by Kent, Rina
Locked.
Because why on earth should anything ever be easy?
I roll my eyes and head back to the kitchen. Marigold turns off the mixer, spots me standing idle, and frowns. “Don’t just stand there. Make yourself useful.”
I walk over to the eye-level oven and peer inside. “Are these ready?”
“What does the timer say?”
Back to good old Marigold, eh? I knew our truce was too good to last. “One-minute twenty-five.”
“Then they’ll be ready in one-minute twenty-five,” Marigold says.
I roll my eyes again, and start clearing up some of the mess on the countertop. “What’s all of this for?”
“The church has a fundraiser tomorrow.” Marigold looks around and points at a lined baking tray. I bring it over to her, and her eyes dart up to mine before she starts spooning batter on the tray. “We’ll be selling these.”
We?
No, good God, say it ain’t so.
“You know I have finals coming up, right?”
Marigold snorts. “You can’t offer up a few hours of your time for God?”
I blink at her, caught off guard. I never knew Mom to be religious, and she’d never mentioned anything about Marigold’s affiliations either. Then again, she’d only ever mentioned grandmother in passing.
“I didn’t know you…went to church,” I finish weakly.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, young lady.” Behind us, the timer goes off. “Now get those out of the oven before they burn.”
Shortbread, pound cake, and snickerdoodles?
So much for the damn party — I’ll be lucky if I get out of this kitchen before midnight.
Briar
I stare at my reflection, frowning critically at the fit of my black tuxedo. It’s a bit tighter in the arms than I’d like — I last wore this a year ago, and I’ve been bulking up my biceps since then — but I doubt I’ll be keeping my jacket on for long. One thing about Dylan’s parties? They might all start out as black-tie events, but by the end of the night they usually devolve into wet t-shirt competitions.
I’ve combed my hair back, but I’m not sure I like the city-slicker look it gives me. I tilt up my chin and adjust my bow tie.
My phone rings, and I answer it with a terse, “Hello?” without checking who’s calling.
“Hey, man, you wanna take one car to Dylan’s?”
I open my mouth to accept, but then I hesitate. I plan on bringing Indi home with me, and it’s gonna be hella awkward if Marcus is hitching a ride.
“Actually, go on ahead. I have a few things to do before I pull through.”
“Sure? I don’t mind making some stops.”
“Yeah, I’ll just meet you there.”
Marcus is quiet for a second. “Okay, sure.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He doesn’t sound happy. He also sounds as if he started the party early. It’s an unspoken agreement — at these types of parties, only one of us drinks. Since the thing with Jess, it’s almost always been him doing the drinking. I’d have thought common sense…
“Hey, you’ll be keeping an eye on me, right?” I say through a laugh. “Make sure I don’t get too wasted?”
Marcus laughs too, and I realize I was imagining things when he says, “Dude, of course. This is my last drink for the night.”
I end the call with a smile, and turn back to the mirror. I guess it’s good for Indi to see me all cleaned up and shit. Maybe she’ll start to realize she’s not dealing with some high school kid anymore, but a man.
Because fuck, I definitely don’t look like a kid tonight.
There’s a parking spot open beside Marcus’s SUV — my usual spot. I guide my Mustang into the bay and turn off the ignition, taking a few seconds to soak everything in. Dylan’s glass and limestone mansion is almost a mile away from Addy’s house. It sits on a small rise looking out on most of the eighteen-hole golf course in the middle of the estate.
There are a ton of cars parked out here. I know Dylan has to jump through hoops every time he has one these shindigs just to get the golf course to accept this amount of strangers inside its boomed-off premises, but he gets it right every time.
I adjust my tie, run my hands through my combed-back hair, and head for the front door. One of the guys from our football team stands nearby, a clipboard in his hand. There’s a line of kids waiting to get in, but I ignore them as I head straight for the door,
“Hey, man,” I say, walking right up to Jeremiah. “Indi Virgo check in yet?”
Jeremiah consults his clipboard, and then shakes his head. I pat his shoulder. “Let me know when she gets here.”
He nods and steps aside, unhitching the red rope so I can pass. I hear murmured complaints from the queue behind me, but none loud enough for me to make out actual words.
The bottom level of the house has a few separate lounge areas, mostly intimate, all crammed with girls in whorish cocktail dresses and uncomfortable guys in suits. There are already some loose ties and rolled-up sleeves — and the party hasn’t even begun yet.
I find Dylan in the game room, playing pool with Zak and a few other guys from our team. The music thumping from the dance floor beneath makes it almost impossible to hear anything over the bass track.
I check my watch. Ten minutes to eleven. Did Indi honestly chicken out?
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I’m grinning before I even turn around. “My man,” I say, chest-bumping Marcus. He’s also wearing a tuxedo, but where mine is a little tight, his seems to be hanging looser than it did last year.
All the drinking, I guess. That, and I barely see him eat anymore.
“Let’s get a drink,” he mouths, cocking his head back the way I just came in. I slip my phone out, checking the screen to make sure I haven’t received any notifications. Jeremiah has my number, so he’s bound to call or text when Indi shows up.
