Jamison
Clairepulls up right as I stomp out my cigarette, but not before almost passing me first. I wanted to grab her on the way to Sean’s house, but she remembered how close I live to him and insisted that it made no sense for me to drive to her apartment first. I tried to convince her that the extra ten minutes really didn’t matter much to me, especially if it meant she didn’t have any excuse to finally see my place, but that girl is scary persistent.
“Hey, no fair! That’s cheating!” she calls out the window, her body reaching across the middle console toward the passenger side.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say despite knowingexactlywhat she’s talking about.
“I told you I’d pick you up at your place, not in front of Enzo’s! I was heading around back and almost passed you completely.”
Okay, so she’s persistent, but I am nothing if not resourceful. Technically I agreed to her picking me up at my apartment. Technically my apartment is inside Enzo’s, which I am currently standing in front of. She grunts and roughly one percent of me feels slightly guilty for manipulating her like this, but the other ninety-nine percent is completely satisfied seeing the fucking adorable pout now plastered across her face.
I walk to the window, my elbows resting half inside. "Technically thisismy place.” Her pout grows more prominent as she hunches back into her seat.
“You know what I mean.” She juts out her bottom lip and the way I instantly want to suck the thing off makes my stomach tighten.
“You’re adorable,” Isay without realizing and it’s only by luck that she thinks I’m still teasing her. “And I’m sorry. Next time, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Pinky.” I stick my arm through the window and hold my pinky out to her. She looks at me sideways and then back at the steering wheel like she’s deciding whether or not to forgive me for my grievance.
“Fine.” Her pinky finds mine. “But next time you let me be a gentleman!” Our fingers embrace and I remember the last time I did something so juvenile, so innocent.
“You’ll find me?” I stand in the doorway, Ronan on the porch, his duffle bag carelessly thrown over his shoulder. His case manager Marcus is waiting at the car on the street, holding the passenger door open.
Ronan moves in a step closer, his voice hushed like what we are saying is only for us. “I said I would, didn’t I?” He did, but honestly that never really means much to me, coming from him or anyone else.
The last two weeks, having Ronan as an ally has been so different for me. But despite that, like everyone always does, he is leaving, and as much as I want it to be different, I know better than to get my hopes up.
“I will, Jay.” He pushes his bag up higher on his shoulder and holds up his pinky. “I swear.”
I laugh at the babyish gesture, but the look he gives me is dead serious.
I hook my pinky around his and he spits over his shoulder. I have no idea what the loogie is for, but I follow him blindly, doing the same.
Six days later, the house phone rings while I should be in sixth-period history. There is only one person who would call when they know everyone else is supposed to be out of the house.
I run to the phone from my bedroom, skipping steps two at a time from the second floor.
“Hello?” I pant hesitantly, my voice low and breathy, my body suddenly flooded with the anticipation I promised I wouldn’t have.
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
Ican hear music from the backyard as we walk around to the back of Sean’s house. Biggie is telling his hunnies that he loves being called Big Poppa as we push open the gate. Sean’s playlist ranges from classic rap and hip hop to hillbilly country music, each song always aggressive in its own way and never appropriate for the time that it’s played.
“Biggie, Sean, really? It’s the Fourth of July and like two in the afternoon.” I put down the assortment of cheeses, crackers, nuts, and fruits that Claire called something French and the six-pack that was my contribution.
“What? Haven’t you guys ever seenHardball? What’s more American than baseball?” he calls back. We all scoff.
“Your soundtrack is always spot on, buddy!” Mikey yells. He comes over and claps me on the back, then hugs Claire. “Welcome to Hell,” he whispers to her before they end their embrace.
“Is it really that bad?” She asks back.
Ronan, who followed Mikey over, replies, “Oh, it’s bad.” He turns to me. “Remember when you said he tried playingMargaritavilleat Rick’s party last year?”
“Well that doesn’t sound so bad,” Claire says.
“It was to celebrate his fifth year,” Mikey adds.
