Chapter 11
“You’re throwing a gala for a bunch of geezers?” Bentley asks, utterly confused, as I FaceTime her from the service corner in the living room. I’m contorted into a pretzel, trying to keep the signal strong and steady. I have one foot on the fireplace ledge, one foot on an uneven ottoman, and my body is pressed into the window.
Outside, the snow has begun melting, the roads are cleared, and life is returning to normal after yesterday’s storm. They’re a well-oiled snow-moving machine out here.
“I’m only clarifying because the cousins and I hit the blunt pretty hard this afternoon,” she says. “I take back everything I said about those little shits. Now that they’re seventeen, they can totally hang. They brought the good stuff.”
“Well, that’s good,” I bellow, trying to keep this conversation on course. My thighs are shaking from the sheer energy it’s taking to stay put. “I’m just hoping if I do a good job, my parents might unfreeze my accounts and let me come home early. The event is on December twenty-third. I could be back in the city the next morning to resume planning.”
Bentley’s screen is paused, which can only mean one thing: she’s checking her Instagram likes instead of listening to me. “Bee, can you give me your undivided attention for two seconds?”
“Ugh. Fine. My bad. A certain Hollywood heartthrob just posted a thirsty-thirsty thirst trap, and I had to see it for myself. Did you know he’s still going around telling people we didn’t really hook up in that hot tub in Saint-Tropez two summers ago? If only I had proof. I’m going to start spy-camming all my hookups for clout.”
“Bee!” I say, both because that’s a terrible idea and she’s not even remotely keyed in.
“Right, we’re talking about you.” She saysyouas if she’d rather be talking about deranged sex cults or the dangers of Botox. “I was listening. You and Ax Guy are joining forces to save the small town and secure your ticket home. Though it sounds like you’re trying to secure a ticket into his pants too.”
“First off, you can’t refer to him as Ax Guy. It was a wood-splittingmaul, and his name isHector,” I say. “Second, I do not want to fuck him.” Is she buying this? AmIbuying this? I can’t tell her the truth about that, so I tell her a different one. “There’s no place in the universe less arousing than your grandparents’ house. Gross.”
“Epically gross.” She laughs, breezy and forced. “I just needed to hear you say it. I didn’t want word getting around that you were slumming it with some nobody in the middle of nowhere. Do you know how bad that would look for me?”
For me too, I guess. Bentley has made it abundantly clear that we only date and do boys in our social circle. It’s almost incestuous, if you stop to think about it. In some ways, it makes sense. Power plus power breeds more power.
I always thought it lucky that Mom and Dad found each other. They got a good deal on all counts. Their individual successes elevate them as a couple into a greater echelon of influence. Their union, unfettered by the weight of life’s expenses, has gotten them everything they’ve ever wanted.
Except maybe true love. But who cares when your joint net worth is in the stratosphere?
“Keep it in your pants until you come home. There will be plenty of fresh meat waiting for you on New Year’s Eve,” Bentley trills. “And if you need me to pick up some of the party organizing, I suppose I could do it.”
“Aw, wait, really?” Bentley is not one to volunteer her time, energy, or money. Neither am I, usually, but look at me now. Maybe we’re both learning and growing? This is the first true branch of friendship she’s extended to me in quite some time, and I’d be an idiot not to take it.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. The Brazilian ski instructor I was seeing last holiday season went back home to ‘be with his family’ or some shit, so now I have no excuse to even hit up the slopes. I need something to look forward to. Marco won’t even respond to my texts about…”
Just as she’s about to monopolize the conversation once more, Hector barrels into the living room. “Sorry I’m late.” Then he notices my precarious stance. “Dude, what are you doing?” I must look like some designer-clad cat burglar in my combat boots, black merino-wool sweater, and leather biker hat.
Bentley’s voice rings tinny in my earbuds. “Oh my God. Is that him? Can I see? I want to know what kind of pauper could entice the prince.” I end the call, lock my phone. Leave it to Bentley to say all the wrong things right when I have to spend the whole day with Hector—the supposed pauper with, dare I say,princelylooks.
“Just finishing up a call.” I carefully get down, red-faced, and retie my shoes. “Everything all good at school?”
“Yeah, I got stuck in my final. Three hours is not enough time to write three short responses and one full analytical essay. My thesis was so scattered, but it’s fine. I’m almost done. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
His harried tone doesn’t match the slight air of pleasure he seems to have gotten from overcoming the challenge.
Outside, as we approach Hector’s car, about to embark on our very first gala-planning excursion, he arcs the keys over to me. “I’m exhausted. Do you mind?”
I’m stunned by this abrupt act of trust. The cookie challenge must have had as much of an effect on him as it did on me.
There’s no time to ponder that thoroughly because panic zings up into my mouth, making my tongue go numb and heavy. “You want me to driveyourcar?” The metallic white monster glints in the streaks of broad sunlight.
“Sorry it’s not one of the luxury sports cars—the Teslas or whatever—you’re used to,” he says before getting in.
Krampus slides out from the shadows of my brain folds, but I poke him back into place. I will not let my anxiety win today. Driving is a piece of cake. I might not have done it in a hot minute, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of recalling the muscle memory.
I slip into the driver’s seat. The keys shake in my unprepared hands. I inspect the gear shift and the steering wheel, trying to recall anything from that driver’s ed course I slept through. I was probably nineteen the last time I operated a moving vehicle other than a golf cart around a country club, but shouldn’t it be second nature?
I buckle my seat belt, feeling its constraints taut against my body. It reminds me of the almost-escape and the prank…
I should tell him the truth, but I’m locked into place, body working overtime to compensate for the crappy ways I’ve been acting.
