Текст книги "A Midsummer's Nightmare"

Автор книги: Kody Keplinger

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

5

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Getting married?”

“Yeah. This fall.”

“Wow.” Mom was quiet for a moment before asking, “So… what’s she like?”

I scowled at the phone in my hand, wishing she could see the annoyance on my face. “I don’t know, Mom. She’s a lawyer, has two kids, lives like freaking Martha Stewart. Does it matter?”

“Is she pretty?”

“Yes. Gorgeous. Is that what you’re hoping to hear?”

I wanted to throw my phone across the room, to scream. Even this was about her. About Dad moving on without her. About how she compared to Sylvia. She didn’t even seem to think about me.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mom said with a sniffle. Was she crying? A weight pressed into my chest, and I wished I hadn’t snapped at her.

I still remembered the days when she’d make me call in and lie to her boss, tell him that she was sick and couldn’t come in. The days when I ate only cereal because she wouldn’t even get up to cook. She hadn’t done that in years, not to that extent, at least, but this could be the thing to send her over the edge again.

“Mom, I’m just… I’m really upset right now. This is all piling up on me at once, you know?”

“Oh, I understand. God, this is so your father. I can’t believe he didn’t warn you. He is so selfish.”

I gritted my teeth. Now she was going too far in the other direction. Did she really think this was helping me? I didn’t even know why I called her. I guess… I just wanted to talk to someone. I wanted someone to listen to me complain and to sympathize with me for a few minutes. I wanted someone to understand how lost I felt.

I had tried to call Trace first, but all I got was his voice mail. And this wasn’t exactly something you left on the machine: Hey, did you know Dad is engaged to Carol Brady? No? Well he is and I’m pissed. Please make me feel better.

Mom was my only other option. I didn’t have friends I could turn to. I didn’t have anyone. But calling her had clearly been a mistake.

“I’m going to call him,” Mom declared, her sniffles gone, voice turned furious. “I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of this whole monstrosity. I’m—”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Just… just leave it alone. It’s my fault…. Neither of us is a phone person—I should have made the effort to call him or something.”

“Don’t make excuses for him, Whitley. He’s so—”

“Munchkin! Nate! Come on down, kids. Dinner’s ready!”

“Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

I snapped the phone shut before she had time to respond.

With a groan, I rolled off the bed and put my cell on the nightstand. As glad as I was to end that conversation, I still kind of wanted to come up with some sort of excuse—Daddy, I have a headache; I feel sick to my stomach—to get out of eating dinner with June Cleaver and her perfect children.

Unfortunately for me, I was starving.

Nathan walked out of his room just as I stepped out of mine. We both just kind of looked at each other for a weird second, then turned and headed toward the stairs. “So… munchkin, huh?” he said. “Aren’t you a little tall to be a munchkin?”

“I had a growth spurt when I was thirteen,” I replied without thinking. “Dad just hasn’t found a more fitting nickname yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, my granddad still calls Mom his Sylvie Bear, so I guess it’s a universal thing.”

I rolled my eyes and moved ahead of him, hurrying down the last few steps. I didn’t need his forced conversation. If he wanted to forget what happened the other night, we could forget in silence.

“Hey, Whitley,” Sylvia said when I walked into the dining room. “I hope you’re making yourself comfortable.”

“Sure,” I muttered. Of course I’m not comfortable, you Stepford Wife. This is, like, my worst nightmare.

“Good,” she said. “I really want you to enjoy this summer with us.”

“Whatever.” I glanced around the large oak-paneled room.

Talk about fancy. Expensive-looking paintings hung from nails or rested against the wall, waiting to be put in their proper place. Every piece of furniture—all made of sleek, polished wood—looked brand-new. Of course, it probably was new. Clearly, Sylvia was one of the rich kinds of lawyers.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Dad said, grinning at Sylvia from his seat. “She’ll have a great time.”

I started to pull out a chair, but Sylvia stopped me. “Oh, honey, Bailey wants you to sit next to her.”