“She not here yet?” Marcus says, raising his voice above the music as we head into one of the hallways leading to the smaller kitchen where Dylan keeps his alcohol.
“Not yet.” I grin at him. “But she’ll come.”
Marcus doesn’t look convinced, but I ignore him.
She will be my date tonight. Even if I have to go to her house, throw her over my shoulder, and bring her back here myself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Indi
I slide the last tray of shortbread into the oven. Marigold is snoring quietly, head in her arms on the countertop. I set the oven timer, push a strand of hair from my face, and bite back a sigh of relief.
Quarter to midnight.
Hey, it’s not a party if it’s over before midnight, right? If anything, I’ll just be fashionably late.
Wearing what, exactly? My school clothes? A pair of baggy jeans and my hoody?
I creep down the hall and consider the stairs for a moment before grabbing the rail. Then my eyes track down the hallway again.
The brief thought that my mother may have left behind something suitable for the party tonight has been pestering me since I tried that locked door hours ago.
Locked, Indi.
But every locked door has a key, right? I just need to find it…
I creep up the stairs and hurry down the hall to Marigold’s room. The door creaks a little as I push it open, then I’m inside.
Yup, just as I thought — it’s as lifeless and dull as the rest of the house. It seems like the only room in this place that ever had any spirit was my mother’s — and that’s been a tomb longer than she’s been dead.
I scout around for a few minutes, but I come up empty. Marigold doesn’t have a drawer of trinkets, or a jewelry box, or any reasonable, logical place to hide a key.
Which means it’s probably on her person.
I let out a sigh, and start opening her closets. But after tugging out the fifth shapeless, beige dress, I give up.
On her person…
I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, pushing m
y bottom lip against my teeth with a thumb so I can nibble it real good.
Worst case scenario? Marigold wakes up and thinks I was about to molest her. Honestly, she probably considers me a no-good deviant to some extent already.
But what if she doesn’t wake up?
I go up to her and slide my hand in the pocket of her housecoat, but there’s nothing in there except some lint and a damp tissue. I grimace and move to the other pocket.
My searching fingertips are met with the cold, jagged edge of a key.
Yes!
As I draw the key from her pocket, it catches on something and tugs at her coat.
Marigold wakes with a snort.
I drop to my knees behind her chair, not daring to breathe.
“Indi?”
The chair scrapes back, and I’m barely nimble enough to scamper back before it can slam into my face.
Marigold walks around the kitchen island, and I wait until she’s standing in front of the oven before dashing out of the kitchen. I stand beside the hallway phone for a second to catch my breath, and then wait till the count of ten before easing up the stairs. They all squeak, of course, but I’m hoping the sound won’t carry far enough for Marigold to hear. Especially since she’s started mumbling about shortbread and the oven door and I don’t know what other nonsense.
I slip into my room, close the door, and take a deep breath.
That’s when I see my phone’s light flickering. I hurry over and unlock it.
Addy.
She tried calling, and sent two messages while I was in the kitchen helping Marigold.
I listen to her voice mail first.
“Hey, where are you?” Her words are almost illegible over the bass thump-thump-thumping in the background. “Call me!”
The first message came in a few minutes after her voice mail, and reads:
Where are you?
The second, about thirty minutes later.
?
Shit. Well, I’m kinda glad she decided to turn on her phone again, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. When I try and phone her… her phone’s off again.
I hesitate for a second, and then send a message back to whoever sent me the image for the invitation to Dylan’s party.
I’m running late - Indi.
I send it before I can second guess myself and squeeze my hand around the key buried in my palm.
That’s when the stairs start creaking. My eyes go wide.
Marigold’s coming to check on me.
I rush over to my bed and jump under the covers. I manage to tug them up to my neck just as my bedroom door opens.
“Indi?” Marigold whispers. “You still awake?”
I remain motionless, and force my chest to rise and fall like a sleeping person’s would.
Marigold stays at the doorway for a few seconds before she closes the door and leaves. From the sound of her footsteps, she’s headed for her room.
Holy hell, that was close.
I sit up, and jerk in surprise when my phone starts ringing.
Addy.
“Hey,” I whisper, hunkering down beside my bed as if Marigold’s suddenly developed super-human hearing.
“Indi?” Addison yells in my ear. “Can you hear me?”
I cringe, and hurriedly end the call. I’m still busy typing out a message when Addy tries to call again, but I end her call without pausing.
Can’t talk. Just text.
I send the message and wait, my lip getting another round of nibbles as time stretches out like taffy.
Addy: You still coming?
Indi: Have to sneak out. No dress, no makeup, no shoes.
Addy: What size?
But I already know Addy’s twice my size, bust wise, height wise — practically everything wise. I send her my measurements anyway — for all I know, she has a baby sister that likes glitzy ball gowns.
Addy: Makeup, yes. Shoes, yes. Dress - no.
Indi: Can you pick me up?
Addy: Send me your deets.
