Magnolia (3 page)

And now Patrick is here, and he smells so good—like
cologne and the outdoors. His breath is warm against my skin, his kisses featherlight. I hardly notice it when he hooks his thumbs under my dress straps and slides them down, baring my shoulders.

“Dude, there you are!” a voice calls out. Mason.
Shit
.

I duck out from under Patrick's arms.

“Oh, hey, Jemma,” Mason says with a knowing grin. “Didn't mean to interrupt.”

“Great timing, man,” Patrick mutters.

Mason holds both hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I'll just let you two get back to—”

“No, we're done.” My cheeks are flaming as I tug up my straps and brush off my backside, hoping the bark didn't rip the delicate tulle.

“Aww, c'mon, Jem,” Patrick says. “Don't run off like this.” He looks genuinely hurt, his hazel eyes slightly unfocused.

I shake my head. “I've got to go find Morgan and Lucy. I'll catch you later, okay?” I add, feeling guilty now. I hurry off, trying to ignore what sounds like the two guys slapping a high five behind me.

Great. Just great.

“What the hell?” Lucy asks, as soon as I find her and Morgan back by the buffet, piling dessert onto their plates. “Did you really just run off to hook up with Patrick? Because that's what it looked like.”

“What's this in your hair?” Morgan's fingers brush against the back of my head. She pulls out a prickly twig and holds it up, examining it with drawn brows.

“There was no hooking up,” I protest, taking the twig and dropping it to the ground. “We . . . kissed, that's all. And Mason caught us, so give it about five minutes and everyone here will know. Shit.”

“Seriously?” Lucy asks, her voice laced with incredulity. “Why on earth would you kiss Patrick Hughes?”

“I have no idea. I just . . . I don't know. He's cute,” I add lamely. He
is
cute. Why hadn't I noticed it before tonight?

Lucy shrugs. “I guess if you like skinny white boys.”

“I'm getting a headache,” I say, massaging my temples. “I think I might be about ready to call it a night.”

Lucy eyes me sharply. “Coward.”

“Yeah, the party's at
your
house,” Morgan reminds me. “Where are you going to go? At least have some dessert first.” She puts two mini éclairs and a cream puff on a plate and hands it to me.

I take it with a sigh and follow them to a table. Just as we sit down, Tanner sidles up and waggles his brows at me suggestively. “Hey, heard you were having some fun tonight, Jemma. You and the Pat Man, huh?”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh my God. Shut up, okay? There's no me and anyone.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “That's not what Mason says.”

“My brother is an idiot,” Morgan says around a mouthful of pastry. “You know, in case you didn't notice. By the way, your fly's unzipped.”

Tanner glances down at his gaping fly with a shrug.

“Real classy,” Lucy says. “Your mom must be
so
proud.”

Grinning, he makes a show of zipping up. “Aw, you know you want some of this, Luce.”

“You're delusional,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Go away, Tanner.”

“Yeah, before I puke,” Morgan adds.

Tanner lets the insults roll off, unaffected. “Before I go, just a heads-up. It looks like Patrick is over there talking to your dad, Jemma. I wonder what they're talking about.” He winks at me. “Later, cuz.”

I choke on a lump of custard. “Wha—?” I manage, rising on unsteady legs. I spot Patrick and my dad standing by the bar, their heads bent together in conversation.

Lucy reaches for my hand and pulls me back into my seat. “Chill, okay? I'm sure they're just talking. About, you know”—she waves one hand dismissively—“something.”

I drop my head my head into my hands. “Easy for you to say.”

Lucy's dark eyes narrow a fraction. “Ugh, I can't believe your mom invited
her
.”

I follow her gaze to find Cheryl Jackson standing beside the punch bowl, filling her cup.

“She volunteers at the library,” I say. “Mama didn't have a choice. Trust me, she wasn't happy about it. She was hoping she wouldn't show.”

Morgan wrinkles her nose. “And miss an opportunity to hobnob with Magnolia Branch's finest? Not a chance.”

“Well, she can kiss my ass,” Lucy says with a scowl.

Lucy's mother, Dr. Parrish, is a pediatrician—the best in town, by a long shot. Most everyone adores Dr. Parrish, except for Cheryl Jackson, who'd been very vocal about taking her children elsewhere because she couldn't possibly trust her precious babies to one of “those” people. And by “those” people, she means black people. Of course, her son is a complete tool, and her daughter spent half of last semester in rehab, so there you go.

Morgan nudges me in the ribs. “You should go tell her that Dr. Parrish made the punch. See how fast she spits it out.”

We all laugh a bit uneasily, because it's probably true. Ignorant beyotch.

My gaze is involuntarily drawn back toward my dad and Patrick, who are still standing together, discussing . . . something. My stomach lurches uncomfortably, and I push away my plate of sweets. “What could they possibly have to talk about?”

“There's no telling,” Morgan says. “I still can't believe you kissed him.”

“Speaking of,” Lucy says coyly, “on a scale of one to ten . . . ?”

I just stare at her, mouth agape. “What, you want me to
rate
him?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lucy answers, smiling wickedly. “Don't leave us hanging.”

“Fine.” I let out my breath in a huff. “He was a perfectly competent kisser.”

“Perfectly competent? Yeah, I don't think so. C'mon, you gotta dish, girlfriend.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Don't you think I'm in enough trouble as it is?”

Her response is a pointed stare.

“Okay, fine. He was a good kisser.
Really
good. A seven, maybe an eight. There, are you satisfied?”

Her lips twitch with a smile. “I figured he would be.”

