I shake my head and sigh. “It’s not that bad.”
“You sure? ’Cause if that’s what you want, I’ll help you, dude. Don’t care that I used to have a poster of him on my wall, I will end him.”
Madison sent a picture of Nicolette and Bailey, holding a bottle of whiskey between them, smiling wide. Hurry up before they drink your alcohol. I close out of it and slide my phone into my pocket. Dorian and Barbie watch me, waiting.
I rub the back of my neck. “It’s fine.”
“Okay,” Dorian says, but he sounds unconvinced. “Don’t be afraid to cry around us, y’know. We won’t judge.”
“Dori cried when we went to different USHL teams,” Barbie says.
Dorian puts a hand over Barbie’s mouth and pushes his head away. “And Barbie cried when I went to the Kings and he got stuck with the Flames.”
“I was crying for them. Wasted a second round pick on you.”
Dorian tries to cover his mouth again, and this time Barbie ducks out of his reach before wrapping an arm around his waist to throw him on the bed.
They lie next to each other, talking in Spanish and looking at their phones while I finish getting ready. I keep glancing over at them. They’re at a level of comfort that can only come from a lifetime of friendship, the way they spend all their time together and drape themselves over each other and don’t give a damn what anyone has to say about it. They’ll probably dorm together next year, since they’ll actually have a choice in roommates their sophomore year.
I have to clear the jealous knot from my throat before I can say, “You guys going to the hockey house?”
They both look at me. “Are you not?” Dorian asks.
“I’m gonna hang out with my sisters in Bailey’s room.”
Barbie sits straight up, a frantic look on his face. “Wait, is Nova gonna be there?”
“I mean, yeah?” I say.
They share a look, Barbie with both eyebrows raised and Dorian with this smug little grin.
“Uh, did you want to come with?” I ask.
Barbie thinks for a second, then sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t wanna intrude on your family time.”
“Dude, it’s fine.”
Dorian stands up from the bed and stretches his arms above his head. “We should at least make an appearance at the hockey house first. Give it an hour, and then we can go hang out with your girlfriend.”
Barbie slaps at Dorian’s arm, but the goofy smile on his face shows how he really feels.
They transfer the bottles in Dorian’s minifridge to a backpack and we head out. I text Bailey to let her know I’m on my way, so when we make it a short way down the hill to her building, she’s waiting at the front door.
Bailey lives in the mansion that once belonged to Hartland’s founder, now converted into a dorm for junior and senior women. I’ve never been inside.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Bailey says, wedged between the door and the frame to keep it open. She looks happily buzzed with a beer in her hand. “Will you be joining us tonight?”
“Maybe later, if that’s okay?” Dorian says.
“Hell yeah. Our RA is out of town this weekend, and we got plenty of room and plenty to drink.” She opens the door wider and ushers me inside as Dorian and Barbie continue on down the hill.
We’re in an entryway with a high ceiling and a black-and-white-checkered floor. Up ahead is a staircase that curves along the wall and leads to the widow’s watch that’s part of one of the many Hartland ghost stories. They say if you’re crossing the bridge over the creek just outside and the light in the tower goes out, don’t look behind you or you’ll come face-to-face with a murderous spirit.
It definitely feels the way I’d expect a haunted house to feel—a little drafty and a lot echoey. Old framed black-and-white photos of what I’m guessing are the Hart family line the walls, and we pass a couple sitting rooms with tall windows overlooking the lake on our way to the staircase.
Bailey’s got a single on the top floor, and as soon as I step in, Nicolette slings an arm around my shoulders and plants a drunken, sloppy kiss on my cheek. She pushes a heavy glass bottle into my hand. “Mikayla bought this but didn’t wanna give it to you ’cause she’s a professional and you’re a child,” she says, too loud in the relative quiet of the building. I twist the cap off and gulp down a burning mouthful of whiskey.
The room looks like something I’d expect from a fancy old apartment building. Nothing like my freshman dorm with its cold, hard tile floor and furniture pressed up in a line against the wall. Bailey’s got a creaky redwood floor, floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace that’s been bricked up, and even a small balcony facing the lake. The door’s open, Nova and Madison leaning against the balcony railing as they talk.