“Actually, I came by to see if this is yours.” He holds out a cell phone with a Swarovski crystal-bedazzled case. “I found it at the club yesterday. The battery is dead, so I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I recognized it.”
I stare at the phone without touching it. He thought this bedazzled, sparkly monstrosity was my phone? Eww. The Lying Game girls all have matching Tory Burch cases—classic and chic. “Not mine,” I say. “You should take it back to the club for lost and found.”
“Oh, okay, sorry.” Garrett gives me another wobbly smile as he slides the phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “So … what’s up?”
I stare down at my robe and slippers, then back at him. “Uh, I just woke up. I look like death.”
Garrett’s eyes widen. “No, you don’t. You look cute.”
Is he serious? “Garrett, I’m barely awake,” I say. “Can we talk later?” Or not at all? I think.
“Of course.” Garrett looks embarrassed. “I’ll let you have breakfast or whatever.” He steps off the porch, making a few too many flustered movements. “See you around, Sutton.”
“Yep, see you around.” I shut the door fast, watching him scamper back to his car, which is parked at the curb. Weird. Maybe he’s just being friendly to all of Char’s BFFs as a way to get in our good graces. Somehow, though, I doubt it.
Shrugging the situation off as best I can, I stride into the terra-cotta-tiled kitchen. Inside, Laurel is on her hands and knees scrubbing at our floor with a soaked dishrag. Orange liquid pools all around her like a moat. My mother leans over the kitchen table with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner, and my father holds out a plastic bag for collecting the soggy, orange-juice-soaked towels.
I sidestep them and head for the coffeemaker. “How many Mercers does it take to clean up an orange juice spill?” I say snidely.
My mom looks up at me. The morning light illuminates the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, making her seem more tired, more vulnerable than usual. “Who was at the door?”
“No one,” I say quickly, grabbing a steaming mug of coffee that’s already been poured and settling down at the table.
My mom glares. “You could help, you know, Sutton.”
I bristle. It wasn’t my mess. “It looks like Laurel’s got it under control,” I say, shrugging.
Laurel stands and drapes the wet dishcloth over the stainless steel basin of the sink. “Sorry again, Mom. All your freshly squeezed OJ down the drain.”
Our mother touches Laurel’s shoulder gently. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Accidents happen.”
I glare at them behind my coffee. If I were the one to douse the room in freshly squeezed orange juice, Mom would be giving me her Disappointed Look, the one that says I take every single thing I get for granted and always have. And Dad would be running his fingers through his hair at the temples, suddenly stressed because Mom is stressed. It’s like a chain reaction with them when it comes to me. But since Laurel screwed up, everything is A-okay. Mom gets a jug of Tropicana out of the fridge. Dad ties off the heavy black garbage bag and crosses the floor to rest it in the doorway leading to the mudroom, then pauses to pat Drake, the family Great Dane, on the head.
I take a sip of coffee and almost spit it out. It’s black—who drinks it that way? I open a packet of Splenda and dump it in. Behind me, Laurel sighs loudly.
“I poured that for myself, Sutton.” She’s glaring at me. “I needed it.”
Funny, when Laurel is around our family instead of my friends, she takes on the role of the whiny, annoying, self-righteous, victimized younger sister. “Why did you need it so badly?” I ask. “It’s still summer. Just go back to bed.”
“I’m hanging out with Thayer all day, and we’re planning on watching a meteor shower tonight,” Laurel snaps. “I’m going to need energy.”
Thayer. I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek. Is that why he didn’t text back—because he was texting Laurel? “Where are you watching this meteor shower?”
Laurel’s eyebrows shoot up, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve seemed too eager and curious. “Why do you care?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I say quickly.
Laurel huffily fixes herself more coffee. Our parents flit around trying to get ready for work—my father is a doctor, my mom a lawyer. I check my phone under the table, glancing at it without actually expecting much—but I’m rewarded with a bright new speech bubble indicating a new message. A little hum shoots down my spine. I silently scroll a thumb over the screen.
It’s Thayer.
Where do you stand on savory sorbets?
I smile. Okay, that was a cute message. Maybe, just maybe, it was even worth the wait. Is it an invitation of some sort? I said I wanted to see him—does he want to go out for sorbet?
I suppress a grin, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I feel relieved, maybe too relieved, that he wrote me back. But I’m in no rush to respond.
Now he can wait.
Mom sits down at the table with a bowl of granola and soy milk. “So, Laurel, is it nice to have Thayer back from soccer camp?”
Thayer. He’s everywhere. That fluttery feeling is back.
“Uh-huh,” Laurel stammers. Her eyes dart back and forth nervously and her movements are suddenly jerky, like a marionette.
“He grew a few inches, didn’t he?” Mom asks between bites.
