“I know,” he says, wrapping his hand around my waist again. “I just get jealous sometimes. I feel like he’s been into you forever.”
Has he?My face flushes and I hope Henry doesn’t notice.
“I mean... I get it.” Henry smiles a lazy grin, as if his mouth is too heavy to hold up, and slips a finger through the loophole of my jeans. “You’re the best.” Henry takes a sip. “He knows we’re together, right?”
“Of course.” I raise my hand to scratch the back of his neck. Henry really is one of the good ones, I have to remind myself, even if he’s clearly downed a few cups of Robert’s juice. “He’s only in town for the weekend. I won’t even see him tomorrow. It’s no big deal.”
“I know, I know.” Henry pulls me to him hard and his body feels like a slab of concrete.
“Promise you like me more than him?”
“Promise,” I whisper into his chest. I will it to be true. I want it to be true. And saying it now, out loud, is easier than the truth. The truth is unnecessary. The truth is dangerous. “Let’s find Quentin.”
Henry follows me into the backyard. The music is quieter out here, and string lights rim Quentin’s lawn, giving thewhole party a softer feel. I finally spot the host sitting on his childhood slide with Barry Knowlton, the sophomore who made the state swimming team last year. Barry sits between Quentin’s legs with his eyes fixed on Quentin like he’s the most beautiful creature in the world. Quentin drags his forefinger down Barry’s chin and they smile like dummies. Wrapped in a private moment, they’re totally oblivious of all of us making a hot mess in Quentin’s backyard. Envy flares in my stomach, for their intimacy, the sweetness. I wonder if people are jealous of Henry and me, of what they think we have.
No, wait, of what wedohave. We do.
Quentin’s eyes suddenly meet mine and he whispers something into Barry’s hair. In a few steps, Quentin’s at my side.
“We have to talk,” Quentin says, inserting himself in between me and Henry. “You too, man,” he says to Henry. His voice is tinny and urgent. We follow him behind a bunch of bushes, out of view of the rest of the party. Henry and Quentin keep looking at each other, seeming to exchange whole sentences with their eyes over my head.
Their moms were college roommates who moved to Gold Coast together to ensure their families grew up side by side. Quentin and Henry’s friendship is obvious. It makes them fight like brothers, with iced-out silence or by wrestling in the mud. But they always make up easily thanks to an unwavering understanding that they are bound together not by choice, but by Mom-ordained duty. Another bond I can’t break. No matter how many inside jokes Quentin and I make, or how many times I feel Henry’s bare skin above mine, I’ll never worm my way inside their brains, like they have done with each other.
I admitted this once to Henry when we were lying on thedock behind his house over the summer. “I wish I had what you and Quentin have,” I said lazily.
“You have Nikki,” Henry said, dragging his fingertips over my goosepimply stomach. His touch tickled and I suppressed a giggle.
“Not the same. It was like that with Shaila, though,” I said. It was the first time I had admitted that out loud, that Nikki wasn’t enough to replace Shaila. It dawned on me that I probably wasn’t enough to replace her, either.
“I was always jealous of you two, you know,” he said. “Of the way girls get to be best friends with each other in such an obvious way. It’s so much weirder with guys.”
What an odd thing to say, I thought. The boys had it so much better in just about every way. Especially in the Players. But Henry’s admission made me like him more. He was delicate, breakable. Before I could press him, Henry stood and galloped to the end of the dock, folding his body into a cannonball and launching himself into the water below.
Now Henry and Quentin jostle each other in one of those aggro-chest-bump ways. “Yeah, man,” Henry says, shoving a shoulder into Quentin’s side. “I’ll get the others.”
“C’mon.” Quentin motions toward one of the massive weeping willows lining the yard. We race to part its stringy leaves like a beaded curtain.
“Some 007 shit, huh?” I say.
“You didn’t check your phone all day, did you?” he says.
“Not really.” When Adam and I were together, I usually forgot.
“There’s something you have to see.” Quentin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of newspaper. It’s flimsy, from the crumblingGold Coast Gazette.
“Where’d you get one of these?” I laugh. My family is the only one I know who still gets the SundayTimesand even that is archaic. Dad says he could never give it up.
“Just read it.” He crosses his arms, impatient.
My eyes try to focus in the darkness and it takes a few seconds for the letters to come into view. It’s short, just a couple of paragraphs, but the words drain all warmth from my body.
Notorious Local Killer Seeks Appeal
Graham Calloway, the boy who struck a deal after confessing to killing fifteen-year-old Shaila Arnold, seeks to exonerate himself three years after her death. Calloway, who is scheduled to be transferred to New York Federal Prison when he turns eighteen in June, has released a statement through his lawyer confirming the news:
“In light of new evidence, I, Graham Calloway, believe I was wrongfully blamed for the murder of Shaila Arnold. I will be seeking a new trial to prove my innocence. I aim to clear myself of all wrongdoing. I did not kill Shaila Arnold. I withdraw my confession.”
The Arnold family could not be reached for comment but the Gold Coast Police Department issued their own statement, standing by their original detective work: “We will review all new evidence but support our detectives who investigated Ms. Arnold’s horrific death. We have no additional comment at this time.”