“Mom!” Bailey shrieked from the other end of the dining table.

“Well, you do want her sitting by you. You just said so a minute ago,” Sylvia said, sounding a little defensive. “Can I say anything that won’t embarrass you today?”

“Only if you want to,” Bailey insisted, turning to look at me and ignoring her mother’s question. “It’s cool if you don’t. No big. I just thought—”

Without saying anything, I walked around the table and pulled out the chair between my dad and Bailey. Sitting by her would be better than being next to Nathan, who’d just plopped down in the chair beside his mother.

I glanced over at Sylvia and Nathan, expecting to overhear some Leave It to Beaver–esque dinner conversation. But their end of the table was quiet. Nathan was smiling, but Sylvia examined Nathan closely, intently. Maybe her supermom sense was tingling. I wondered just how much she’d freak if she knew about Nathan and me and the party.

“Hey, Nate, do you mind passing the mashed potatoes this way?”

Nathan spooned out an overlarge helping of mashed potatoes before passing the bowl to Dad. “Here you go, Greg. They’re awesome.”

“Anything your mother cooks is awesome,” Dad replied.

Gag me.

“Oh, stop.” Sylvia laughed, and the tension I thought I’d seen in her face moments before vanished. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just wanted to see a problem with this arrangement. A gap. An imperfection. “You two are too sweet.”

“Nate’s the sweet one,” Dad said. “I just agree with him and reap the benefits. It’s a wonderful job.”

Nate, I thought. They were buddies. Dad already fit in here, with this family. He was one of them.

And I wasn’t.

Looking around the table, I realized just how out of place I was. The Caulfields and Dad were smiling. They were all dressed in bright, happy, summery colors. And me? I’d been fixed with a permanent scowl. I liked cold colors—dark greens and blues. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d really been happy in a long time.

“So, munchkin,” Dad said, suddenly noticing me. This wasn’t really Dad, though. He sounded more mature and fatherly than the real Greg Johnson ever did. It was like his newscaster alter ego was speaking to me. A show just for the Caulfields.

My real dad was laid back. Outside of work, he was casual and uncensored and funny. He swore and sang classic rock songs he barely knew the lyrics to—especially after he’d knocked back a few shots on the beach. I wanted to know where that man was. I wanted to know what Sylvia had done to change him.

She’d taken him away from me.

“What do you think of the house?” he asked in the TV-Dad voice. “Is your room okay?”

“Fine,” I lied, taking the bowl of green beans from Bailey.

That was something else I didn’t get. This family-dinner thing. Dad ate his microwavable meals in front of the TV, usually watching ESPN Classic. At the condo, on the nights when he grilled, we’d eat outside while the radio blasted Jimmy Buffett and he and his girlfriend of the moment drank margaritas. Dinner meant scratching itchy summer mosquito bites and hiding the scraps of burned hamburger in my napkin to avoid hurting Dad’s feelings.

“You’ll love Hamilton,” Sylvia said as she buttered a roll.

I glared at her. This was all her fault. Sure, Dad should have told me about this, but if she hadn’t just barged into his life, putting on her flashy Martha Stewart–inspired song and dance, there wouldn’t have been anything to tell. I hated her.

“Of course she will,” Dad said. “It’s a great place for teenagers, too, munchkin. Nathan, have you told Whitley about the Nest?”

“I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“When can we go?” Bailey asked. “Can we go tomorrow night? Will you come with us, Whitley?”

“Go where?” Her enthusiasm made me uneasy.

“The Nest,” Sylvia answered, sounding stiff but still wearing that annoying smile. “It’s a little dance club for teenagers.”

“They have bands and music and food,” Dad explained. “It’s a nice, safe, wholesome place for local teenagers to spend time. Sherri, Sylvia’s sister, says it’s packed with high school students every weekend. And during the summer, it’s open all week long. I told Nate he should take you and Bailey-Boop.”

