuffed with old bedding. His whole body was easy. Liquid, limber. Shadows spilled across his jaw and down his throat.
Splaying back and trailing one arm against the gunwale, he broke the smoky quiet with a smooth gesture. The bottle dangled from his fingertips. Casually, he touched the cool glass to my bare skin. “I can share.”
“I haven’t heard that about you,” I said. He touched the bottle to my skin again, and with a shiver, I leaned back. The boat’s curve angled us closer. My gaze fell on his bare chest and the really, completely perfect turn of his collarbone.
Taking a lazy swallow of his root beer, Will didn’t move. He didn’t have to. When I raised my head, I met his eyes directly. They were so dark, they seemed almost black. It was unnerving to sit so close to him. To get swallowed up in eyes that hid everything going on behind them.
His lips parted, and he said, low, “That’s very provocative.”
Of course he wouldn’t ask what I’d heard. He probably didn’t care. Or he was aware. Girlfriend or not, Will Spencer was supposed to be the bad boy that was good for you.
My freshman year, he made out with Stephanie Kim on the catwalk, during the second act of Our Town. Running the follow spot, Stephanie was used to people scurrying behind her, rushing to get from one side of the theater to the other.
So when she saw Will heading her way, she didn’t think anything of it. Plenty of people ended up in the wings and above them. Now, she was a little surprised when he stopped beside her. But it was a good view. Why not?
Suddenly, he was closer. He smiled and raised a finger to his lips to shush her. To this day, Stephanie swears she doesn’t know how it happened. One minute, she was waiting for her next cue. The next, she had her arms wrapped around Will’s neck and his tongue in her mouth.
The green flash of the cue light interrupted them. When it went off, he slipped away. She swore she thought he said something to her, but she never remembered what. She did remember that she couldn’t let the stars go without their follow spot, so she turned back to her post. Will left her there, smiling like a loon.
That was literally the first and last encounter they had. He didn’t avoid her; she wasn’t embarrassed. Afterward, if they passed in the hall, they smiled. But that was it. That kiss on the catwalk was a perfect moment, exactly enough.
It was one of the cornerstones of Will’s semi-epic reputation. Sometimes, it seemed like he’d had a moment with the entire senior class and half the junior class, too. But Will wore it well, and it felt right when he trailed his fingers across my shoulders again. It shocked me how different those little touches felt from Dave’s big gestures. When Dave slung an arm around my shoulder, I was content. When Will touched me, I was on fire.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
I didn’t know why, but I replied, “You’re smart.”
It made him laugh. A scoffing, almost baffled sound escaped him. Shifting toward me, his eyes narrowed. Newly keen, they studied my face in the firelight. There was something in them I’d never seen before.
He was human.
Will Spencer, senior royalty, rich and popular and perfect, was human. That realization popped and sparked like a match, devouring the air between us. So when his touch drifted—when his knuckles grazed my cheek—I wasn’t afraid. I leaned in for the kiss, and I didn’t feel wrong for doing it.
Nobody else had kissed this Will, I was sure of it. A soft, surprised sound caught in his throat. Another hint of human, a little touch that was wonderfully real. I heard him set the bottle on the floor. The boat rocked beneath us, beating a gentle rhythm against the floor. His lips, so thin and teasing a moment ago, were lush beneath mine.
When I leaned into him, my hand fell on his still-bare chest. So much skin, his body so sculpted. It would have been a lie to call him Adonis. He wasn’t a blond, frosted, pretty thing. He was dark and tempting.
Music from the party drifted on the wind, distant and enchanted. We were surrounded by the soft call of waves, the lazy beat of the keel as we filled the space between us with sighs and murmurs.
I parted my lips, and he slipped into me. This was a deeper kiss, one sweetened with root beer and the spicy bite of cinnamon gum. My mouth stung, and all I wanted was a better place.
One where we could spread out together. One where my hair was loose so he could thread his fingers into it. His fingers seemed to long for that, too, twining and curling around the tendrils at my cheeks.
