Fighting off a queasy feeling, I held out my hand. “Oliver Pemberton. Nice to meet you.”
“Same.” Dean shook my hand, although he didn’t look too pleased about making my acquaintance.
Chloe introduced me to the rest of the group, but I forgot all names immediately. All I could focus on was the way she kept touching Dean’s arm and smiling at him with those red lips, and how he put his hand at the small of her back. It was clear they were a couple.
I wanted to fucking punch him.
As soon as I could politely excuse myself, I did, going right over to the bar and asking for some Woodford Reserve, neat. The bartender asked me for my I.D., of course, and I brandished one of Hughie’s old licenses. It was expired, but the guy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I took my whiskey and grabbed a seat at the end of the bar, away from the crowd. After tossing it back in less than two minutes, I ordered another.
I was halfway through that one, enjoying a decent buzz, when Chloe walked into the bar and spotted me. “There you are,” she said, coming to stand at my side. “You disappeared so fast, I thought something was wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I barely looked at her.
She paused. “Okaaaaay. Well, why are you in here by yourself? Why don’t you come hang out with us?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you mad about something?”
“What would I be mad about?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I tipped up my glass. “So is that guy your boyfriend?”
“Dean?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Why?”
Finishing my drink, I signaled to the bartender for another. “Seems like kind of a tool.”
“You don’t even know him,” she snapped.
I shrugged. I was being a dick, but I couldn’t help it. “I don’t need to know him. But I guess he’s your type. He play a sport?”
“Football.”
I’d been hoping she’d say tennis or soccer or lacrosse or field hockey—something I could beat him at. But I was shit at throwing a football, and I didn’t like wearing all that fucking equipment. “Figures. He as dumb as he looks?”
“Why are you being such an asshole?”
Another shrug. “Just being myself.”
“Fuck you, Oliver. I was actually looking forward to seeing you tonight.”
The bartender delivered my whiskey, and I took a big sip. “Why?”
“Good question.” She stood there for a moment, anger emanating from her in hot, pulsing waves. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I turned my gaze in her direction.
“Is this about October?”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
I pretended to be confused for a second. “Oh, that. I forgot all about that.”
“What?”
I lifted my glass again. “I said, I forgot all about that.”
“You’re lying.”
Our eyes locked in a silent battle. “Does Dean know about us?”
“No. And you better not say anything. You promised.”
I laughed. “That’s right. I did. Hey, why are we talking about this, anyway? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“You are being such a jerk right now.”
“Bet you’re sorry you gave your virginity to me. You should have let Dean pop your cherry. He’s probably a much nicer guy than I am.”
“He is,” she snapped. “And you know what? I wasn’t sorry about you until tonight.”
That made me even more furious—with myself—but I took it out on her. “Well, it was a stupid fucking idea. I can’t even believe I did it.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re saying you didn’t want to?”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“So, what, you just took pity on me?”
“Pretty much.”
Her eyes glittered, either with anger or tears, maybe both. “I really hate you right now, Oliver. Thanks for ruining my Christmas.” She spun around and took off, her boot heels clacking angrily on the floor.
I felt like shit. My Christmas was ruined too, but it was my own damn fault. I’d built up seeing her again in my head too much. What the hell was I expecting? She’d made it clear from the start she didn’t want me. That she would never want me, not like that. I wasn’t good enough for Chloe Sawyer.
Well, fuck her. And fuck these feelings. I hadn’t asked for them, and I didn’t want them.
I wished I knew how to make them go away.
11
Chloe
THEN
“Do we have to stay the night?” I asked my mom as we got out of the car in front of the Pembertons’ place in Harbor Springs.
“For heaven’s sake, Chloe, we just got here.” She gave me a Mom Look that said mind your manners.
Sullen and pouting, I watched my dad hand his keys to the valet. “I was just asking.”
“Well, Hughie is our godson, and graduating from Harvard with an M.B.A is a big deal. This party is important to him, to his parents, and to us.”
“Fine.” I followed her around to the back of the car, where another valet was pulling our overnight bags from the trunk. Since my three older sisters weren’t living at home that summer, it was just my parents, Frannie, and me. “But I won’t know anyone here, and it’s going to be boring sitting around all day and night.”
“Nonsense,” my mother said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You know the entire family. And Oliver’s home. When’s the last time you two saw each other?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered as we trudged up the wide front steps of the wraparound porch. It wasn’t true—I knew exactly when it was: Cloverleigh’s Christmas party our freshman year of college, when he’d implied that he’d only had sex with me out of pity and hadn’t even enjoyed it. It was the most hurtful thing anyone had ever said to me. Even now, more than three years later, it still stung. I’d never forgive him, and I’d ignored the lame, apologetic texts he’d sent. I’d refused to visit his family’s home or attend any function where I knew he’d be in attendance.
Even now, I didn’t want to see him. The only thing that would make this day bearable was a stiff drink. Several stiff drinks.
“I’ll hang out with you,” Frannie offered as my mom knocked on the front door.
“Thanks.” I gave her a half-hearted smile. Frannie was sweet, but at seventeen, she wasn’t old enough to drink with me and wasn’t the type to sneak it. We were nothing alike. It kind of made me feel worse.
We greeted Aunt Nell and Uncle Soapy with hugs in the foyer, and followed a uniformed housekeeper upstairs to our rooms. Frannie and I were sharing a bedroom, the same bedroom I’d been staying in when Oliver put the fucking rubber snake in my bed. It looked exactly the same as it had then. Two twin beds, white wicker nightstand between them, white wicker dresser, and floral everything—bedspreads, rug, curtains, sheets, pillows.
“Want to change into our suits?” Frannie asked. “Go swimming or something?”
“Nah.” I took my sandals off and flopped back onto one of the beds. “I’m actually not feeling that well. Can you tell Mom I have cramps and I’m resting?”