“Not really,” I yelled.
“It helps though.”
I swam to the shore and flopped down beside him. The ground stuck to my wet skin like Velcro.
“It’s fucked,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what I was talking about—Shaila’s death, Adam’s imminent departure, or the idea that we’re supposed to live and die all in the same life. Doesn’t that seem like too much for one person to bear?
“What do we do now?” I asked, trying to silence the screams in my head.
“We go on,” Adam said. “We keep going.”
I nodded but I did not ask my next question.How?
SIX
YOU SURE YOUdon’t wanna come to Quentin’s tonight?I type, trying to find the line between obsessed and friendly, desperate and chill. Adam never wants to come to Player parties now that he’s in college, but after seeing him at Diane’s, I wish he would.
Nah, you do your thing. Not sure those guys need me hanging around anymore. See you next time.
My stomach sinks. I miss him already and he’s not even gone.
I shove my phone into my pocket and push the lock down on Quentin’s front door. The house sits on a tiny, tree-lined street straddling the border between Gold Coast and Clam Cove. Everyone calls this area Gold Cove for short. The houses here are smaller, painted in the same four colors—navy, crimson, birch, or gray—because they’re registered as landmarks with the historical society. They all date back to 1825 or earlier.
Each mailbox on this street has a little gold plaque nailed to it, a signal that these homes arespecial, they areold. And in Gold Coast,olddoesn’t just mean dusty or unkempt. It means you were here when big things happened, that you appreciate the historical distinctions the town has been awarded. Or that you were able to suck up to the right real estate agent twenty yearsago when the town sold them off one by one. If you own one of these historical houses, it means you belong, no matter what.
It makes sense that Quentin lives here. He’s beyond obsessed with Gold Coast history and can recite every single mayor since the Revolutionary War. His fascination transferred over to Prep in middle school, too, when he learned that the school’s founder, Edgar Grace, quite literally came over on the Mayflower and eventually settled the area as a beachside oasis. I think the weird colonial vibe inspires his art or something. Otherwise why would he know that Grace’s lineage died out in the early twentieth century when all of his descendants tragically caught scarlet fever? So random. He’s basically become the keeper of Player history, too. He was the first of us to successfully memorize the Player packet, able to recite the chant backward and forward, and spew basic info about every single Player when called on during lineups.
At the house, it’s just him and his mom, a Welsh novelist who drinks her scotch neat. His dad died of cancer before we became tight and Quentin never brings him up. Their place always feels cozy, like a cabin in the mountains even though it’s only a few miles from the beach. Every other stair creaks just a bit, and the front door is so short that Quentin has to duck his head when he enters.
Theirstuffis everywhere, not put away by a cleaning service twice a week like at Nikki’s or Henry’s. Even the shed out back is comforting. It once belonged to a blacksmith or something but Quentin’s mom converted it into an art studio for him. Now it smells like turpentine and charcoal pencils. The last time I was in there, he had tacked up portraits of all the Players. Even Shaila.
“Fucking finally!” Nikki throws herself into my arms and Iwrap myself around her, burying my face in her jean jacket. It’s so thin and soft, like leather.
“Sorry,” I say, sheepish. “Got held up. Adam’s in town.”
“Oooh!” Nikki coos. “You’re like the Adam whisperer. Come on.” She takes my hand and weaves through the living room, past the reclaimed wood end table and over a woven basket full of fleece blankets. But before we make it to the kitchen, she stops. “Heads up,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She’s parted it in the middle so she looks like an indie princess. “Robert made the jungle juice, so... you know.” She feigns passing out and her voice drops to a whisper. It’s hard to hear over the booming music.
I grimace. “I’ll make my own drink, then.”
Before she can respond, I feel someone move up behind me. “There she is.” In a beat, Henry spins me around to face him and slips a warm hand onto the small of my back. His fingers press into my skin and I shiver.
“Here I am,” I say. Henry’s face is flushed, but he’s steady and his eyes are locked on mine, like he’s actually, for real, happy to see me. A bout of sweetness blooms in my chest, and for a second, I forget that I spent the whole day drooling over Adam.
“Missed you today, J,” Henry says, his mouth forming a tender little pout.
“Oh yeah?” I lean into him, letting myself be enveloped.
“Maybe just a little. Want a drink?” I nod. Henry turns and shouts into the kitchen. “Make way! Make way! Jill Newman has arrived! And the girl wants a drink!” Like that, the crowd parts, leaving a little aisle for me to shuffle down toward the kitchen island. But I hide behind my hair as everyone stares. Being in the Player fishbowl sometimes sucks.
I take my time mixing a cup of whatever’s available as Henryleans up against the wall, scanning the room. He thrusts his drink toward Avi Brill, his producer on the Prep News channel, who’s standing near the TV. Looks like he’s trying to queue up some sad-ass documentary to play on mute.
“Classic,” Henry mumbles. Then he turns to me. “Heard you were with Adam.”
The muscles in my stomach tense. “Yep.”
Henry groans.
“What?” I ask, my jaw clenching. “You know we’re friends.”