Subtly, he took control. Even as I grazed my blunt nails against his skin, he pressed me into the blankets. His fingers bloomed on my cheek. When they slid down my throat, I didn’t stop them. Why would I stop them? The thought floated away; my body spoke for me. I melted beneath him, forming to his shape.
He had so much bare skin to explore. His shoulders shifted beneath my hands. His breath fell on my lips. Humid heat collected between our bodies, different from the dry, lazy waves that still rolled from the fire. Stroking the small of Will’s back, I rose up for another kiss, hungry and shameless.
I didn’t care that we were basically strangers. That I’d never been like this with anybody. That this was probably wrong. In fact, that seemed to be a reason to keep going. I’d seen a Will no one else had seen. The secret in his pale eyes, the real him that he shrouded in big smiles and lazy flirtation.
More than anything, I had the dizzying sense that it wouldn’t be a moment. Other girls had been with the shiny, flashy, veneered Will. Of course they slid apart. It was once and then done for them. This was different. This Will belonged to me and just me. I knew it was ridiculous to think so, but it was the way I felt.
With a rough murmur, he pushed up on his elbows. Dark hair, slightly damp with sweat, clung to his forehead. Tilted at angles, his dark brows questioned. Shadows swirled in his pale blue eyes, more questions, and pure amazement. His teasing lips had gone flush, and he stared at me, stunned. That’s when he realized that I should belong to him, too.
THREE
This was another new Will for me—uncertain Will, full of realization and trembling over what to do about it. Dipping lower, he brushed his lips against mine. The caress was sweet, almost distracted. Then he opened his eyes, peering into me. Lips parted again, this time to speak.
Before he could say a word, loud, echoing laughter silenced him. We broke apart in a shock. Panic left me fluttery and frightened. What if that was Dave? Even if it wasn’t, the interruption reminded me that I wasn’t supposed to be here—not with Will. Swallowing hard, I twisted around, just in time to see Emmalee Dekker and Simon Garza straggle into the boathouse.
It was an unexpected combination. Simon was a social justice warrior and the editor of our school video-magazine. He had a hate-on for the sports programs that sucked up all the air and funding at East River High, and he wasn’t shy about sharing it. Especially not with Emmalee, the captain of our girls baseball—not softball, baseball—team. The day he was supposed to interview her for a friendly feature about her successful Title IX protest to get that team, he ambushed her instead.
So it was weird to see Simon and Emmalee together at all. Will said exactly what I was thinking, his voice low and just for me.
“How drunk do they have to be to be making out?”
“That’s a Level Epic,” I said. “They’re four hundred and twenty-three miles from Just Drankin’.”
We were going to have to say something. They didn’t know we were there, watching. And then not watching, because we weren’t creepers. Just people caught in the wrong place at a very, very wrong time. A nagging sense of worry slipped through me. These were people who tolerated each other on the best day. What if they regretted this later? What if they weren’t even sober enough to realize what they were doing? Despite my unease, I hesitated.
Maybe they’d been secretly crazy about each other the whole time. Jane called this the hate-to-hot conversion when it turned up in movies. The whole Let’s argue for three-fourths of the movie before we realize we’re soul mates thing. I loved it. It was romantic when two people knew there was something there and refused to let go. It was a triumph of romance: fight to get that happily ever after. And fight afterward a little, just to keep it spicy.
Sadly, H2H is why Jane refused to go to rom-coms with me anymore. Though she was a total filmaholic, that’s where she drew the line. She said all they did was teach guys to be douche bags and teach girls to put up with it. She had this special barfing noise she saved exclusively for scenes where the unhappy duo realized they were in love. It was literally the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard.
Standing, Will caught my hand and pulled me to my feet. He must have felt my same unease, because he was suddenly his public self again. Smooth and composed, he walked right toward Simon and Emmalee like they weren’t grinding against one of the pillars. Somehow, Will made it seem friendly and not even a little embarrassing when he said, “Hey, guys, didn’t realize you were in here.”
