He sighs again, this time rising from his beanbag chair and pulling off his pants until he’s standing in nothing but his underwear. “You’re really starting to annoy me. You wanted a party, and I’m throwing a party. What’s the problem?”
“Your contact list? The entire thing? Our fucking grandparents are in your phone. Julia’s parents. Dad’s assistant.”
He shrugs and pulls a different pair of shorts from his drawer, slinging them on. He doesn’t get a shirt, though. He never gets a shirt, and he never responds when I try to explain that we’re all tired of seeing his nipples. It’s like his vocal cords stop working. “It’ll sort itself out.”
“Into chaos! You think Kline Brooks is getting a text about you throwing a fucking monster party at our house and not contacting our father? Dad’s assistant Madeline? She’s worked for him since before we were born!”
Gunnar shrugs. “Maybe they’ll finally realize I’m gone, then.”
Fuck me.He’s not entirely wrong. It’s been almost twenty-four hours at this point since he up and mysteriously flew back to New York from the Bahamas on some random airline while my parents slept or partied or who the hell knows. My parents are a unique set of individuals—I know that—but I can’tbelievethey haven’t noticed him missing yet. It just doesn’t track.
For all I know, Gunnar blocked both of us as contacts in their phones and the Bahamian authorities are dragging the whole damn ocean right now.
“They probablydidrealize but have the Bahamian authorities doing an island-by-island grid search. Have you called them? Texted?”
“No. Have you?”
“Well, no. I’ve been…busy.” Obsessing over Julia, trying not to self-destruct. It’s been averycrowded agenda.
“Then it is what it is. If they find out, they find out.”
“How are you the most casual human on the planet at fourteen? Like, are you missing the gene that synthesizes consequences? Are you a fucking sociopath? I really don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it because you take life too seriously.”
“Me? Take life seriously? Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to?”
Gunnar scoffs. “Think what you want, but you’re living in a tiny little box created by the nuances of societal expectation. I live without boundaries.”
“I am not conventional,” I protest. Ace Kelly is a fucking wonder. A visionary. A man with his own drum. Just ask anyone other than this fucker. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s talking about.
“Please. What have you done since the moment you realized you’re in love with Julia? What are you doing right now? You’re not throwing the party. I am.”
I shake my head, aggravated. “Never mind. Just…invite whoever you want and get fucking chaotic, for the love of God. Julia’s on her way over here now expecting you to be flashing the neighbors with a porn star’s twig and berries or some shit.”
Gunnar laughs, shrugging. “Suit yourself.”
Shoving past me, he heads for the living room and starts pushing furniture out of the way piece by piece. I stand and watch, my hands on my hips and my heart in my throat. He opens the glass expanse back doors to the patio and turns on the string lights my mom hung as soon as they moved back into the city last summer.
For years, we lived in Jersey while my parents worked in New York, just so we could be in the same neighborhood as the Brookses. But with me going off to college at Dickson and Gunnar fucking disappearing to the city all the time anyway, they decided to stop phoning it in as commuters and take the plunge back into city life.
They changed our Short Hills estate into some kind of investment property that does luxury vacation rentals and Hollywood filmsets and relocated to our penthouse in Manhattan. I won’t deny it’s a pretty bougie version of “city life” in this mega-penthouse, but it’s still the city. And with all the New York debauchery at his fingertips, who the hell knows what Gunnar is going to have showing up here in the next few minutes.
Gunnar passes by me on his way to the front door, and I pivot like a flag in the wind. “You ever seen a peg-legged stripper before?” he asks.
“What?”
“A peg-legged stripper. She’s got a leg that’s a peg.”
“Jesus, Gunnar. You’re fourteen. How haveyouseen a peg-legged stripper?”
He rolls his eyes. “Little tiny box, bro. Little tiny box.”
“I’m starting to think I’m okay with my box,” I say, my voice escalating as he disappears into the hallway. “If the outside looks like whatever fresh hell you’re living in,” I finish on a mumble.
Moments later, he’s back, with a cooler and two strong guys wheeling a hand truck full of liquor. My eyes bulge. “What the hell?”
“Don’t worry,” my underage brother says. “The kegs will be here in five minutes max.”
