Authors: Anna Michels
“Who’s going to hear me?” She pulls away from Killian and runs ahead, flinging her arms out wide and shouting nonsense. Seth sighs impatiently and takes off after her, his red shoes the only thing visible as the rest of him melts into the darkness.
Killian glances at me but looks away as Adam’s arm slides around my waist. We walk to the cars, footsteps crunching over the gravel, and stop.
“Well, this is a problem,” I announce as my brain cranks through the calculations of who is sober enough to drive and how many vehicles we have.
Mel leans against the Buick and bends over, hands on her knees.
“You okay?” Seth asks, placing a hand on her back. She breathes heavily for a few moments, nods, and straightens up.
“We can’t leave any cars here,” she says, an edge of panic creeping into her voice. “My dad will be back first thing in the morning.”
Seth sighs and crosses his arms. “Who’s okay to drive?”
Mel and I glance at each other, and I nonchalantly link my hands behind my back. Killian slowly raises his hand, as does Landon.
“That’s fine. You can take Brianna and your buddies home,” Seth says to Landon. “I’ll take Mel and Vee.”
“I can take them,” Killian jumps in.
Seth gives him a long look. “Don’t you have to drive all the way back to Trawley?” he asks. “I live right across the street from Vee.
I’ll
drive them home.”
Killian holds his gaze for a moment, then turns away. “See you later, then,” he says. “Thanks for the invite, Mel.” He nods at me. “Vee.” He walks across the parking lot to the white Jeep and swings up into it without opening the door.
“Well, that’s great,” Seth says as Killian pulls out of the parking lot. “It would have been nice to have his help moving the cars.”
“I can help, Seth,” Mel says, stumbling toward him and catching his arm. “I’m not that drunk.”
“Mel”—Seth blows air out through his cheeks—“just stay over here with Veda.”
Mel leans against me, and I nearly topple over. “Okay, but make sure you hide mine. There’s a field. . . .” Her head drops onto my shoulder. “Vee, I have to stay at your house tonight. My mom will know I’m drunk.”
“Okay,” I say, pulling her over to a tree stump and setting her down. I watch Seth and Landon collect car keys from the other guys and drive their cars down the road so Mel’s dad won’t be suspicious in the morning. Mel slumps over on the stump, her head dropping down toward her knees every few moments, and then snapping back up as she jerks awake. Adam stands behind me, rubbing my shoulder in a way that starts out sweet but, five minutes later, gets kind of annoying. By the time Seth and Landon are done moving the cars, I feel nearly sober—and am quietly freaking out about the fact that I kissed Adam and I don’t even know his last name.
“My guitar,” Mel murmurs, staggering to her feet. “In the trunk. Shit.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, catching her elbow as she stumbles. “We’ll get it.” I walk her over to Seth’s minivan and give him an imploring look. “Please, Seth?”
He clenches and unclenches his hands slowly. “It would have been great to know about the guitar before I parked her car a quarter mile down the road.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, but turns and walks away.
“Let’s go,” Landon calls. Adam pulls me away from Mel and dives in for another long, lingering kiss. Things are starting to get a little slobbery.
“I’ll call you,” he whispers in my ear, squeezing me tight before he jogs across the parking lot.
Mel crawls into the backseat of Seth’s minivan and curls up into a ball. Once the roar of Landon’s diesel engine has faded, the sounds of the woods at night take over—all the chirps, sighs, and creaks you never pay attention to during the daytime but that seem to become amplified as soon as the sun goes down. Seth returns a few minutes later, his footsteps crunching over the gravel, guitar in hand.
We ride home in silence, Mel passed out in the back. The headlights cut a narrow path through the blank darkness of the country roads, making it feel like we’re the only people around for miles. Frustration rolls off Seth in waves, each turn of the steering wheel a bit sharper than necessary, each pause at a stop sign a bit shorter than it might usually be. I know he’s waiting for me to commiserate with him about what a lame, stereotypical teenage party we just suffered through—but I stay silent, letting it all sink in. What would Mark say if he knew I had already kissed someone else? I feel a little stab of satisfaction. He asked if I was okay, and I am. I swallow hard and close my eyes, the sharp taste of cheap beer on my tongue. At least, I will be.
