Magnolia (12 page)

Instead, he's been e-mailing me page after page of storm-prep guides, just in case. I've already gone to Wally World and stocked up on essentials like toilet paper, bottled water, and batteries, plus nonperishables like canned soup and SpaghettiOs. But now he wants me to go back and get stuff like plastic tarps and sandbags and oil for the hurricane lamps. It's like full-scale panic mode around here, even though the storm is still several days out. I'll have to brave the mayhem again tomorrow after cheerleading practice to pick up everything else on Daddy's list. Maybe I'll drag Lucy and Morgan with me.

Anyway, I'm trying not to obsess about the storm too much. I mean, I
do
have the urge to watch the Weather Channel twenty-four-seven, but that's pretty normal for me. What can I say? I
like
watching the Weather Channel. And okay, maybe I have a teeny-tiny crush on Jim Cantore. Doesn't everyone?

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that it's way past my
usual dinnertime. Lou dropped off a pan of lasagna a couple of hours ago—it's probably cold by now. I should go pop it in the oven, along with the half a baguette left over from yesterday. I already have a cucumber from Mama's garden sliced and soaked in vinegar, chilling in the fridge.

I glance back at my computer screen and sigh. Seriously, what's the point in finishing my application portfolio for NYU? It's not like my parents are going to let me go even if I
do
get in. I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. I might as well accept my fate—state school, Phi Delta, and debutante balls. And then I'll probably land right back here in Magnolia Branch. Heck, I'll probably even inherit this house once my parents decide to follow in
their
parents' footsteps and retire down on the coast. I know Nan doesn't want it; she doesn't want to be stuck here forever.

There's no way they'll ever sell it—and honestly, I wouldn't want them to. It's a part of our heritage. I love this house and everything in it. It's not that I don't want to live out my days here. It's just that I want the opportunity to . . . I don't know . . . spread my wings and fly a bit before I come back home to roost, you know? If I end up back in Magnolia Branch, I want it to be because I've
chosen
to be here. Is that really too much to ask?

The doorbell rings, startling me. I hurry downstairs, wondering who in the world would stop by unannounced at this hour. Not that it's that late, but it
is
a school night.

The dogs are going crazy, circling the front door. It takes me a minute or two to herd them away and get them corralled before I make my way back to the front hall.

“Jemma!” comes a muffled voice, followed by pounding fists. “C'mon, open up. I gotta take a leak!”

I unlock the door and throw it open with a scowl. “What are you doing here, Patrick?”

“Well, hey there, Jem,” he slurs, leaning against the doorframe. Clearly, he's been drinking. The beer fumes are making me woozy. “Um, mind if I use your bathroom?”

I stand aside, gesturing for him to come inside. “Fine, but be quick about it.”

I mean, my parents said no boys—especially Patrick. By nature, I'm a rule follower, not a rule breaker. He's got to go.

A couple minutes later, he stumbles out of the bathroom. “Tha's better,” he says. His elbow clips Mama's vase on the hall table, knocking it to the floor, where it shatters into a million bits.
Great
. Mama loves that vase.

“Oops,” is all he says. And then he starts laughing hysterically, like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.

“Okay, it's time for you to go now.” I reach for his shoulders and steer him toward the door.

“Nah, I just got here, Jem. The night's still young. Let's have some fun.” He traps me against the wall with his body, leering at me with an odd, cold look in his eyes.

I duck out from under his arms. “Seriously, Patrick, you've got to go. No guys in the house while my parents are gone—I told you that. I'm going to be in enough trouble as it is about that vase.”

“What they don't know can't hurt 'em, right?” He leans in for a kiss, but I sidestep away. His forehead bangs against the wall, and he remains there, leaning against it for several seconds, trying to steady himself. “C'mon, Jemma,” he says at last, reaching feebly for my hand. “This is the perfect opportunity. I can spend the night, and your parents will never know.”

“You're a real piece of work, you know that? You come over here drunk off your ass; you break Mama's vase and don't even offer to clean up the mess. And then you expect me to
sleep
with you?” I shake my head. “I'm really not in the mood for your bullshit, Patrick. Go, before Ryder sees your car in the driveway or something.”

“Oh, you expectin' Ryder?” he slurs. “He gonna ride in on his white horse like a knight and save you? Is that what your hopin' for? Maybe tha's why you been holdin' out on me. You wanna give it to
him
instead.”

His eyes are glassy, slightly unfocused. It's obvious I can't let him drive home like this.

Shit.

Ignoring his drunken little tirade, I reach for his hand and drag him into the living room, pushing him toward the velvet
sofa. “C'mon, Patrick, you need to lie down. I'm going to call someone to come pick you up.” His legs buckle the minute they hit the cushions, and he crumples into a heap—half on the floor, half on the sofa. He starts to make a retching noise, and I hurriedly slip off my hoodie and shove it under his face. “I swear, if you puke on my sofa, I'm going to freaking
kill
you.”

Mercifully, he doesn't. Instead, he starts making a quiet, snuffling noise. Like he's passed out cold. I run upstairs and grab my cell from my bedroom, trying to decide who to call. Obviously, Ryder makes the most sense, since he lives just up the road and can be here in a matter of minutes.

But what if he mentions it to his mom? I mean, I can tell him not to, but then it makes me look guilty, like I'm trying to hide something. It's not my fault that Patrick showed up on my doorstep unannounced.