I cringed. Bailey-Boop? The nickname made me want to barf almost as much as Dad’s description of the Nest. A “wholesome” place to hang out? Seriously? Already I knew that this place would not be my scene. If there wasn’t alcohol to distract me from all this shit, I wasn’t interested.

“So can we go tomorrow night?” Bailey asked Nathan across the table. “Please?”

“That’s up to Whit,” he said.

“Whitley,” I growled.

I hated—and I mean hated—being called “Whit.” For Christ’s sake, my parents named me Whitley for a reason. If they’d wanted me to be called Whit, that’s what they would have written on my birth certificate.

“So, you up for it tomorrow night?” Nathan asked, like he hadn’t heard me.

“I don’t know, Nathan.” Sylvia was watching him. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. Maybe you should stay in.”

“I’d love to go.” I looked right at Nathan. “It sounds great.”

“Oh, honey. Let them have some fun,” Dad said. “It’s summertime. They’re kids. A night out won’t hurt.”

Sylvia looked distinctly unhappy. Good. I might have to spend tomorrow night at a lame club with her spawn, but if that meant pissing her off, it was so worth it.

“Fine,” she relented. “Just behave yourselves.”

“You three will have a good time,” Dad said, handing me the plate of rolls. “This will be a chance for you to bond. Become friends.”

“Awesome.” Bailey grinned at me. “I’ll have to figure out what I’ll wear.”

Then Dad was talking about some special report he was airing the next morning and Sylvia returned to her smiling, bubbly ways. The dent I’d tried to make in her perfect little meal didn’t seem to matter. Of course not.

When everyone was done, Nathan offered to help Sylvia clean up. As I walked out of the dining room, I heard him say quietly, “Mom, it’ll be fine.”

I thought about lingering, eavesdropping to see what he meant, but Sylvia caught me in the doorway and gave me that smile again. “Do you want Bailey to help you set up your room?” she asked.

I shook my head and walked away.

When I got upstairs, I locked the door and dug out my bottle of cheap tequila. If there was one thing that would cheer me up, it was booze.

Later, as I lay stretched out on the bed, I glanced at the bottle on the nightstand. Sylvia would freak if she knew I’d brought alcohol into her house. The thought made me laugh. They were so perfect, so proper and clean. Dad and Sylvia and Nathan and Bailey—they were all downstairs, probably watching a fun family movie and playing Monopoly. And I was upstairs, alone, drunk on Margaritaville Gold.

I didn’t fit in with them at all.

It was so funny, so funny I couldn’t remember why I’d been angry before.

I laughed until it hurt, until the room spun, until I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

6

The next day I woke to the sound of Bobby Brown singing “My Prerogative.” I sighed and rolled over, groping blindly for my phone on the nightstand and knocking over the bottle of tequila by accident.

“Shit,” I muttered. Thank God the bottle was closed, or that would have been a bitch to explain.

A second later, I found my cell and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, sis. Saw you called. Sorry I couldn’t talk last night. We had to take Marie to the doctor.”

“Huh? Oh, Marie… Is she okay?”

“Fine. Emily just got freaked out about a little fever. But you sound awful. You hungover?”

“A little.”

“God, Whitley.”

“Did you know Dad is getting married?” I asked.

“What? No.”

“Yep. Her name is Sylvia. She’s a widow with two kids. She and Dad met last September.”

“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s nice. If they wait a few months to get married, maybe I can fly out for the wedding with Emily and Marie.”

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked.

“What else do you expect me to say?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. I hate it, Trace. I don’t like how different he is with them. He’s not the same Dad we grew up with.”

“That might not be a bad thing,” Trace grumbled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whitley, you were pretty young during those last few years Mom and Dad were together. There was a lot you didn’t—” I could hear Marie starting to scream in the background. “Shit, Emily’s at the drugstore and I’ve got Marie—she just woke up.” I could hear him shift the phone away from his mouth. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” I’d been through this before, and I knew the conversation was as good as over. Sure enough, he came back a second later. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Whitley. Good luck with Dad. Love you. Bye.”

