Part of me wants to argue with her. To stake a claim and push for what I’m pretty sure I want. But what does a title matter? What right do I even have asking for one? I can’t promise her anything.
I’m frozen on the sidewalk, not sure what to do, until she finally looks up at me again.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay… whatever. Dakota’s in.” Suddenly she can’t look at me, her eyes roaming from my chest to her hands, to the street. “Just no making it official, or whatever.” She gives me a sly smile. “Whatever, I guess. We’ll do this relationship our way.”
“Whatever?” I can’t help the dopey grin that I know has invaded my face. “That’s very romantic. You should write greeting cards. They’d say really poignant things, like ‘I think you’re better than a stick in the eye’ and ‘Will you maybe be my valentine if no one else is available?’ Forget college or music—that’syour calling.”
“Whatever,” she says, pulling away from me and nudging my shoulder with hers. That move, I’ve learned, is as close to “I’m sorry” as Vee gets. She smacks me when she’s mad, nudges when she’s sorry, and pokes me in the ribs when I’m embarrassing her.
“Okay then.” I take her hand and pull her back onto thesidewalk, pushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before leading her toward the house.
VIRGINIA
This isn’t the first party I’ve been to. It’s not even the third, or the seventh. Itisthe first one I’ve ever felt truly comfortable at. Maybe it’s stupid or naive, but I feel like someone is watching out for me now. Cam doesn’t just like me—he fought for me. He made me feel wanted. Tonight, my goal is to not think so much—to see what it’s like to really let go. I should probably know my limits before I head to college next year. I’m not going to play babysitter to Cort or anyone else. Cam has promised to stay sober so he can make sure no one slips something in my drink or shoves me in a trunk. He’s my insurance policy against ending up on a MISSING poster tonight. Tonight, I’m getting tipsy in the name of making Nonni proud.Not weird at all.
“Ohhhmigosh.” Cort throws herself at me as I enter the marble-covered entryway of the ultra-contemporary condo we’ve just entered. She wraps her arms around my waist, and tries to pick me up, even though I’m a head taller than her. It’s only been a month since the last time she was home, and already she looks different again. Her hair has gone from a shoulder-length bob to a shaggy blond pixie cut, with tiny streaks of green. Her nose has a tiny diamond stud in it that’s still pink around the edges. “I can’t be-lieeve it! You’re actually going to do it!”
Cort sets me back down and almost topples onto me in the process. She’s wearing tight jeans, black ankle-breaking heels, and a strapless red top—in October. She looks like she belongs in a dance club, and I wonder if this is how everyone dresses at the college parties she’s going to now.
I have lots of experience with Drunk Cort. She’s a louder, more emotional (if it’s even possible) version of Sober Cort. And she’s physical. Sober Vee wakes up with bruises the morning after a party, thanks to Cort’s bear hugs and couch tackles. Sometimes being her friend is literally painful.
I put my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “Whoa, there. Where’s Anders?” I’m looking across the crowded room and scanning faces. Every square inch of the house is covered—in people, bottles, cans, or cups.
“Dunno.” She shrugs. “He begged me to come to this. Now I’m here and he gets mad and walks off.” It annoys me a little that she seems annoyed to be here; I’m letting the conversation end, because Cort plus Anders plus alcohol usually equals tears and screaming in the end. And I don’t plan on playing referee tonight.
“Let’s get you another drink,” I say, throwing my arms around her again. “I’ve missed you.”
“You! You need a drink!” Cort waves her arms in the air, and then gives a questioning look at Cam. He’s taking full advantage of our new pro-touching-in-public agreement, with one hand on my waist and the other on my shoulder. “Well, hellooo!” Cort says, as if he just joined us and hasn’t been plastered behind me since we got here. “You must be Cam.” She’s giving me a not-at-all-sneaky sideways glance.Nice, Cort.
Cam sticks his hand out to her. “And you must be the infamous Cort.” He shakes her hand while his other still rests on my waist.
“Ohhh, infamous. I like it.”Score one for Cam.“You’re going to take care of our girl, right?” Cort looks like she’s challenging Cam to a staring contest.
“Yeah, I’ll take care of her.”
I look up at him over my shoulder.
He winks at me. “Or whatever.”
Cort’s hands go to her hips and her eyes narrow. “What was that?” Cam probably thought she was too drunk to catch his little move, but he doesn’t know Cort. At this point, she’s acting a lot more drunk than she actually is. “What was that wink about?” She’s looking between me and Cam like she’s trying to make a choice. Probably determining the weakest link.
“There was no wink.” Cam removes his hands from me and shoves them in his pockets.Smooth.
“You winked,” Cort says.
Cam keeps his voice serious. “It was a blink.”
“‘Whatever’?” Cort throws up air quotes in front of her. “I know a wink when I see one.”
“Shots!” I push Cam in the direction of the kitchen and pull my wobbly best friend into a sideways hug as he walks off. Cort is giggling, her flushed cheeks heating even more.
“Have I mentioned how cute he is, Vee?” She gives him a long, exaggeratedly appraising look as he walks away, and I smack her. “And I think he’s kind-of sort-of in love with you.”
“He’s not in love with me. Not kind oforsort of. We’re friends. Don’t be stupid.” I don’t like lying to my best friend, but Cort can’t keep a secret from Anders. And Anders tells Logan when he has an itch. So telling Cort about me and Cam isn’t an option right now. I just need a few weeks before I start beating the proverbial drums of change, that’s all. And he’snotin love with me, so I’m not even lying. I’m just not elaborating.