I text her my address, and devour more of my inner lip while I wait for her to reply. I twitch at a distant door closing, but it has to be Marigold’s en-suite bathroom or something.
Here’s hoping, anyway.
Addy: see you in 15.
Shit. That’s not a lot of time to get ready. I shove to my feet and grab my backpack from the dresser. It has everything I own inside, so there’s no way I’m leaving it behind. Especially since I have this sneaking suspicion that Marigold might be throwing me out of the house tomorrow when she realizes I snuck out in the middle of the night.
My mother’s bedroom door opens and I step inside the dark room. The white walls glow everywhere except where the dark shapes of her artwork cover them.
Should I dare to turn on her light?
God, no. If Marigold happens to come downstairs, the light will be a veritable beacon and I don’t want to know what happens when Marigold realizes I’m disobeying her. I really, really don’t.
My heart pounds in my throat as I open first one closet door and then another. Books, art supplies, rotting cardboard boxes.
This place feels like a museum, but the inside of the closets look more like a rubbish dump. It’s as if Marigold took everything that wasn’t nailed down in Mom’s room and threw it in the closets.
Have these doors ever been opened?
The second to last door has what I want. As it swings open, something deep inside shimmers, despite the lack of light inside this mausoleum.
I reach in and grab a handful of slinky fabric.
Too many precious minutes have already ticked away inside my head, so I grab the fabric and tug it off its hanger. A moment later it’s in my backpack and I’m easing my way out of my grandmother’s house.
I spend a second at the backdoor, my hand clasped on the handle, listening.
That’s when I see the shoes behind the shrub.
I stare at them for long seconds, minutes even, my brain scrambling to make sense of such an incongruous object. What the fuck is a men’s sized pair of sneakers doing tucked behind Marigold’s shrubs? My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I abandon idle speculation in favor of creeping around the side of the house.
I doubt Marigold’s the type of woman to stare dreamily out of her window at night, but I keep to the shadows as much as I can, anyway, only breaking into a run when I’m obscured by some of the pine trees lining the long drive down to her gates.
Addy left her headlamps on. They illuminate me when I’m a few yards away from the gate. When I press the key fob, I’m entirely convinced that the gates won’t open, that Marigold realized I’ve snuck out, and somehow locked them from inside her house.
But they do open for me.
Addy’s passenger door unlocks with a quiet snick when I get close. I fall into her seat with a sigh, my backpack bundled against my stomach.
I glance over at her with a smile, and then do a double-take.
“Holy crap, you look fucking stunning,” I blurt out.
Addison gives me a faint smile. “Thanks, lesbo.” Then she’s reversing, her attention on the rearview mirror.
I feel dirty and ruffled and all kinds of unsophisticated sitting beside her in this cute little sports car while she smells of strawberries and cream and I reek of snickerdoodles and despair.
Addy’s dashboard clock mocks me with its massive digits.
“It’s midnight,” I say quietly. “Should we even—”
“What does your hair do when it’s wet?” Addy cuts in.
I stare at her a moment. “Uh…?”
“Does it curl, frizz, what?”
“It curls. Like…a lot.”
“Good, because there won’t be time to straighten it.”
“I don’t think there’s any time for—”
“Shut up so I can drive.”
I sink back in my seat, grinning like an idiot.
I’m going to a party. It almost feels like it’s too soon, but fuck it…
I’m going to a party, and I’ll be fucked if I don’t try and enjoy it even a little.
The inside of Addy’s house is as neat and contemporary as the exterior. Since I wouldn’t dare tell her that I was sucking face with Briar in her backyard, I do my best to ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ most convincingly when we pull up outside her duplex.
“Come on,” Addy says, hopping out of her car. “Lots to do, not nearly enough time to do it in.”
I follow her inside, but I stall in the living room.
There are boxes everywhere. The furniture’s been wrapped in plastic. The walls have faint outlines where framed photos or portraits used to hang, the bare nails jutting out like a child’s desiccated fingers.
“Addy?”
But she waves at me and trots up a pair of carpeted stairs without answering.
The house feels empty — where are her parents? But as soon as I step inside her room, the question doesn’t seem that important anymore. Most of the room is taken up by a bare mattress, the rest by furniture that looks ready to be loaded into the back of a loading van.
She’s busy packing out her makeup right over the sheet of plastic covering her dressing table, almost as if she doesn’t see it.
“Addy.”
She points to a door leading off her bedroom. “Shower, shave, shampoo. Then get your ass back here. I’m giving you five minutes.”
My head’s the human equivalent of a hard drive that’s in serious need of defragging. And since I can’t argue, I obey.
When I emerge from Addy’s shower, squeaky clean and smelling like strawberries, she gives me a once over like she can see right through the towel wrapped around my body, and sniffs.
“I don’t know if this is gonna work,” she says, holding up the dress I shoved into my backpack earlier. “It’s…like…really old fashioned.”
I couldn’t give a fuck if it’s more suitable to Neanderthal man — the instant my eyes land on the shimmering silver dress, I’m incapable of looking at anything else.