He seems … keyed up. Anxious. Perhaps he’s nervous? His father worked for Freddie’s family. Is this the first time he’s seeing them after everything that happened? If that’s the case, I’d be nervous, too. Lines of tension seem to radiate off his body, like heat shimmer rising from a sunbaked sidewalk.
Once we arrive and exit the car, I put a hand on Connor’s back and rise up on my toes to whisper, “Are you all right?”
He winces and ducks his head for a moment, as if he hates revealing any sort of emotion or weakness. “Feeling a bitawkward, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“It will be.” Caving to my impulses, I reach out and grab his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Just … act like nothing happened.”
I know how to do that far too well. When you find your mom passed out in the bathroom for the umpteenth time, you learn how to cope by shoving unpleasant memories from your mind.Survive, I would tell Connor if I were allowed to be Billie in this moment. But Belinda has never had to learn about survival. In her world, thriving is a foregone conclusion.
We enter the house, Sophia directly behind us, still prattling on.
“You know this is the Pembroke summer estate, yes? They own multiple homes all over the world.”
That little tidbit makes me pause. If Connor’s father embezzled money from the Pembrokes’ company, how are they able to live so lavishly? Maybe this place is all paid off. It’s not like they’re renters on a month-to-month like me and Mom.
“They have a flat in Manhattan, I believe. Could you have run into them back home, Belinda?” Sophia asks me.
“No. I don’t remember them at all. We probably move in different social circles.” I shrug and smile, pleased with the little slice of truth I’ve been able to squeeze into the deception sandwich I’m serving. It’s 100 percent accurate to say that the Pembrokes and I have very different kinds of friends.
The crowd is a hodgepodge of adults and Wickham students, even a few I recognize from sightings in my classes or at the dining hall. Considering it’s an alumni function, that makes sense. It blows my mind that people my age want tohang out with people their parents’ ages and older, but who am I to judge? From what I can see, there’s delicious-looking food everywhere and the alcohol is flowing. No one is stopping any of our fellow students from partaking, and I’m guessing the liquor is top-shelf.
“Connor! There you are.” An older, handsome man with distinguished gray at his temples approaches us, accompanied by a woman I assume is his wife. “So pleased you could make it.”
“Thank you for having me.” The man wraps Connor into one of those typical male back-slapping hugs while the woman looks on with a pleased expression.
“You know,” the man says, lowering his gruff voice to a less strident volume, “you’re always welcome at our home, Connor. We don’t hold what your father did against you. And such a horrible tragedy about your sister.” He shakes his head. “We want to support you. In any way we can.”
Connor’s expression turns stoic. Almost blank. Makes me think he’s struggling to hold his frayed emotions together. “I appreciate it.”
The man glances over at me with curiosity. “Who’s your friend?”
“Belinda, let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke,” Connor says. “This is Belinda Winters. She’s a new transfer student at Wickham, joining us from New York.”
I want to tease him about how formal and uptight he sounds, but then I hear myself say, “So lovely to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke. You have a beautiful home,” and I know I don’t have any room to criticize. I bob my head a little, andholy shit did I almost curtsy?From the corner of my eye,I catch Connor fighting to contain a smirk. It’s a relief to see an expression on his face where a blank mask hid him just a moment ago. If his smile comes at the expense of my pride, so be it.
I shake Mr. Pembroke’s hand when he extends it in my direction, then his wife’s. She’s beautiful, though I can’t help noticing there seems to be a somewhat significant age gap between her and her husband. Though maybe she’s just well-preserved, like so many wives of rich men. My poor mother looks far older than her years. For all I know, Mrs. Pembroke is what the average mom of a teenage kid issupposedto look like. Mom wears the years like an albatross; Mrs. Pembroke wears them like a silk cape.
As I continue studying her face, I realize there’s something vaguely familiar about Mrs. Pembroke, too. It’s laughable to think I’d ever have had an opportunity to meet her in the past. Not unless she got lost downtown, far from what I’m sure is her bona fide castle on the Upper West Side, and wandered into Doug’s bar. She’d step one Manolo-ed foot on the sticky floor and think she’d fallen into hell.
Maybe she just has one of those faces.
“Welcome to our home, Belinda. How are you enjoying your time at Wickham so far?” Mr. Pembroke asks me.
I decide to tell the truth. “It’s been … interesting.”
That has the Pembrokes laughing—chuckling sensibly, more like. Connor meets my gaze, a pleased expression on his face.
They spot someone else they have to greet across the room and leave as fast as they approached us to begin with. The moment we’re alone, I glance around the room but don’t spotSophia anywhere.
“She’s outside. Sophia.” It’s as if Connor can read my mind, or at the very least he’s paying attention to me. And while normally I would be defensive about that, I can’t deny that the consideration leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
I like that he pays attention. That he seems into me and wants to spend more time with me. I should probably stay far away from him, considering what an emotional wreck he is, but I can’t help being drawn to him. He may have been tipsy when he mentioned our connection, but that doesn’t make it less real.
“They seem nice. The Pembrokes.” I’m trying to break the weird silence that has fallen between us.
“They are.” He grabs hold of my hand. “Come on. Let’s go find somewhere quiet so we can chat.”
“Chat about what?”
