We Don't Talk Anymore

by Julie Johnson

  I jolt in surprise as I turn back to the twins. I’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. Um… yep, that’s them.”

  “Huh.” Ophelia’s eyes are narrowed on Miguel’s truck. “Not exactly what I expected.”

  My spine stiffens. “What exactly did you expect?”

  Odette giggles. “Personally, I always assumed Archer was the son of Mexican drug lords or something.”

  “His family is Puerto Rican.”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, I was picturing Pablo Escobar… not the guy who cleans Pablo Escobar’s pool. You know what I mean.”

  “No, actually,” I say with overt enunciation. My rage is boiling to the surface, threatening to spill over. “I really don’t know what you mean, Odette.”

  Her lips twist into a pout. “Whatever.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Josie.” Ophelia sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and starts walking. Her voice drifts back over her shoulder. “By the way, Ryan texted me earlier — he can’t drive you to the party anymore. Apparently, he wants to do shrooms with Andy beforehand or something. So you’re coming with us.”

  “Oh.” I take a steadying breath. “Then maybe I should just go home. As long as you guys don’t mind dropping m—”

  “Don’t be crazy!” Odette cuts me off. Her arm loops through mine as she drags me toward the bright pink SUV. “You’re coming to the party. Everyone is going to be there!”

  “Everyone,” Ophelia echoes.

  My teeth grind together as I climb into the backseat. We wind through the tiny downtown area, blasting music as we cruise past the railroad station and circle the harbor. Behind the wheel, Ophelia puffs her vaporizer and bobs her head to the beat. In the passenger seat, Odette chugs a spiked lemonade and howls out the windows until her throat is hoarse.

  I try to muster some of my earlier excitement, but it’s vanished on the wind. I stare at the twins, seeing them in a different light than I did mere moments ago.

  Ophelia’s judgmental stare.

  Odette’s offhand racism.

  No matter how many times I tell myself they don’t mean anything by it… that they’re not bad people, merely products of their own privileged upbringing… I can’t shake the apprehension that’s blossomed within me.

  I stare resolutely out my window, wishing I was home in my room, sketching out a new sewing pattern instead of on my way to a kegger with people I’m not sure I have anything in common with anymore.

  The party’s pounding bass is audible two full blocks before we turn onto Chris Tomlinson’s street. There are at least ten cars already outside, spilling out of the driveway onto the lawn. The second we’re parked, the twins bolt for the house, disappearing inside in a cloud of smoke and perfume. Clearly, they’re eager to locate cold beverages and cute boys as soon as humanly possible.

  For a while, I hover on the front porch, staring at the door like a little kid mustering the courage to enter a haunted house. People arrive in an endless stream, carrying cases of beer brazenly across the lawn. No one is worried about underage drinking tonight. Chris’ father is the Chief of Police; his parties never get busted.

  I don’t see Archer’s truck anywhere. I suppose it’s possible he caught a lift with one of his teammates and is already inside chugging beer with the rest of them… but I doubt it. I know him too well. Archer Reyes enjoys being in control. He doesn’t like to rely on anyone, for anything.

  Not even me.

  My lungs feel so tight, I can barely pull in air. I’m overcome with the desperate urge to run — away from this party, away from the complications of my own life. I’m about to turn and bolt down the stairs when a voice startles me into stillness.

  “Not thinking of bailing on me, are you?”

  I flinch in surprise as an arm slides around my waist. “Ryan! You scared me.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  He grins and takes a long sip of the beer in his hand. His long blond hair is still damp from a locker-room shower. He’s ditched his muddy uniform in favor of a white button down and a pair of navy shorts. He looks like he’s on his way to a casting call seeking an ‘All-American boy-next-door.’

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asks. “I’ve been looking for you inside.”

  “Just getting a little fresh air, I guess.”

  His brows arch doubtfully. “Hiding is more like it.”

  “Fine, so, maybe I was hiding.” I make a small gap between my thumb and pointer finger. “Just a little bit.”

