“Because you don’t know guys.” Emerson’s jaw clenches. “You’re only sixteen, can’t you act it, just for a night?”
“You mean invite some girls over and watch The Notebook?” I snort. The last time anyone invited me to a sleep-over was in eighth grade, when Marcy Hampton accused me of stealing her charm bracelet and then spread I’d confessed to f**king half the basketball team. I had to put up with whispers and stares for a month after that. And Emerson wonders why I don’t have any girlfriends. “Yeah, never gonna happen.”
“I’m worried about you, Brit.” Emerson’s glare slips, and I can see my brother is genuinely concerned.
“We both know I can take care of myself.” I sigh, then reach up on tip-toes to land a kiss on his cheek. “Relax, Em, it’s just a party on the beach. I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Midnight.” He demands. I laugh.
“Or what, you’ll ground me? See you tomorrow!”
I head on out before he can say another word. I love my brother, but he can’t talk. Odds are, he’ll be hooking up with some skank in a bar in the city tonight—still trying to forget the epic heartbreak he suffered at the hands of his last girlfriend, Juliet.
That’s another reason I won’t believe in fairy-tales: I’ve seen up-close the damage love does when it’s over, when somebody walks away and all that’s left is the wreckage of a broken heart.
The empty ache in me twists, and I find my resolve slipping. The truth is, part of me wants to stay home tonight: to curl up on the couch with Emerson, order pizza, and watch bad TV. To stay safe in the embrace of what little family I have left.
But then I’ll go to bed, and turn off the light, and all the dark, desolate thoughts will take over. The loneliness, the bitterness, the anger. And that one, dangerous, awful question:
Why did they leave?
I can’t take it, not tonight. So I keep walking, out in search of some distraction, and a way to soothe this pain that cuts deeper in my chest with every heartbeat.
In search of just a single moment of peace.
“Brit, baby. Looking good...” A guy from school whistles at me the moment I approach the crowd on the beach.I roll my eyes. “Keep dreaming, Jimmy.” I call back, making my way through the crowd. It’s the last night of summer, and Beachwood Bay is sending it out with a bang. Everyone’s here, girls dancing in the light of the bonfire, guys downing beers from red plastic cups. Music blasts from the speakers someone’s rigged up in the back of a pickup truck, and I can smell the sickly sweet drift of dope on the salty sea breeze.
“Where’s your drink, girl?” Some guy I don’t recognize stumbles into my path. “It’s time to get wasted!”
He thrusts a can of beer in my direction, so I take it and move along, leaving him calling out behind me in the crowd.
I pop the tab and take a gulp, feeling the familiar burn of self loathing as the alcohol works its way into my system. Drinking is the easiest way to block out the world, but every time I do, I think of my mom, sneaking whiskey into her coffee at seven AM just to make it through another day. I struck a deal with myself, back the first time some guy sneaked me a sip from his flask down under the bleachers: one drink. Only ever have one drink. I’ve seen what happens to girls who go too far, the sloppy mistakes and barely-conscious hook ups that turn to ash come morning. Sure, I’m no angel, but every guy I’ve been with has been my choice, my rules. My way to block it all out, and lose myself in a hot tangle of limbs and groping hands.
The music changes to some fast rock song, and I feel the fire in my veins. I need to move, to let it out, so I slip closer to the fire and let my body take over, moving to the staccato beat and angry crash of guitar. My eyes drift closed, and I try and let go, imagine myself a thousand miles from here, some other girl in some other life, with nothing but the music in my mind.
I feel hands grab my waist and I stumble back, my eyes flying open. It’s some guy I don’t recognize, wearing an oversized football shirt and looming in way too close. “Hey!” I protest, putting both my hands against his chest and shoving at him, hard. “What the hell?”
“Relax, babe,” the guy moves in again, and then I feel someone else behind me. It’s another guy, grabbing at me from behind.
“Back off!” I yell, louder this time. I turn, trying to slip out from between them, but they’re too big, all meat-head muscles and grabbing hands, and I’m trapped. The first guy grabs at my ass again, and I smack his hand away, glaring. “I said, get your hands off me!”
He ignores me, yanking me against him and laughing to his buddy.
“What do you say?” He slurs, smelling of beer and cigarettes. “Think she can handle the two of us?”
“Fuck yeah.” The other guy grabs at my ass again, thrusting lewdly. “You like it crazy, don’t you, slut?”
I snap. Pure rage courses through me, and I’m just about to unleash hell on them and put to good use all the karate moves Emerson taught me in the back yard when Meathead is yanked back away from me. A split-second later there’s the sound of someone’s fist smashing into his jaw.
Time stops as I lock eyes with the guy who hit him: the one person in this whole crowd who noticed what was going on and came to my defense. The last guy I’d ever expect to see at a party like this.
Hunter Covington.
A jolt of electricity flies through me, setting every nerve ending alight. Then time un-freezes and the world comes rushing back in: the meathead goes flying back with the force of Hunter’s blow, knocking into the crowd and sending people flying. Someone screams, and then his buddy shoves me aside and goes charging at Hunter.