A sour chord jerks me awake. Mel’s sitting on the end of my bed, her back to me and her left hand dancing across the fretboard of her guitar as she hums along to whatever music is playing in her head. The heavy curtains draped across my windows block out most of the morning light, but a few rays of sun sneak around the edges and fall across her shoulders.
I stare at the clock, struggling to focus my eyes. It’s only seven thirty—way too early to be awake with a Bud Light hangover and a mouth that feels like cotton balls. I stretch and nudge her with my toes. “Mel.”
She turns around to grin at me and launches into the opening chords of “Beach Day,” a song I helped her and Seth write a few years ago back when I was the official lyricist (code for “She can’t carry a tune but she’s our friend so we have to include her”) for their band. “Seth and I are working on some new stuff,” she says. “Feel like doing some writing?”
I shrug. Mel likes upbeat songs about late-night rides in pickup trucks, hot summer days, and first loves that never end. Seth doesn’t shy away from a touch of melancholy—he’s had enough of it in his life, after all—but I think the only lyrics I’m capable of writing right now would be appropriate for a sappy eighties love ballad. Not exactly their style.
I sit up and groan. Some people, like Mel, can power through hangovers with their sheer adorableness and insistence on being young and invincible. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been hit by a truck—and probably look like it too. Poor Fat Snacks takes one look at me as I lumber to my feet, and scurries underneath the bed.
Mel reluctantly puts the guitar down and rolls into the space I’ve just vacated, snuggling down into the sheets. “So, what do you remember about last night?” she asks, smiling so widely that her nose scrunches up and pushes her glasses askew.
My stomach tightens as flashes of memory come back in a rush: Adam’s arm around my waist. His mouth on mine. My fingers in his hair. I close my eyes. “Not much.”
“Not much?” Mel’s voice rises. “You guys were all over each other! It was adorable.”
I force my eyes open and drop back down onto the bed, nearly squashing Mel’s legs. “I feel really weird, Mel. Like, bad weird.”
In the harsh light of morning, I can barely even remember what Adam looks like. I try to think back through the beer fog to figure out why in the world I thought it would be a good idea to make out with him.
“Vee, it’s fine,” Mel says, propping herself up on one elbow. “He’s the first guy you’ve kissed since Mark. And only the second guy since . . . well, ever. No big deal if it feels a little strange.”
I meet my own gaze in the mirror on the back of my closet door, dark circles under my eyes, limp brown hair rumpled and static-y, and regret rolls over me in waves. The first time I kissed Mark, I didn’t sleep for the next twenty-four hours, reliving the moment in my mind, literally unable to think about anything else. With Adam, all I want to do is push him out of my brain and forget last night ever happened.
“So now I have to deal with the follow-up, right?”
Mel grins and holds up my cell phone. “Your phone is dead, but I texted you his number. You going to use it later?”
This is the kind of stuff I’ve always watched my friends agonize over, going all the way back to middle school—deciding whether to text a guy, watching the clock to see how quickly he responds, trying to interpret the real meaning behind the shorthand and emoji—until they get bored and move on to someone else. With Mark, it was easy right from the beginning. We were together. We were in love. No games, no uncertainty. I loved knowing exactly where we stood—two halves of a team.
Adam said he would call me . . . but will he? And what will I say to him if he does?
I lie back down, squashing Mel’s legs again, and pull a pillow over my face. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Mel struggles out from underneath me and rustles through her backpack. “Do what?”
“Texting. Flirting.
Dating
.” My voice is muffled, and Mel pulls the pillow away.
“Who said anything about dating?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Um, you did? You said I needed a guy this summer, and then you brought, like, a whole smorgasbord of them out for me to choose from last night. Remember?”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, Vee.
Dating
is the last thing you need. Did you think you were just going to jump right into another relationship, turn into Vee and Mark 2.0, insert Random Guy in the Mark slot?”
I make a face, confused. “I mean, that makes it sound kind of pathetic.”
Mel sighs dramatically. “Think about it. You’re not going to
date
one guy this summer. You’re going to
hook up
with
a bunch of
guys.” She heads across the hall to the bathroom. “Adam was a good start, but he was just an appetizer.”
