Bright Before Sunrise (16 page)

He definitely wouldn’t want it to be anything.

He didn’t even seem to notice that he was sitting on the edge of my
shower
. He had no reaction to touching my bare legs. Even the skimpy robe hanging behind his head didn’t make him pause. Plus, he has a girlfriend.

The girl in the mirror agrees with me, nodding as she continues to pose with her hand in a ridiculous posture—like it’s being held by a ghost. I shake my head at her and watch as she spins the emerald inward, makes fists, then reacts to tacky nails hitting tender palms. I examine my hands as I leave the bathroom. There are flecks of glitter in the welts—decorations on my marks of stress and shame.

19
 
 
Jonah
 
 
9:41 P.M.

Evy follows me to my car. She’s detached from her cell, and her grin is all sexy mischief. I don’t care what Brighton says, they don’t look alike.

“So, do I want to know what you and my baby sister were doing upstairs?”

“Depends. Does blood make you queasy? I was fixing the damage Never did to her foot. She can’t walk that dog and you know it.”

Evy shrugs an acknowledgment. “I didn’t think you’d let her get
hurt
.”

“She’s not my responsibility.” I’m annoyed. Evy pushed her into a task she knew Brighton couldn’t handle, and yet it’s
my
fault she’s bleeding? It’s one thing for me to blame myself—another to hear Evy say it. “Who owns a dog they can’t even walk?”

“Hey.” She grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. “B’s … Don’t be too hard on her. Just give her a chance.”

A chance to do what? God forbid anyone’s hard on Brighton—the girl lives a charmed life and now I’m supposed to feel bad for not joining her fan club.

I shake my head and call a greeting to the woman in a AAA polo shirt. “Thanks for coming.”

“I need your card.” I hand it over.

“And your registration,” she adds.

I point at my glove compartment and bite my tongue to keep from saying:
If I could open my door to get my registration, I wouldn’t need you
. I lean against the trunk, trying to give the woman room to work but impatient to get the hell out of here.

“Voilà. Door open.” The woman steps away and I practically dive for my registration and owners’ manual, handing her the thick file then digging my cell out of the door pocket while she writes stuff down.

I need to get away from here. Fast. Get anywhere. But is there anywhere left for me to go?

New text messages.

They’ve got to be from Carly. She’s realized she’s being insane. I can be there in twenty-five minutes if I push it …

But do I want to? I’m half-crazy with the desire to call her, but if I do, I can’t think of anything I actually want to say. My stomach twists.

You cheated on C? No way you got someone hotter.

Not. Carly.

The next text’s not either—it’s from Carly’s friend, Sasha:
U dirtbag, loser, jerkwad. You didn’t deserve her.

What the hell has Carly been telling people?

The AAA woman’s holding a clipboard out to me, the
front door’s opening and shutting, Evy’s calling something up the walk, and Brighton’s limping down it. I scrawl my name and thank the woman. The sooner she leaves, the sooner I can get in my car and go—but she climbs in the truck, turns on the cab light, and starts on more paperwork.

Three more messages:

Where U at? Get. Here. Now. Beer.

A CP chick? Heard she’s butt ugly.

Where RU?

The last one’s from Jeff—and he’s left a voice mail too. Can I go to his party? It’s easy to picture how it’s going down: Carly sitting on a countertop entertaining a group with stories about what a crappy, cheating boyfriend I turned out to be. Her audience soaking up the lies. The stories mutating and spreading as people wander in and out of earshot to refill their cups. By the end of the night I’ll be seen as a total tool—a Cross Pointe sellout. It’ll look like I’m too embarrassed to show my face. Like she’s telling the truth and I slunk off to lick my wounds. She’s taking Hamilton away from me, poisoning my reputation, claiming
my
friends—

Evy leans over my shoulder. “What’s so exciting?” I find myself aping her sister’s fist clenching and jerk away.

Headlights from the truck illuminate the three of us as the woman backs out of the driveway. I raise my hand in salute and to shield my eyes. Brighton’s at the end of the walk, making careful progress down the stone steps that lead to the driveway.

The light catches her hair, her eyes, her legs. Doing things to her silhouette that I could watch all night.
No way you got someone hotter
. Hotter? Carly and Bright are attractive
in totally different ways, but Brighton can more than hold her own.

She pauses on the second step and asks, “Everything all set with your car?”

My reputation is already screwed—apparently eighteen years of knowing me is worth less than a piece of paper with a phone number. And if everyone’s going to believe I’m cheating scum, I at least want them to believe I’m cheating scum who nailed a hot girl.

