Page 11 of Sinister

How do I convey to this popular, well-mannered, well-liked guy that I’m drawn to morally grey, outright toxic characters like the couple at the center of Fitzgerald’s final novel?

“Just what?” Sin chimes in, urging me farther on with a nod.

“I guess I just like the idea of two broken people trying—and inevitably failing—to make each other whole, if that makes sense.” There, I said it. Let the judgment begin.

“Wow, that’s . . .” Sin begins, and the look on his face is inscrutable. “That’s such a nuanced take, Petra. Now I really want to read this book.”

I smile and look away, not wanting to show how relieved I feel that he didn’t deem me a bigger freak than I’m usually known to be. “So what did you think about The Great Gatsby?”

“I actually liked it a lot. The whole idea of chasing a dream that’s always just out of reach . . . that was painfully relatable.”

“How can you have unattainable dreams?” I blurt out, half-amused and half-incredulous. “You’re the poster child for success: popular, athletic⁠—”

“Handsome?” Sin cuts in with a joking wink, and we both end up giggling. When we pause for breath, he sighs and says, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Petra.”

It’s a cryptic statement, sure, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of my curiosity. Even though I am curious.

“I guess I’m learning,” I reply instead.

He shifts in his chair, his expression turning more serious.

“What is it?” I ask, unable to keep a lid on my nosiness after all.

“Why did you come to the party tonight?” Sin asks seriously, as if he wants to really understand my scattered motives, those I couldn’t make sense of myself. “I mean, you don’t seem like the party type—and not in a bad way!” he hurries to add, ever-sensitive to how his words could be construed in different ways. Something I find I quite like about him.

I look away, feeling a twinge of regret and other unspeakable feelings. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to do something different on my birthday. My parents forgot about it, so . . .”

“What? Your biological parents?” Sin asks with an expression of disbelief before looking regretful about his words. “Sorry for that question; it just came out.”

“No, I get why you would ask that. And yes, my biological parents, as far as I know. I’ve even got my father’s nose. Famously so.” I try to lighten up the conversation that’s gotten really serious really fast.

Sin’s face softens as he says, “Petra, I’m sorry it hasn’t been a great birthday. And about your parents. That sounds really tough.”

“It’s actually not that bad.” Somehow, I feel the need to defend my parents. Or maybe I want to reduce the amount of abjection my life seems to contain.

At any rate, I suddenly feel that I don’t want to continue being an object of pity any longer.

“I get to spend a lot of time on my own, and honestly, it’s a relief. It’s made me really independent and self-reliant, you know.”

“That’s pretty obvious, but . . .” Sin hesitates, as if trying to summon the kindest words possible. “It must be lonely, right?”

“Yep, it is,” I reply without missing a beat. “I thought that was pretty obvious, too.”

We both chuckle briefly, and then another spell of silence settles between us.

Outside, our peers are playing hide-and-seek among meticulously manicured hedges, while others are probably engaged in more lascivious activities in the manor’s many rooms.

Thinking about the latter group makes me blush and become anxious for some reason, so I clear my throat.

“Actually, I almost wouldn’t have come tonight. But my friend Amelia convinced me to give it a shot,” I admit. I don’t want Sin to think that I am a loser with literally no friends, so I continue, “She’s my best friend, in case you were wondering. The one person in my life I can rely on without thinking.”

“She sounds real cool, Petra. Where do you guys usually hang out?” Sin asks, getting up from his chair and stretching his legs.

My eyes can’t help straying toward his sinewy calves, but I train them on his face before he can notice.

“Umm, on Instafriends? I’ve never actually met her.” I have a sheepish expression on my face, but not for long. “It’s like we don’t even need to see each other to be in tune with each other. I know it sounds corny when I put it like that, but trust me, she’s . . . yeah, she’s a real one.”

Sin has been watching me wax eloquent about my online friend with a faint smile on his face. When I fall silent, he says, “And you’ve never wondered if you were being catfished or something like that?”