  “No more of that. We’re celebrating!” He pounds his chest with his free hand. “WOLFPACK! Ah-wooo! Undefeated, baby!”

  I laugh. “A momentous occasion.”

  “I’m rolling on shrooms right now, so I can’t tell if you’re teasing me or not.” He grins wider. “But I’ve decided I don’t really care. Get your ass inside the house, girl. We have beer pong to play and memories to make.”

  Before I can protest, he grabs my hand, laces his fingers with mine, and tugs me through the front door.

  Forty minutes later, my buzz has completely worn off and I’m ready to go home. Ryan, on the other hand, has gone from tipsy to trashed in a remarkably short span of time thanks to the six beers he chugged during our singular game of pong. Either that, or the mushrooms are taking full effect.

  It’s hard to say for sure.

  “You’re so hot,” he breathes against the shell of my ear as he steers me down a short hallway, deeper into the house. With his chest pressed to my back, his steps weave a jagged course. He keeps is hands tight on my hips. “So hot.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, looking around for the twins. They’re nowhere to be seen. Probably off somewhere, flirting with cute boys. I wish they’d resurface. I want to leave. Though, at this point, even if Ophelia would agree to drive me, I’m not sure she’s sober enough to get behind the wheel.

  I could always walk. It’s only five miles…

  At the end of the hallway, we pass the bathroom. There’s a line of six girls waiting to use it — fixing their lipstick, taking selfies, scrolling social media. One of them is wiping tears, her mascara pooling in muddy streaks at the corners of her eyes. The sound of someone throwing up reverberates beneath the gap in the door.

  I grimace and keep moving. Behind me, Ryan’s body presses closer. His fingers stroke the denim of my cut-off shorts.

  “Where are we going, Ryan?”

  “Shhh. You’ll see.”

  His hands grip my hipbones tighter as he guides me across a threshold, into the sunroom on the side of the house. It’s all glass walls and wicker furniture, designed to overlook the terraced yard and topiary. This time of night, the lawn outside is pure black — an ebony canvas stretching toward the tree line.

  The sunroom is both quieter and emptier than the rest of the house. Only a handful of other people are in here — couples, mostly, hooking up against the walls, their hands roving in the darkness. I feel my cheeks heat as Andy Hilton slips his hands down Candi Ciccirelli’s pants. She throws her head back as he sucks on her neck, moaning without a hint of self-consciousness.

  I glance sharply away.

  On the far side of the space, a group is huddled around the coffee table, snorting lines of something. They’re totally in shadow, their faces indiscernible in the darkness. Every so often, the flare of a lighter sparks a bong back to life. Their conversation is a hushed, indecipherable murmur.

  “What are we doing in here?” I whisper to Ryan.

  “I just wanted to be alone with you for a second.”

  “I think we should go back to—” My words break off as he pulls me down onto a built-in window seat in a small alcove in the corner. I land on his lap. He’s breathing hard as his arms fold me against his body. He’s warm as a furnace.

  “Ryan—”

  “God, you’re so hot,” he tells me for the third time. His right hand slides around to cup my ass, his fingertips grazing the bare s
kin below the hem of my shorts. His left reaches for the bottom of my t-shirt and begins to slide up my stomach, toward my breasts.

  I start to squirm. “Ryan, wait—”

  “I can’t wait.” His lips skim my earlobe. “I can’t think straight around you.”

  “You can’t think straight because you’re drunk.”

  “So are you.”

  “I’m not, actually.” I grab his wrist to stop him from feeling me up. “Let’s go back to the other room, Ryan.”

  “But I like it in here.”

  “Well, I don’t.” I struggle to extract myself from his arms. He’s holding me too tight. My heart starts to pound as his fingers wander toward the button of my shorts, panic hijacking all my senses.

  I shouldn’t have let him lead me in here.

  The belated realization does little to help me.

  “Come on, baby…”

  “Ryan, I think you have the wrong idea—”

  “Don’t be a tease, Valentine. These tight little shorts are driving me crazy. Here, I’ll prove it to you…” He grabs my hand and presses it against his crotch. Through his shorts, I can feel the firm length of his erection. “See how much I want you?”