“Brighton, want to go a party?”

“What?” she asks, while Evy claps her hands together and says, “Yes, yes, she does.”

We both ignore her.

“A party. You know, people, music …”

“Beer, hookups, gossip, and scandals,” adds Evy.

“Jeremy’s party? I didn’t even know you knew him. If you want to go, I’ll bring you.”

I’m not even sure who Jeremy is, but of course she’d assume I’m begging for an invitation to his party. “No, my friend’s party. You should come with me.”

“Why?”

“Look, come to the party and I’ll come to your book thing on Sunday.”

Her eyes go wide and she starts to nod, then pauses. “You’ll really come to the library? I thought you had plans.”

I’m sick of trying to coax her, impatient to get this over with. If compromise won’t work, maybe a reminder will. “I said I’d go. Come to the party. You’ll learn a hell of a lot more about me there than you did in my bedroom.”

“What?” Evy demands, grabbing her sister’s arm and dragging her down a step.

Brighton looks over her shoulder at the house and tests her sister’s grip on her arm. “Okay. I’ll go to the party.”

“His
bedroom
?”

“He’s kidding.” Brighton’s fake laugh is far from believable. She looks at me pleadingly.

I hold her gaze for a long moment before turning to Evy. “Hello, have you met your sister? I’m kidding.” I can afford to be generous now that I’ve gotten my way.

Evy looks disappointed, but only for a moment. “This is perfect! You need to get out of the house and get rumpled a bit. Live a little, baby sis.” She flounces over to me. “And, you? You would be an excellent person to rumple her.”

“Evy, enough!” There’s zero authority in her voice, more plea than order. She looks like she might curl into her embarrassment and disappear.

And Evy doesn’t even pause. “Is that blood on your pants? Ew. Well, you’d need to change anyway. I wonder if there’s anything in your closet that’s even a little sexy—you should probably just borrow something from me.”

I allow myself to imagine that for a minute: Bright in short black shorts and a red top that shows off her chest. Or maybe something low cut. Her legs in heels …

Except. Her foot. The one that caused the blood spatter on her pants. No heels tonight. And the way Evy’s dragging her up those stone steps has to hurt. Does she not notice her sister’s limping?

“Evy. Evy.
Evy
!” Brighton’s repeating it with each painful footstep, but her sister’s too busy blathering.

“Stop!” I call.

What am I going to do with her at the party? After the three seconds where I get
nailed-that
credit, what am I going
to do when she opens her mouth? Or when they open theirs? Brighton shouldn’t go near a Hamilton party, where they’d gladly devour a Cross Pointer—especially a girl they think has shamed one of their own. No, this idea is stupid. I can’t do that to her.

“I changed my mind.”

“What?” Evy and Brighton’s voices blend into a chorus of confusion and indignation.

“Forget the party. You don’t want to go.”

“Didn’t I just say I would?’ She honestly sounds confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I scramble for an angle, a way to convince her it’s a bad idea. “It’s in Hamilton—you don’t want to go there.”

She’s standing halfway up the walk, one arm tight in Evy’s grasp, the other hugging her torso. Her bandaged, bare foot is picked up and resting against her other calf. It’s a pose that makes her look vulnerable and graceful, but her voice is anger and iron: “I already told you, I’m not a snob, so stop treating me like one. Who cares if it’s in Hamilton?”

“What if we go to …” even as I try to remember his name, I can’t believe I’m saying this, “that other guy’s party? The one that’s here.”

“No. We see those people every day—you don’t even like them.” She pauses to flash me an amused smile. “Besides, I want to meet Carly.”

She’s walking up the path, going through the front door, and I’m still standing there wondering how I let this get so out of control. How my
screw you
to Cross Pointe, Hamilton, and Carly has turned into a giant
I’m screwed
.

20
 
 
Brighton
 
 
9:54 P.M.

My foot hurts and I’m tired. I glare at the cute shoes lining the bottom of my closet; there’s no way I’ll be able to wear anything but flip-flops. I direct the same frown at my bed—like my comforter and pillow are somehow betraying me by being simultaneously inviting and not an option.

Maybe this is a good thing, Jonah did invite me after all—even if he tried to weasel out of it immediately after. He even agreed to come to the library on Sunday. If he meant it, if he shows—then I’ve done it. A 100 percent.

Somehow securing the plaque is no longer enough; I need him to like me too. Or, at least, not hate me.

Evy shows up in my bedroom as I’m yanking my shirt over my head.