I look at her straight on. “You did. It’s been fourteen years, but I can still remember how it felt—I was shattered when you went out with William.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word shattered.”

“Yeah—I do. It’s when you give me the greatest orgasm of my seventeen-year-old life, let me hear you moan my name as you come spectacularly around my fingers—and then ten hours later, push me to the fucking curb for William goddamn Penderghast.”

Did that sound bitter? Good.

Kennedy leans forward, eyes blazing. “You were already back together with Cashmere before I agreed to go out with William!”

I blink. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

And the waitress brings our beers—perfect timing. We both take a healthy chug.

After my frosty mug is back on the table, I suggest, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

“Fine,” she agrees. “Parents’ weekend, junior year.”

You up for a little time travel? ’Cause it’s time to party like it’s 1999 . . .

7

Saint Arthur’s boarding school, junior year

“Kitty!”

“Mitzy!”

Our mothers hug like they haven’t seen each other in years. A Welcome Parents sign hangs across the entrance to the main building, the sun is shining, and the air is warm with a hint of early spring crispness. Eagle-Eye Cherry plays from a radio somewhere across the quad, and clusters of families dot the lush green grass.

“I feel like it’s been ages!” Mitzy says. “We should all have lunch together! There’s that fabulous little place down by the lake . . .”

As my mother quietly agrees, I take advantage of my dark, Risky Business–era sunglasses to check Kennedy out. She looks especially cute today. Her brown hair’s wrapped around the top of her head in a messy, kind of sexy bun. She’s wearing snug blue jeans and an open, oversized navy checkered flannel shirt, but the white tank top beneath it shows off her flat waist and sweet-looking tits. She got her braces taken off last month too. Bonus.

And at the moment, she’s doing that thing with her lip—clasping the plump bottom one between her teeth, sucking just a bit. That move gave me my very first boner when I was thirteen years old, and, damn, if it doesn’t hit me the exact same way right now.

Kennedy and I have always been tight . . . up until this year. When I became captain on the lacrosse team and started seriously dating Cazz. Seriously, as in—fucking her. These days, Kennedy hangs with her roommate, Vicki Russo, and I hang with . . . other people.

She adjusts her glasses and smiles up at me. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Like a disapproving blond wraith, Kennedy’s sister appears at her side. “Would it have killed you to dress up a little bit? Honestly, Kennedy, Mother and Father drove all this way . . .”

I slip my hands into my pockets and rock back on my heels. “Hi, Claire. It’s good to see you.”

“Brent.” She smiles tightly. “You’re looking . . .” She takes note of my jeans, sneakers, and white-collared shirt under a navy blue sweater. “. . . typical.”

I put my hand up. “Claire, please—I realize I’m an irresistible specimen of male perfection, but your obsession with me is getting embarrassing.”

Kennedy snorts. The uncontrollable urge to laugh bubbles up from my chest and I don’t even try to resist it—because the sour look on Claire Randolph’s face feels so much more hilarious than it actually is. She turns away and follows our parents up the path, leaving Kennedy and me relatively alone.

“Are you high?” she asks me in a hushed voice.

I lean in close to her. “As fuck. It was the only way I could make it through this weekend.”

I know some guys who are major stoners, and I’m not one of them. But an herbal refreshment before a long, stressful day is totally acceptable.

She shakes her head and her nose wrinkles with exasperation. This too is also really fucking cute.

We fall in step beside each other, trailing behind our chattering parents.

“I see your sister still hasn’t elected to have that surgery yet.”

She comes right back with, “You mean the one that will remove the stick from up her ass? Nope, not yet.”

I laugh out loud. “Shit, Kennedy, it feels like we haven’t hung out in forever. Where have you been?”

I’ve seen her around—campus isn’t that big. But I haven’t seen her, seen her. Can’t remember the last time I really talked to her, and she’s a cool girl to talk to.

She turns her head, looking at me for a few seconds, and her voice is almost a sigh. “I’ve been right here the whole time.”

• • •

“Posture, Kennedy. Slouching is for girls with weak spines.”

“Why won’t you wear contact lenses, Kennedy? Your eyes are your best feature, yet you insist on hiding them.”

“Another roll, Kennedy? Tsk-tsk, those carbs are a dancer’s enemy.”

It’s been like this since we sat down. For the last hour, Mitzy Randolph has criticized Kennedy right down to her goddamn fingernails.

My buzz is gone and my head feels like it’s going to explode if I have to listen to one more bitchy comment from Mrs. Randolph.

So, of course she says, “Kennedy could have been a classic prima ballerina—if only she had managed to be taller.”

And I say, “Well maybe the rack will come back into fashion and we can strap her on for a nice stretch.”




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