Water runs in the sink, and I concentrate on breathing normally. A throbbing headache edges its way across my temples, and I clench my hands at my sides, trying not to freak out. Kiss
more
guys?
Mel bangs back into the room. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’re overthinking—I can see it.” Her face is washed, her hair artfully tousled.
“No, I’m not.” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, daring her to disagree with me.
Mel purses her lips. “Look, do you want to use this summer”—she pauses dramatically—“
the last summer of our high school careers
, to go a little wild? Or would you rather start wearing Adam’s letter jacket and plan your future children’s names together?”
“I think we’ve established I’m not into Adam,” I say, my voice sharp.
Mel doesn’t even flinch at my tone, and she stands there, hands on her hips, doing what she does best—daring me to come out of my comfort zone.
I hold her gaze, trying not to let the horrible morning-after feeling that is pressing down on me show. Last night was a mistake, and I’m going to deal with it and move on. But I’m not going to let it happen again.
“Okay, fine,” Mel says finally, holding her hands up in defeat. “Never mind. Just stop looking at me with that death face.”
I crack a smile, relief washing over me. I’ll work through the Adam fallout, and then things will go back to normal. I lean over and straighten the framed picture sitting on my desk, the one of me and Mark.
“What is that still doing here?” Mel asks, doing a double take. “In fact, what are all these still doing here?” She gestures around my room, to the homecoming pictures pinned to my bulletin board and the selfies taped to the wall. Mark is in all of them.
I shrug and hug the framed picture against my stomach, ignoring the voice inside me whispering that I’m never going to find someone else who makes me feel like Mark did if I don’t at least get out there and look. “Just haven’t gotten around to taking them down yet.” My voice catches and I clear my throat, hoping Mel doesn’t notice. But, being my best friend, of course she does.
“Hey.” Mel leans over and grabs my arm, her brown eyes wide. “Last night wasn’t a disaster. You’re fine.”
I nod reluctantly. I don’t feel fine. I feel weird and nervous and like things are moving way, way too fast. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could just be normal?” I say. It’s the question we ask each other whenever our lives seem out of control and everyone else seems to have their shit together—which, for me at least, seems to happen about twice a week.
She rolls her eyes. “Totally. You were practically married to one guy for two years, and I’ve never actually had a boyfriend. Most people shoot for the happy medium.” Mel shakes my arm gently until I meet her gaze. “Just think about what I said.” She smiles. “Maybe this summer could be your chance.”
Before I can respond, someone knocks on my bedroom door.
“Yeah?”
The door flies open, and my mom bounds in, bursting with an annoying amount of energy, as usual. “Seizing the day early, girls?” She’s wearing a pair of my athletic shorts, which ride up just a little too far on her thighs, and one of her special hand-painted T-shirts—this one has a giant parrot on it. An earbud dangles from her shoulder.
“Always,” Mel says, turning and flashing my mom a smile. “Are you going running?”
“Oh no, I’m not a runner like Vee,” Mom says. I wince. I don’t feel like a runner at the moment, standing here with an enormous hangover, clutching a picture of my ex-boyfriend. “I’m doing Prancercise. Have you heard of it? It’s like jogging, but with more elation. My friend Cheryl and I just started last week.”
“Better get going, then,” I say, not letting my gaze drift over to the mound of clothes in the corner of my room, which I piled there specifically to hide my running shoes so I wouldn’t have to look at them. I haven’t touched them since the morning of Mark’s graduation, when we fit in a quick three miles together before he had to get ready for the ceremony. “Don’t want to be late.”
“That’s the thing,” Mom says. “Jeffrey wants to be picked up from your dad’s early so he can hang out with Kyle and Oliver. I told him you girls could go get him, but then I didn’t see your car in the driveway, Mel.”
Mel sets her guitar on the floor, and the strings twang. “Seth dropped us off. That’s okay, though, Mrs. Bentley. We can grab my car and get Jeffrey.”
I groan, but they both ignore me.
“You guys are the best,” Mom says. “Time to prance!” She gallops down the hallway, the floor shaking like the house is about to collapse.
Mel hops up and pulls her shorts on. “Okay, I’m ready.”