Click.

“Hurry up, Whit! We’re waiting on you.”

“Then get the hell out of here and leave me alone,” I growled to myself as I slipped a navy blue tank over my head and turned to examine myself in the bathroom mirror. I wondered if Sylvia would be offended by the way my black bra straps showed. I really hoped so.

I applied a little bit of black eyeliner and a dab of lip gloss.

Honestly, I didn’t expect to have any fun at this “wholesome” club, but I did hope to meet someone who could tell me where the real party was. Towns this small still had parties, right? I figured if I was going to be stuck here all summer, I needed to find out where to have a decent time. That bottle of Margaritaville Gold wasn’t going to last me long.

I’d never had to go looking for a good time during the summer before. Hanging out with Dad, watching movies and talking over dinner and listening to music at the condo… That had been enough.

This summer was different, though. Dad was different. He didn’t care about me this year. And I wasn’t going to let myself go insane in this house for three months.

“Whit!” Nathan yelled again.

“Give me a second! Shit.”

I really did need to hurry up, though. It was already seven, and Bailey had been completely made up, wearing her pink cocktail dress and strappy white sandals, since five.

The sad part was that I knew she’d leave the Nest disappointed. Sure, Bailey was all excited to go to this little teen club, but it wasn’t as if she’d make friends. She probably wouldn’t even talk to anyone. She’d cling to Nathan or me the whole night and come home feeling like crap. That’s how it always went. I know it sounds cynical or bitchy to say, but it’s true.

I put on my flip-flops and started walking downstairs. They were waiting by the door, Bailey fidgeting with her dress. She looked like she was ready for a Homecoming dance, not a nightclub. On the other hand, Nathan was totally casual. Ripped blue jeans, faded band T-shirt, sloppy hair. He looked like a mess next to his sister.

I was surprised Perfect Sylvia let one of her Perfect Offspring dress with such imperfection.

“Ready?” Nathan asked, pulling car keys from his pocket.

“You kids have fun,” Dad said from the sofa, turning a page in the novel he was reading. “Get to know each other. You’re family now.”

Yeah, I thought. Family who’ve banged each other.

“Be careful,” Sylvia said. She was standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked a little on edge. One minute this chick was bubbly as could be, and the next she looked all uptight and anxious. “I’ll expect you home by ten thirty.”

“No problem,” Nathan said, giving the adults a casual wave before turning to his sister and me. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Bailey was already out the door, running down the steps, golden hair streaming behind her. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder at us. Her face turned a little pink, as if she were embarrassed by her own excitement.

Nathan looked at me and shrugged. “Ladies first,” he said, holding the front door open.

I moved past him and headed for the car. Bailey smiled at me as she climbed into the backseat.

“I’ve never been to a club before,” she said once I’d gotten comfortable in the passenger’s seat. “I mean, like, I’ve been to my friends’ parties and stuff—obviously. But they were kind of boring. A club will be cooler, right?”

“Um… sure.”

Nathan climbed into the car and immediately turned on the air conditioner. The sun was still out, and despite it being mid-evening, the air was scorching hot and so humid I thought I’d drown. “Buckle up,” he said to me, hitting the button for the radio.

He waited until my seat belt had clicked before he even pulled out of the driveway. As if traveling those three extra feet without restraints might actually kill me or something. I didn’t expect someone who had one-night stands with strangers or threw crazy parties to have such a stick up his ass.

I didn’t say anything on the way to the Nest. Bailey jabbered away at us from the backseat, speculating on the kind of music they’d play, what the other girls there might be wearing, how crowded the place might be. After a while, Nathan cranked up the radio as a subtle hint that she should quiet down. A hint that she, eventually, took.