  “Stop!”

  I wrench my hand from his grip and elbow him sharply in the stomach. When he gasps, his hold loosens enough for me to wriggle free. I find my feet and start for the door, pulse thudding far too fast inside my veins.

  “Valentine! Come back!”

  I don’t stop moving.

  “Are you shitting me right now?” Ryan’s on his feet, following me in large, staggering strides. He grabs my arm and yanks me backward, hard enough to make my eyes water. Before I know it, I’m pinned against a wall with his body caging me in.

  “Let me go!”

  “Let you go?” He snorts, a sound of utter disbelief. His expression is full of rage. “You’ve been leading me on all week!”

  “I have not.” My cheeks heat with hurt and humiliation. I can’t believe things have gone so wrong, so fast.

  I can’t believe I ever thought this guy actually liked me.

  “Give me a break, Valentine. You’re not as innocent as you look. I’m sure you and Reyes have been doing the nasty for years—”

  I flinch as if he’s struck me. Craning my neck, I look for an escape route to the door but I’m trapped on all sides. Everyone else in the room is either too stoned to notice what’s going on or too selfish to intervene.

  “I don’t understand why you’re being like this.” Ryan’s voice has gone cold, stripped of all its earlier charm. He presses against me, driving my spine into the wall. He’s still hard. “Stop blue-balling me, baby.”

  I plant my hands against his chest and shove, desperate to keep him at arm’s length. “Leave me alone, Ryan. I mean it.”

  “You don’t really want me to leave you alone… I know you don’t…”

  “You’re being an asshole.”

  “And you’re being a cock-tease!” He steps back a stride, scowling. “You know what? You’re not even worth this much effort. You’re nothing. Nothing but Reyes’ sloppy seconds.”

  I don’t even think about it; my hand moves of its own accord, slapping him across the face hard enough to leave a mark.

  He reels backward, fury overtaking his expression. “You fucking bitch!”

  He’s so angry, I’m certain he’s going to strike me. Unable to escape, I steel myself against it. My eyes shut, waiting for the blow.

  It never comes.

  Instead, Ryan’s body jerks backward, a puppet on pulled strings. In the darkness, I hear a stranger’s voice. Low. Intent. Cold enough to make every hair on my neck stand on end.

  “Here’s a tip, kid. When a girl asks you to stop…” The stranger pauses. “You fucking stop.”

  When I open my eyes and see the man standing there, holding Ryan in a chokehold with tattooed arms, his face etched in lines of pure, unadulterated wrath… my mouth falls open in surprise. Because my savior isn’t a stranger at all. I haven’t seen him in almost three years… but I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

  Burnt caramel.

  Burning with fury.

  Just like his younger brother’s.

  Jaxon’s mouth twists in greeting as our gazes tangle together. “Long time no see, Josephine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ARCHER

  We roll up to Tomlinson’s house two hours after the game. The detour to pick up the keg from Jason Samborn’s older brother took far longer than expected. From the looks of it, we’re the last people in the whole goddamn town to arrive.

  Four guys pile out of the bed of my truck the second I shut the engine. Lee Park helps Samborn hoist the keg toward the front door, staggering beneath its weight. George Massey and Steve Abbott follow, shoving each other playfully on the front walk.

  The Tomlinson residence looks like a ‘single family home’ stock photo, built in a cookie-cutter, upper-middle-class style. There’s a white picket fence and a tree swing in the front yard, for god’s sake. Everything is color-coordinated in safe neutral tones; the camouflage of suburbia.

  Nothing Baby Boomers enjoy more than a nice beige.

  Inside, half the senior class is already in full party mode. Translation: half the senior class is already well on their way to wasted. Music blasts from the speakers — some antiseptic pop song I don’t recognize. Sienna and two of her minions are standing on the coffee table, shaking their asses to the beat, putting on a show for anyone willing to watch.

  Several of my teammates appear more than willing. They ogle from their spots on the sectional, sipping frothy cups of beer, their eyes glued to Sienna’s body. When she sees me walk in, she winks one heavily-lashed eye in my direction and blows me a kiss.

