Doessheknow about the party? Given her sparkly red dress, I take it she does.
I text Ten on my way back up the stairs.
ME:Party at Rae’s tonight. You knew about it?
BEAST:Party, huh? I had other plans.
I still haven’t changed his name in my phone. I don’t want to. He’s still in the dark about it, which amuses me to no end, God knows why.
ME:Cancel them.
ME:Please.
BEAST:I don’t want to cancel them.
ME:Please. Please. Please.
BEAST:I’ll delay them, but I’m not canceling them.
I’m relieved, albeit a little bummed he has plans. Then again, it’s selfish of me considering I jumped on a sleepover at Rae’s when we learned our parents were going out of town.
People start pouring in at seven o’clock sharp. None of them are Ten. I keep hoping he’ll show up any minute, but lots of minutes pass, and he still isn’t here.
“Yo, Conrad!” Jasper yells from the makeshift DJ booth he set up on the mother-of-pearl console Mom helped Rae’s parents pick out when she redid their place. “This song’s for you!”
My heart snaps to attention. At the first drumbeat, at the first violin stroke, I recognize my song. It’s different from the original, better I think. Ten and Nev disagree, but I think their love for me clouds their judgment.
Mona Stone’s voice overpowers the instruments.
A group of girls start singing along to the chorus, and then one whips her hands in the air, and beer splashes all over my borrowed dress. She doesn’t apologize. In her defense, I don’t think she noticed.
It’s crazy how popular Mona has made my song. Not everyone likes it, of course… Nothing in this world is universally liked. I got my share of hate tweets proclaiming “Made” is “sappy,” “the worst song ever,” “grating.” But I also received an outpouring of love from strangers. A couple of my new fans even started calling out the haters using the hashtag #Harshville.
I think the hashtag deserves a song.
The twins pop up around me and snap a selfie. I barely have time to look at the camera before they’re captioning the shot:The Next Mona Stone.
They’re wrong, though. I don’t want to be the next Mona Stone anymore. I want to write the music that artistslikeMona Stone will play. I’m about to correct them when Ten steps into the living room.
His gaze roams over the room before settling on me, and then he’s fording across the room, elbowing people out of his way.
“You came,” I whisper, feeling overwhelmed by the sight of him.
It’s been two months, and my reaction to him hasn’t lessened.
He shakes his head, then encloses me in his arms. “Never doubt it.”He presses his mouth against my nose, my eyelids, my jaw, my forehead, not leaving a single millimeter on my face untouched. “But I really do have other plans.”
My heart sinks like a stone. “You said you’d delay them.”
“I decided I didn’t want to.”
I rest my cheek against his chest, heat slickening my eyes. I don’t speak for a while, just listen to his heartbeats melt into one another. When Mona’s song ends—yes, he can now stand the sound of his mother’s voice—he presses me away.
His eyes widen, then narrow. “Are you crying?”
“You just got here. I don’t want you to leave yet.”
“Angie.” His voice is low, serious. So very serious. He clasps my hands tighter. “I’m leavingwithyou.”