I run through the other options in my head. Calling Ben or Mason is about the same as calling Ryder. They're his best friends. They talk. I could try Tanner. He
is
my cousin, so I could invoke some sort of family loyalty oath of silence or something. Only problem is, Tanner lives on the far side of town—about as far away from here as anyone can be and still live in Magnolia Branch. Which means leaving a passed-out, about-to-puke Patrick on my couch for a good twenty minutes, waiting for a ride.

Nope. Not gonna happen. With a sigh of resignation, I dial Ryder's number.

Exactly seven minutes later, he knocks on the door. Ryder to the rescue. I resist the urge to look around for his white horse.

“Okay, where is he?” he asks with a frown. His hair is wet, his T-shirt clinging damply to his skin. I'd either caught him in the shower or in the pool. Probably the pool, since he smells vaguely of chlorine.

I hook a thumb toward the living room. “In there. Passed out on the couch.”

He looks at me sharply. “
You
haven't been drinking, have you?”

He's lucky I don't slap him. “I was sitting upstairs in my room, minding my own business, when he showed up at the door. What do you
think
? Asshat,” I add under my breath.

His brow furrows. “What was that?”

“Nothing. C'mon. Get him out of there before he makes a mess.”

“What about his car?”

I shrug. “I'll drive it school tomorrow and get a ride home from Lucy or something.”

“I'll drive you home,” he offers. Correction: he asserts—arrogantly, as if he's used to giving orders. “We need to go get those tarps and sandbags anyway.”

“How did you . . . ?” I trail off as the answer dawns on me. “My dad e-mailed you, didn't he?”

“Called me, actually. We'll go after school tomorrow. After practice,” he amends.

“Yeah. Fine, whatever.” Truthfully, I wasn't looking forward to lugging sandbags by myself. I wasn't even sure how I was going to fit them in my little Fiat. Problem solved.

Now to solve my
other
problem—the one lying on my couch.

I
t takes me a while to locate Ryder once cheerleading practice ends. Eventually, I find him on the big grassy field beside the parking lot, tossing a football with Mason and Ben.

“I thought we were meeting by the field house,” I call out as I make my way over.

He doesn't even turn around. “Nah, I'm pretty sure I said the parking lot.”

“You definitely said the field house,” I argue. Why can't he
ever
just admit that he's wrong?

“Geez, field house, parking lot. What difference does it make?” Mason asks. “Give it a rest, why don't you.”

I shoot him a glare. “Oh, hey, Mason. Remember when your hair was long and everyone thought you were a girl?”

Ryder chuckles as he releases a perfect spiral in Mason's direction. “She's got you there.”

“Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?” Mason catches the ball and cradles it against his chest, then launches it toward Ben. I just stand there watching as they continue to toss it back and forth between the three of them. Haven't they had enough football for one day?

I pull out my cell to check the time. “We should probably get going.”

“I guess,” Ryder says with an exaggerated sigh, like I'm putting him out or something. Which is particularly annoying since he's the one who insisted on going with me.

Ben jogs up beside me, the football tucked beneath his arm. “Where are you two off to? Whoa, you're sweaty.”

I fold my arms across my damp chest. “Hey, southern girls don't sweat. We glow.”

Ben snorts at that. “Says who?”

“Says Ryder's mom,” I say with a grin. It's one of Laura Grace's favorite sayings—one that always makes Ryder wince.

“The hardware store,” Ryder answers, snatching the ball back from Ben. “Gotta pick up some things for the storm—sandbags and stuff like that. Y'all want to come?”

“Nah, I think I'll pass.” Mason wrinkles his nose. “Pretty sure I don't want to be cooped up in the truck with Jemma
glowing
like she is right now.”

“Everybody thought you and Morgan were identical twin girls,” I say with a smirk. “Remember, Mason? Isn't that just
so
cute?”

“I'll go,” Ben chimes in. “If you're getting sandbags, you'll need some help carrying them out to the truck.”

“Thanks, Ben. See,
someone's
a gentleman.”

“Don't look now, Ryder, but your one-woman fan club is over there.” Mason tips his head toward the school building in the distance. “I think she's scented you out. Quick. You better run.”

I glance over my shoulder to find Rosie standing on the sidewalk by the building's double doors, looking around hopefully.

“Hey!” Mason calls out, waving both arms above his head. “He's over here.”

Ryder's cheeks turn beet-red. He just stares at the ground, his jaw working furiously.

“C'mon, man,” Ben says, throwing an elbow into Mason's side. “Don't be a dick.” He grabs the football and heads toward Ryder's Durango. “We better get going. The hardware store probably closes at six.”

Silently, Ryder and I hurry after him and hop inside the truck—Ben up front, me in the backseat. We don't look back to see if Rosie's following.

The thing is, I've always suspected that
Ben
has feelings for
Rosie. He's never acted on it. What's the point, what with the way she's crushing on Ryder? I doubt she's even noticed Ben's existence, which is her loss because he's really a great guy.

“Hey!” Rosie calls out, waving madly. “Ryder! Wait!”

I fix him with an accusing stare in the rearview mirror as he starts the engine and backs out of the parking space.

It's pretty clear to me that he
has
been leading her on, considering he was all over her at Josh's party and now he's totally blowing her off. Of course, he'd gotten all mad and hotly denied it when I'd accused him of it the other day. But that's Ryder for you.

I twist in my seat to watch as Rosie drops her arms to her sides, disappointment written all over her face. God, I hope she has a ride home. I quickly scan the mostly empty lot, looking for her car, and breathe a sigh of relief when I spot it over by the gym.

“So,” Ben says, tapping his fingers against his thighs, “Ryder's going to watch out for you during the storm, I guess. Keep an eye on your place and everything?”

“I promised her dad I would,” Ryder says.