“I haven’t noticed,” Laurel says, but a rosy flush creeps up her neck and perspiration beads her upper lip. She fiddles with her Tory Burch studded leather wrap bracelet, winding it forward and back across her wrist.
I swallow hard, the fluttery feeling inside me turning slightly acidic. I’ve known forever that Laurel likes Thayer, but I wonder if her feelings have intensified with his summer upgrade. The thought fills me with jealousy—and drive. Stealing a crush from my sister is old news, another trick that’s seriously beneath me. But maybe, just maybe, this is another perk to getting Thayer to like me. It will be nice to remind Laurel that no matter how things are with Mom and Dad at home, she isn’t the blazing superstar everywhere she goes.
8
BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED
I open my eyes and look around. The room is cast in a blue-black haze, images shapeless and sounds muffled, as though the entire scene were unfolding underwater. Wherever I am, it’s nighttime, and I am not alone.
In the dim light, I make out the four walls of a small, nearly bare room, a curtain-less window looking out into a parking lot. The air smells of pine-scented room spray and stale cigarette smoke. I hear a banging, then murmurs of conversation coming from somewhere nearby, some place outside of this room.
I’m not sure where I am. I’m not sure how old I am, either. Not seventeen, certainly—more like four, five. I look down and see a threadbare floral nightie that barely skims my knees on my body. The elastic cuffs of the sleeves cut into the flesh of my upper arms, and a stiff, scratchy, polyester motel blanket is pulled up to my chin. When I look over, I see a shadowy figure sitting at a small metal table by the window, drumming her fingers across the surface, staring into space.
“Mom?” I call out.
The figure turns, but I can’t see her face. I try my hardest—I want just one memory of my real mother, something I can hold on to. Only, this makes no sense: I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old, not four. I don’t have any memories of my mother. I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. Still, I struggle to see. Then, a hand that’s the exact shape and size as my own taps me on the shoulder. I turn again and look into another face. A mirror.
“Hello?” I ask. My mirror image doesn’t speak.
I start awake with a small scream. This time, I’m in my regular bedroom. My butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets are tangled in a sweaty ball at my ankles. My bare legs are cool and sticky from the blast of the air-conditioning. I look at the clock—it’s not even midnight. I fell asleep early tonight, exhausted after several hours of playing tennis with Charlotte at the court down the street; I don’t want to give Nisha the satisfaction of being rusty when the season starts next week.
I stretch and sigh. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I quickly slip on a waffle-knit hoodie and make my way downstairs, stepping softly as I go.
I fill a glass of water at the sink. Suddenly, something behind me catches my eye. At the far end of our immaculately landscaped backyard, a soft yellow light glows from within the latticework of crisscrossing branches.
The clubhouse. Laurel and Thayer are out there, looking up at the stars. I can picture their silhouettes in profile. They’re tilted toward each other, whispering in the dim space. About what, I wonder. What would it be like, to be the one curled up in there, with Thayer all to myself?
“Did we wake you?”
I jump at the figure in the doorway, dropping my glass of water in the process. It hits the granite countertop and shatters. When I pull my hand away, I see blood.
“Ouch!” The cut is shallow, but there’s a lot of blood. I lean against the countertop, suddenly woozy.
Thayer strides over to me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I eke out. “But maybe you could get me a Band-Aid?”
Thayer looks like he doesn’t want to leave my side. “Where are they?
“In the hall bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.” I point with my non-injured hand.
Thayer walks away quickly, and I use the time to catch my breath. What is wrong with me? I don’t go around dropping glasses, even in the middle of the night. Does he know I’m being extra clumsy because of him? Can he tell how I’m starting to feel?
How am I starting to feel? I still haven’t answered his text about sorbet. I tell myself it’s because I want to keep him on his toes, but really, I haven’t decided how to respond. I’m realizing that the usual rules of flirting don’t necessarily apply with Thayer.
A moment later, Thayer reappears with a first-aid kit in hand. He pulls out a thick square of gauze and holds it firmly against my palm, leading me gently to the kitchen table to sit down. “Keep the pressure on while I clean up,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“No problem,” Thayer says over his shoulder as he wipes off the countertop, picking up the larger shards of glass and tossing them in a garbage bag. “I shouldn’t have scared you like that. What are you doing up?”
“A dream woke me, I guess,” I say.
“About what?”
I look away, shy. I don’t usually talk about my birth mom with guys. Or with anyone, for that matter.
Thayer ties off the plastic bag and loops it around the doorknob of the door leading to the mudroom. Then he grabs the first-aid kit and takes a seat next to me at the table, sliding my chair out and tilting it so that we’re facing each other. I inhale, feeling the air charged and alive between us, and he leans in to me. Gently, he takes my injured hand and stretches it out, removing the gauze and placing it aside, on the table.