The silence didn’t last long, though. A minute later Nathan was singing along with the radio, tapping his fingers against the wheel to keep the beat. I couldn’t help watching, a moment from the party sliding into my memory. We’d been kissing in the armchair, amid the chaos of dancing and drinking, when Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” started playing through the speakers.

Nathan had pulled back a little, giving me a second to come up for air. He grinned at me and started singing along with the song—off-key, but he was pretty drunk by then, so I guess that was to be expected. I reached up and clapped a hand over his mouth, laughing. “Stop. You can’t sing at all.”

Clumsily, he took hold of my wrist and eased it away from his lips. “I love this song, even if it is really old,” he slurred.

“Me, too.”

“Good, then it can be our song. You’re my brown-eyed girl.”

“But my eyes are blue,” I told him.

“I know. But there aren’t songs about blue eyes.”

I started laughing harder and almost fell off Nathan’s lap. “Yes there are. ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,’ ‘Behind Blue Eyes,’ ‘The Bluest Eyes in Texas,’ and then there’s just ‘Blue Eyes’ by Elton John.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Well, those suck.”

“You suck.”

And then we were kissing again. It couldn’t have been long after that that we migrated to the bedroom.

Three days later, sitting in the car beside him, part of me wondered if it had really happened. He’d said that as far as he was concerned that night had never occurred, but could he really forget so easily? Probably not, but he acted like he could. He acted way better than I did.

He parked the car in front of the small brick building and cut the engine. “Behold,” he said. “The Nest.”

Honestly, the place looked kind of run-down, but the parking lot was packed with cars. Either it was actually a cool place (I kind of doubted it) or there was nothing better to do in this town.

When Nathan pushed open the front door for Bailey and me, I knew it was definitely the second theory.

First of all, the band blew. Though I admit I was impressed to see a band at all. The lead singer had zero talent, and the drummer had no rhythm whatsoever. It was just sickening, really. I knew people who had more musical ability than these guys when they were plastered. Myself included. And the sad excuse for a dance floor was half the size of the guest room at Dad’s new place. The walls were lined with booths, all packed with teenagers sipping on sodas or bobbing their heads to the music.

“Wow,” I heard Bailey murmur, and I could tell she was overwhelmed—whether by how pathetic the place was or by the number of people, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m thirsty,” Nathan said. “Let’s get drinks. What do you want, Whit?”

“Nothing.” I was already walking away from them. “I’ll get it myself.”

I’d decided early on that if I was going to track down some fun—i.e., boys and booze—I needed to ditch Nathan and Bailey. I couldn’t afford to have them cockblocking me tonight.

After scanning the room once, I came to the conclusion that the selection of guys here sucked. I mean, they were average, I guess, but none of them were hot. Because of this, I was feeling a little disappointed when I made my second turn around the dance floor.

Then I saw the sexy tanned boy sitting at the bar.

He wasn’t tall, but he had the dark and the handsome parts down. His hair was a sleek, shiny black, and his eyes were huge emerald spotlights in the dim lighting of the club. Smoldering hot, and well dressed, too. He had on a nice, neat button-up shirt and black jeans.

Target acquired.

I approached the bar, tossing back my long hair and giving him my best seductive smile. I eased up right next to him. “Hey,” I said, winking. “What’s up?”

He grinned. Rows of straight, glittering white teeth. “Do I know you?”

“Nope, but you want to.” I slid onto the barstool next to his.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Yours first.”

“Harrison Carlyle,” he said, sounding a little amused. “Now do I get your name?”

“Whitley Johnson.”

Harrison’s eyes widened and he sat up a little straighter as he looked me over. My moves must have been working—he was already interested. Awesome, I thought. Even if he didn’t know where I could find a party, I wouldn’t mind fooling around with him. That was one thing I loved about boys—if I wanted a quick, meaningless hookup just for fun, they were never very hard to convince.

I was wondering how much chitchat we’d have to make before I could get Harrison to take me somewhere private… and then he started talking.

