“Ow!” Cooper whine-laughs, like someone halfheartedly hit him.
“Fuck off,” Falco says smugly. “Believe it, don’t believe it. Like I give a shit. I finally got between those perfect thighs tonight, and you know fucking what? Even right now she’s waiting for me at home to leave this party and come give it to her again.”
I can hear the smirk in his voice as my fingernails draw blood from my palms. My own dinner turns precariously in my stomach, mixing with the alcohol and threatening to come back up. Because as much as I want to deny what Falco’s words mean, I can’t, and as much as I want to write them off as bullshit male bragging, something tells me he isn’t making it up.
And something inside me breaks. The barriers I’ve built around the jealousy that’s done nothing but grow since the night they first met, all crumble in an instant, and I get the fuck away from that damned pool house before I do something crazy, like strangle the fucker.
The overcast sky begins a light drizzle, and everyone relocates inside, but I take cover under the vine-swathed pergola and light a much-needed cigarette. I turn around, and there in the corner is the only other person still outside, and of course it’s my least fucking favorite person alive.
Falco nods to me, taking a puff on his own smoke.
I tap some ash onto the ground and watch him. I lift my chin at his cigarette. “Didn’t you quit? Or did you just tell your girlfriend that?” I almost choke on the taste of the word. Girlfriend. It’s a word that has never appealed to me, but it tastes exponentially more sour in this particular context.
Falco drops the cigarette on the damp flagstone, crushing it under his shoe. He splays his palms in a show of pacifism. “I did quit. It wasn’t mine. Just bummed one from Ty.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You know quitting doesn’t mean just not buying your own pack, right? It means not smoking.”
Falco shrugs. “That’s the first one I’ve had in weeks.”
I snort. He’s supposed to have quit for good months ago.
Falco shifts nervously in place, frowning. “Look, man. Please don’t tell her, okay?”
I take another puff and look away from him. I should fucking tell her. But then she’d be upset, and I won’t be the reason Beth is upset. I won’t give him peace of mind by telling him that, though.
I wish to God Falco would just fucking leave, but he doesn’t. He slips his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he watches me pretend to enjoy my smoke. I am his girlfriend’s family friend, and I know it serves him to get along with me. Even if I haven’t been openly hostile to him in a while, he’s always felt my dislike, and after what I’ve just overheard, I’m sure even that would be favorable to whatever vibes I must be giving off right now. Because I never trusted him—not for a fucking minute. He may even genuinely love Beth—now—but what happens when there’s a thousand miles between them? When there are hot college chicks drunk and available? What are the chances Falco doesn’t fuck Beth over?
I mean, the writing is already on the fucking wall. He’s already avoiding bringing her to parties, making her less and less of a priority. And if what he told his boys was true, and he’s really taken that from her…Fuck. Contemptuous jealousy surges through my veins, tensing my muscles and clenching my jaw. Is he really going to put Beth through months—even years—of a long-distance “relationship” when he’s already treating her like an inconvenience, talking about her to his friends like she’s just some sexual conquest?
“March…” Falco’s still scared I’ll snitch on him for smoking.
“So, Dartmouth, huh?” I change the subject instead.
He blows out a deep breath, relieved to move on from the subject of his little transgression. “Yeah, man.”
“That’s a good school. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
I stomp out my cigarette, and then immediately take out another and light it. I hold out the pack to Falco—a test—and he takes one—asshole—and lights on up. “So what does Beth think about it?” I ask, looking out over the pool, at the steam rising from the heated water. It’s a scene out of Stephen King, or Hitchcock, and I imagine myself drowning Falco in the pool and taking Beth for myself. It’s a morbid fantasy, but like most of the good in my life, it’s still just fantasy.
“About Dartmouth?” Falco asks.
“About you going away to Dartmouth,” I press.
Falco sighs. “She’s supportive. But you know Beth. She’s scared.”
“It’s kind of selfish, don’t you think?” I keep my tone light, just making conversation.
Falco flinches. “That’s the last thing Beth is.”
I turn to face him. “Not her. You.”
He frowns.
“I’m just saying, it’s a lot to put her through, right? All that long-distance shit. Seems to me if you really loved her you’d go somewhere closer,” I shrug. In the horror film in my mind, he steps too close to the pool, slips in the rain, and—oh, shit—hits his head on the side going down. Liquid crimson dances through the water as he sinks, and I glance around to confirm there are no witnesses—no one to know I had a chance to try and save him.
In reality Falco just stands and glares at me. He wants to tell me to go fuck myself, but he’s got more tact than that. “I wanted to play soccer, but that didn’t work out. Dartmouth is the best school I got into by a long shot.”