The two of them broke apart. When they did, it was obvious they were only barely holding each other up. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the pillar, they might have already been on the ground. Rubbing a hand over his wild ginger hair, Simon summoned a smile.
“Hey, Will. Hey.”
“This place gets a lot of traffic,” Will said. Then he offered Emmalee a smile. “You okay?”
“I am so good,” Emmalee breathed. She caught, and missed, the front of her toga. It gaped open and looked like what it was: rumpled bed sheets, starting to fall off. Fortunately, she was part of the little black dress brigade. No danger of actually exposing herself, but she looked uncomfortably close to disheveled.
Stumbling on nothing, Simon lost his balance. That set off a reaction down the line: Will steadied him, and then Emmalee pitched forward. I caught her and miraculously didn’t fall over myself.
Emmalee’s skin smelled sugary sweet, but her breath was all beer. Sour, tangy, too-much beer, and her skin was fever hot. Her weight shifted against me, like she wasn’t sure both feet were on the floor.
I’d been drunk like that once. Once. That night ended with me throwing up in Jane’s azaleas and passing out facedown on her bedroom floor. I barely remembered anything else, and remembering that made me feel protective of Emmalee. And ashamed that I hadn’t been the one to step up first.
“Maybe we should get you home,” I said.
Will nodded, looking from Simon to Emmalee. “What do you think? Get you home?”
“Um,” Emmalee said, knitting her brows. “Trish said I could stay in the guesthouse. She did. She did say that, in fact.”
I nodded reassuringly. “She did, I believe you.”
Simon didn’t answer right away. Not because he seemed to be hesitating, but because he seemed to be drifting off a little. They really were at Level Epic on the drunk scale. Suddenly, he patted Will on the chest and nodded, “Can you drive me, man?”
“I can’t. I had a couple of beers,” Will said. “But Dave’ll usually play tipsy taxi if we need him to. Right, Sarah?”
And with that one question, everything contracted. My heart squeezed so hard, it felt like it stopped. My throat tightened, and my back tensed. Suddenly, I was a wire, coiled tighter by the moment. Like a guitar string, tuned carelessly to the point of sn
apping.
The last time I saw Dave, he was basking in the warm glow of Olivia Bernowski’s attention. Still wearing his guitar, still caught in the high from our gig. It was true that he didn’t drink. And because of that, he would drive people home if they needed a ride. Drunk people, mostly. High people, people who got into fights and lost their ride home. People left behind when their friends ditched them for another party elsewhere.
Guilt churned in my stomach. Dave Echols was my partner. My friend. And he was my boyfriend. My boyfriend who restored guitars, and played them like a demon, and looked extremely fine in a pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans. Yes, he was flawed. And yes, I was angry at him. But in that moment, it provided little comfort that he was currently just up the hill, completely clueless that his girlfriend was in the boathouse, adding yet another point to Will Spencer’s high score.
I knew that nothing would happen between him and Heatherly. Or Olivia. Or anybody. It never did, not with them, not with the people who crowded around him after our other gigs. It was true that he was addicted to the attention he got. Despite my repeated requests that he stop, he couldn’t. He had driven me to become a sick, jealous monster. No matter how many times he told me that it was just after-show glow, it gnawed at my confidence. Now the first time somebody showed me a little bit of attention, I threw myself at him.
I felt angry and guilty at the same time. One question kept spinning and multiplying and echoing in my head: What have I done?
“Sarah? Where is Dave?” Will prompted.
Question. Dave. Ride home for Simon. I had to concentrate. Forcing myself to answer, I couldn’t make myself look at Will. “He should be back at the party. Let me walk Emmalee to the guesthouse. If I see him, I’ll send him this way.”
Will produced his cell phone. With a few swipes across the surface, he held it out. “Text me if you don’t.”
Fumbling, I swayed under Emmalee’s weight but managed to dig my phone out, too. Shame crawled on my skin, a blush so deep it had to be visible in the dark. I was just a moment for Will. One of a hundred. A thousand. I had known better. I wanted to blame it all on him—but I couldn’t.
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