“Oh my God!” he said excitedly. “Are you—You have to be! You’re totally related to Greg Johnson, aren’t you? The news guy. Are you his daughter? You are, right?”

“Um… yeah. He’s my dad.”

“That is so cool,” he cried. “I still can’t believe he moved here. No one famous lives in this place. I know he’s not a movie star or anything, but still. He’s on TV, which is a big deal around here. We love him.”

“Thanks.” Great. I was the one with boobs, but the boy had a thing for my dad. What the hell? Okay. It was time for a subject change.

“So,” I said, crossing my legs. I was wearing a short white skirt, showing off plenty of skin. Too bad it wasn’t quite tanned yet. “What all is there to do around here?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he answered, shrugging his broad shoulders. “We live in the lamest town ever. You just kind of get used to it.”

“Well…” I swiveled in my seat a little, turning so I could press my leg right up against his. My signature move. Worked every time. “We could make it exciting, if you want. I’m a pretty exciting girl.”

Then he started laughing at me.

Not the reaction I was going for.

“Oh, honey.” He reached out suddenly and took my hand in both of his. “You’re cute. You really, really are, but I’m not interested.”

“Why not?” I asked point-blank. No use wondering about it for weeks or letting my self-image plummet because of this loser. Might as well cut to the chase.

Harrison sighed and took one of his hands away from mine. “See that guy over there, with the blond?” he asked, pointing.

My eyes followed in the direction he indicated. Across the room, sitting at a booth by themselves, were Nathan and Bailey. Even from here, I could tell Bailey looked disappointed. Nathan was chatting with her, moving his arms in big, over-the-top gestures. He must have been trying to cheer her up.

“I see him,” I said, nodding. “That’s my… future stepbrother.” I choked on the last two words.

“For real?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah.”

“That sucks for you. I could just eat him up.”

I gawked at him. “What?”

“That’s why I’m not interested,” he explained calmly, like I was an irrational five-year-old. “Your stepbrother over there, he’s more my type… if you know what I mean.”

And, of course, I knew what he meant.

It figured. The one boy in this place I was interested in was not interested in me. After all the shit I’d dealt with over the last two days, getting shot down was just the icing on the cake. But I tried to soothe my ego with the fact that it wasn’t me he wasn’t interested in, it was all girls. Still, not what I needed tonight.

“Shit,” I muttered, slumping back against the bar with my arms folded over my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. You’re a hottie, but boobs just aren’t my thing.”

“Whatever.”

He smiled. “I still can’t believe you’re Greg Johnson’s daughter. That’s so awesome.”

“It isn’t that glamorous…. Actually, it sucks ass at the moment.”

“How is that possible?” Harrison asked. “He is so hot.”

“My dad? Christ, that’s gross.”

“He is.”

“Ew.”

He reached forward and put a hand on my knee. It was the least sexy knee-rub in the history of knee-rubs. “You get your looks from him, if it helps.”

“Thanks. But that is still gross.”

He laughed and grabbed his glass of soda. “What a pout you’ve got on you,” he said, lifting the drink to his lips.

What a jerk. My misery was not funny. Or cute.

“Here,” he said, putting his glass back down on the rickety bar. “Let me buy you a drink. What do you want?”

No matter how frustrated I felt, a free drink just wasn’t something I could turn down.

“Something strong,” I groaned.

“Coca-Cola strong enough?”

“Hardly.”

He shook his head and looked down the bar. “Joe!” he called. “Hey, honey, can you get the pretty girl a Coke?”

“Only if you stop calling me honey,” the bartender, a bearded man in his thirties, replied. “We’ve had this discussion before, Harrison.”

“Aw, Joe. It’s so cute that you think I listen.”

The bartender poured some Coke into a glass and slid it toward me. Harrison winked and handed the cash to Joe, who rolled his eyes before walking back to the other end of the bar, where more customers waited.

“He hates it when I flirt with him,” Harrison whispered to me. “Which just makes it funnier.”