Morgan mimes sticking her finger down her throat and gagging.

“Your mama's going to be brokenhearted, you know,” Lucy says, reaching for my abandoned plate and pulling it toward her. She picks up a half-eaten éclair and examines it, then sets it back down. “Hasn't she already picked out a china pattern for you and Ryder?”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” But truth be told, she probably has.
Ugh. “Seriously, y'all, my head is killing me. I'm ready for bed.”

Morgan brushes crumbs from her lap and stands. “Okay, fine. Ditch us. You ready to go, Luce, or are you going to wait around for your parents?”

“Nah, I'm ready.” Lucy stands and smoothes down her dress. “If I eat one more bite, I'm going to bust. Better quit while I'm ahead.”

In the distance, a single shot rings out. From the treetops down by the creek, birds scatter noisily into the sky.

“There go the boys,” Morgan says with a sigh.

I shake my head. “Mama's going to have their hides for making such a racket.”

*  *  *

A half hour later, I've changed into my pj's and made myself a cup of chamomile-jasmine tea. Despite the lingering heat, I throw open the pair of French doors and step out onto my narrow little balcony—a Juliet balcony, Mama calls it. Leaning against the cool metal balustrade, I sip my tea, hoping it will soothe my nerves. My bedroom is on the second floor, facing the creek, on the opposite side of the house from the party. Still, I can hear the strains of the band floating on the warm, quiet breeze, mingling with the sounds of laughter. I feel bad for ducking out early, but I'd known that Tanner's taunts weren't going to be the end of it. Even worse, I knew I'd probably have to face Patrick again if I'd stayed.

And I can't face him, not yet. I mean, I've known Patrick my whole life, and I've never even
thought
about kissing him before tonight. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, to figure out what has changed between us—if I even
want
things to change.

Sighing heavily, I glance up at the full moon. Here I am, obsessing over it, while Patrick probably hasn't given it a second thought. For all I know, he's already forgotten about it. He'd been drinking, after all. Then again, they had twelve beers between the five of them—well, four, if you don't count Ryder. At most, Patrick had a little buzz going on. Not enough to account for a full-on memory loss.

“Hey, Patrick is looking for you.”

The voice startles me so badly that I slosh tea on myself. I look down to find Ryder standing below, his hands thrust into his pants pockets as he stares up at me, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

“Tell him I went to bed,” I say. “And thanks a lot for scaring me half to death.” Scowling, I swipe futilely at the wet splotch on the front of my tank top. He's lucky the tea wasn't hot.

Ryder takes a step closer, till he's standing just beneath the balcony. He tilts his face upward, and I can see the contempt there in his features. “So now you're just going to blow him off?”

“Why don't you do me a favor and mind your own business,” I shoot back.

“Patrick is my friend; therefore, it
is
my business. By the way, you
do
know he's one to kiss and tell, right?”

“You just said he was your friend.”

He shrugs. “Hey, it's
your
reputation.”

“Since when do you care about my reputation, Ryder? Anyway, we were just kissing, if you must know. I've heard worse tales about you and Rosie. Maybe it's
her
reputation you should be worried about.”

Rosie is my cousin—a distant one, on my dad's side. She's had a thing for Ryder for as long as anyone can remember, and rumor has it she finally made her move at a party last weekend. Apparently, he was
very
receptive—like, feeling-her-up-in-a-dark-corner receptive. At least, that's what Morgan heard.

“What are people saying about me and Rosie?” Ryder asks, his brows drawn.

I throw one hand up in the air. “Never mind. It's not like I care, anyway.”

“No, 'course you don't,” he snaps back.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, Jemma. Just . . . go to bed, why don't you?”

“What, are you my dad now? How about this? I'll go to bed when I'm ready to go to bed.”

“Wow, that's real mature.”

“You're such a jerk, Ryder.”

“A jerk? That's the best you've got? You're really off your game tonight.”

“You are
really
getting on my nerves,” I say, my skin flushing hotly.

He just shrugs, looking entirely unmoved. “What else is new? I've always gotten on your nerves.”

“Not always,” I say, and my heart catches a little. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the memories. When I open them again, he's still standing there, glowering at me.

“Great, here we go again.” He starts to walk away and then turns back to face me. “You know what? I have no idea what I did to piss you off, but—”

“Seriously?” I sputter. “I'll give you a hint—eighth grade.”

“You're mad at me about something I did in
eighth
grade, Jem? That was four fucking years ago. Whatever it was, why don't you grow up and get over it?”

“Why don't you go to hell,” I shoot back.

“I'm leaving now,” he says, turning to stalk away.

“Good!” I shout, tears burning behind my eyelids. “Go. I hate you, Ryder Marsden!”

“Yeah, well . . . the feeling's mutual,” he throws back over one shoulder.

Even though I know it's childish of me, I storm back inside and slam the French doors with as much force as I can muster, nearly rattling them off their hinges.

Charming, right?

M
y mom lets me sleep in the next day. When I finally rouse myself enough to check the time, the bright, midday sun is already streaming through the windows, casting yellow stripes across the fluffy white duvet.

I vaguely remember my mom knocking on my door around ten to tell me she was going to church, but I'd fallen right back asleep the moment I'd heard the front door shut. I know she's biding her time, eager to ask me what's going on with Patrick. Since I'm not quite ready for that conversation, I hustle out of bed. Church ended five minutes ago, which means she'll be home any minute now.

Moving quickly, I throw on a pair of cutoffs. I ignore my growling stomach as I hurry down the stairs and out the front
door. Yes, I'm a coward—especially when it comes to Mama.