  I keep moving.

  “Yo!” Tomlinson yells from the kitchen as we make our way deeper into the house. “You guys finally made it! Bring the backup keg in here, will you? The first one is already tapped.”

  I scan the scene, eyes sweeping from one dark corner of the party to the other. It’s the standard crowd — thirty or so jocks and cheerleaders, the odd band geek or student council member mixed in for extra flavor. A small group is playing flip-cup on the kitchen table. A few couples are making out against the walls. Several people have already spilled out onto the patio, stripping down to their underwear and jumping into the hot tub.

  I spot the Wadell twins shooting pool in the adjacent billiards room, a flock of boys surrounding them. Their platinum bobs practically glow in the dark as they drape themselves across the green felt, short skirts flashing hot pink underwear every time they bend over. They’re firing balls into pockets with remarkable precision, given the fact that there’s a snowflake’s chance in hell either of them is sober enough to see straight.

  The twins party harder than most guys twice their size.

  “Archie!” they squeal in unison as I step into the room. Promptly shoving their pool sticks into the nearest onlookers’ hands, they bounce over to me. Each hooks an elbow with one of mine, so I’m fully sandwiched.

  “Don’t call me that,” I grumble.

  “Oh, you.” Twin A swats me on the arm. “Always so very grouchy.”

  “Seriously, downright grumpy,” Twin B concurs.

  I fight the urge to jerk away from them. I need their intel. “Where’s Jo?”

  “What’s it to you?” Twin A asks.

  “Yeah, why do you even care?” Twin B adds.

  I glance from one to the other. Frankly, I haven’t the foggiest idea who’s who. I’ve never been able to tell them apart, even after six years of classes together.

  Directing my gaze at Twin A, I take a shot in the dark. “Odette, where’s Jo?”

  “I’m Ophelia!”

  “Sorry. Ophelia, where’s Jo?”

  “She’s busy.”

  My brows lift. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  They shrug in perfect sync.

  Annoyed, I extract my
self from their arms and back up a pace. “Look, I’m not interested in whatever game you two are playing here. Just tell me where my friend is.”

  Odette’s face scrunches into a prissy expression. “From what we hear, calling the two of you friends is no longer accurate.”

  I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

  “Josie told us you two are barely speaking, these days,” Ophelia informs me with a bit too much satisfaction. “So why would we tell you where she is? I doubt she wants you showing up, ruining her night.”

  Odette harrumphs her agreement. “Apparently, you’ve ruined quite enough already.”

  “Since when does Jo confide anything in the two of you?” I ask skeptically. It’s hard to imagine Josephine Valentine has a single thing in common with either of them.

  “Since now.” Ophelia smirks. “What are you, like, jealous she’s finally got someone besides you to hang out with?”

  “More like concerned. I know how much trouble you get yourselves into.”

  Last summer, Odette had her license revoked within weeks of receiving it after she totaled two cars while high on Adderall; in the winter, Ophelia got caught cheating on the SATs and had to bribe her way into Wesleyan with an astronomical donation, courtesy of her parents. They’re the kind of kids who grew up with so much money, ‘struggle’ was just a word in the dictionary.

  I guess mistakes don’t really have repercussions when your father is a billionaire.

  Ophelia rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, Archer. Just because you’ve spent your whole life putting Josie on a pedestal doesn’t mean we’re required to.”

  They’re calling her Josie? I bet she hates that.

  “She’s not some fragile relic to be viewed from six feet away. She is entitled to have some fun.” Odette runs a finger down my chest. Her glossy lips are slightly parted as she holds my stare. “Maybe you should try it sometime.” She glances coyly at her twin. “We can be really fun. Isn’t that right, O?”

  I grab her wrist and fling it away from me. “Knock it off.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  “Josie’s our friend. And you’d better get use to it.” Ophelia pulls a compact vaporizer pen from her cleavage and takes a puff. “Because we protect our friends from douchey boys who don’t appreciate them.”