I laughed and reached for my Coke. “Thanks,” I said, taking a big gulp. I tried to pretend it was tequila—or even just beer—but my body knew better. Goddamn it, I couldn’t even trick myself out of sobriety. Like those cases you hear about sometimes, when people have convinced themselves they were drunk through the power of persuasion. I wanted to persuade myself that I was wasted.

Apparently, I’m not very gullible.

I took another drink, wishing I’d thought to smuggle my bottle of cheap tequila in with me.

“So, how long are you in Hamilton for?”

“Just the summer,” I said. “Then it’s off to University of Kentucky.”

“Nice. What major?”

“No fucking idea.” I sighed. “Kind of hoping Dad will help me figure it out this summer. He went to UK, too. What about you?”

“I graduated a year ago, but I took a year off to figure out all the ‘rest of my life’ stuff, so I know how you feel. But I’m off to UCLA this fall. I’m majoring in fashion design. Maybe not the smartest choice, but it’s what I love.”

“California,” I mused. “I bet you’ll be happy to get out of this shithole.”

He shrugged. “I guess. You know, the place is lame, but it’s home. And it’s not that bad if you know where to go. You just have to have friends.”

“Then I’m screwed.”

He chuckled. “Tell you what. I’ll be your friend, okay?”

“I don’t really do friends,” I told him.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want you to ‘do’ me. We’ve established the flaws in that plan already. But we can hang out. Oh, or shop. Your outfit is super cute…. Though I’m not a fan of the flip-flops. They look cheap.”

“Thanks, Tim Gunn. Anything else you’d like to critique?”

“I’m just being honest. You’re a fashion slut.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have good taste, but you’re stepping into too many styles,” he said. “Those flip-flops might be all the rage this season, but they don’t fit you. The rest of your look doesn’t scream ‘beach babe.’ Nope. You need to stick with one style. For you, I’d say that style is sexy-casual. Oh, some nice wedge sandals would be perfect for you.”

“You don’t even know me,” I reminded him. “What gives you the right to analyze my style?”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I don’t know you, but I do know fashion. I’m gay, remember? Do you really want to argue wardrobe choices with me?”

“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you get to bandy about that horrible stereotype. I’ve partied with tons of gay guys who sucked with clothes,” I pointed out.

Harrison shrugged. “They weren’t me.”

Reluctantly, I looked down at my flip-flops. I hated to admit it, but he was right. Now that I thought about it, they really didn’t go with the rest of the outfit. They looked kind of tacky with the little plastic flowers along the straps. It just didn’t work for me. Less sexy, more little-girl cutesy.

“So, are you going to argue?” he asked again, clearly watching as I examined the footwear faux pas.

“No,” I mumbled. “I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Good call.”

It didn’t seem like any time had passed when I saw Nathan approaching us, jingling car keys in his right hand. Somehow, Harrison had managed to pull me into a conversation about the best and worst name-brand fashion designers, so I didn’t even see him coming until Harrison’s emerald eyes lit up like lightbulbs and a Cheshire Cat smirk began to spread across his face.

“Hey,” Nathan said, stopping next to my stool. “Ready to get out of here?”

“This soon?”

Nathan looked over at Harrison, then turned back to me. “Sorry,” he said. “But Bailey’s ready to go. She says she doesn’t feel well.”

Classic cop-out, I thought. Is that the best excuse the kid could come up with?

“Hello there.” Harrison winked at me as he extended his hand toward Nathan. “I’m Harrison Carlyle. You must be Whitley’s stepbrother.”

“Not yet,” Nathan said. “Our parents don’t get married until sometime in September. I’m Nathan, by the way. I’m sure Whit told you that.”

“Whit-ley,” I snarled. “With two syllables.”

“She is so lucky to see your handsome face every morning,” Harrison told Nathan. “Many people would kill to be in her position.”

“Ha. I doubt that, but thanks.” Nathan laughed. “I’ll meet you in the car, Whit. Bailey’s already outside.”