“It’s my toaster,” I shoot back. “And it’s a matter of principle.”
“Whatever you say, kid.”
A wave of anger slams into me. “No.” I jam my finger in the air, because I’ve had it up to here. I’m done. Fuckingdone. “Call me that one more time and I’ll smash your guitar to smithereens.”
He simply arches a brow.
“I mean it,” I warn. “Don’t call me that. And do me a favor? Just leave me the hell alone. I’m not going anywhere, and if you insist on staying here too, fine, go ahead and stay. But I don’t need you to babysit me, I don’t need you to talk to me, and you know what? Don’t evenlookat me—”
“You never used to be this dramatic.”
I spit out an incensed curse and turn my back on him, because if I have to see that infuriating smirk for one second longer, I’m liable to punch it off his face. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.
“That’s very mature, Blake. Just turn your back in the middle of a conversation.”
“The conversation was over,” I say stiffly, then march off before he can say another word.
I spend the rest of the morning avoiding him. I eat breakfast alone on the front porch, then curl up with a thriller about a lady who wakes one morning to discover she has a whole-ass family she doesn’t remember. I don’t see why she’s so scared. I’d love to wake up to anentirely new life. One where my father doesn’t constantly butt into my business, my boyfriend doesn’t screw cheerleaders, and my former crush doesn’t view me as a burdensome toddler.
Eventually, my sulking gets tedious, so I throw on a bathing suit under my clothes and pack a small tote. Sunscreen, towel, earbuds, water bottle. Good to go. All that’s left is the keys to the bowrider, the twenty-four-foot speedboat our families purchased last year. It’s the only boat I feel confident at the helm of; our cruiser and motor yacht are way too big.
The boat keys aren’t hanging from their usual hook, so I head outside, spotting Wyatt below on the dock. He’s got his guitar on his lap, but he’s not playing it, too busy leaning over to scribble in that notebook of his. A beer bottle sits on the table beside him, and as usual, he’s smoking a cigarette, his long fingers flicking a tower of ash into the plastic ashtray next to his beer.
It’s only eleven in the morning. I wonder if his parents know that he comes to Tahoe to chain-smoke and day drink.
Ishould be babysittinghim.
I descend the stone steps that wind down the side of the house. The lake stretches endlessly before me, deep blue water ringed by snowy peaks and pine-covered slopes. God, it’s gorgeous here. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky today.
As I tip my head up to the sun, it settles in my chest and warms me in a way I haven’t felt in weeks. For the first time since I learned of Isaac’s betrayal, my shoulders lose some of the tension.
On the sprawling dock, some Adirondack chairs are angled toward the water. Nearby, half a dozen lounge chairs are arranged in a neat line, a couple of them shaded by an enormous red umbrella. My flip-flops slap the wood as I walk up to Wyatt’s chair.
“Okay,” I announce. “Let’s discuss this like adults.”
He looks up, smoke curling out the corner of his mouth. He takes one last drag, then snuffs his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Oh, we’re speaking now?” His eyes gleam with amusement.
I let out a slow, calming breath. “I’m sorry I lost my temper before. I just don’t appreciate being talked about like I’m a houseplant or a damn Chihuahua. With that said, if we’re going to be here for the summer, we need rules.”
“I don’t like rules.”
“Shocking. Mr. Tortured Musician doesn’t want to follow any rules.” I cross my arms over the front of my cropped white hoodie. “I think the only way to handle this is if you stay out of my way and I stay out of your way.”
“There’s still time for you to go,” he drawls, and damned if that doesn’t sting.
He doesn’t want me here, I get it. But that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
“What, you’re worried I’ll cramp your style?” I taunt. “Get in the way of your hookup parade?”
“Hookup parade??” he echoes, rolling his eyes.
“Yes. It’s no secret you’ve screwed half the lake.”
I regret the words the moment they slip out. It’s the truth, though, as far as I know. Gigi doesn’t discuss her brother’s sex life—I think she’d prefer to be keptoutof the loop—but most of the other hockey kids, as we refer to ourselves, have no qualms about gossiping.
According to Alex, Wyatt’s penis is a popular Lake Tahoe attraction. An obsession, even, if the rumors about Rosie are true. Apparently, Wyatt hooked up with a local named Rosie, who was so heartbroken after he ended it that her family sold their house and moved to Reno. But I’m not sure I believe that part. No parents would make real estate decisions based on their daughter’s love life.
