I know full-well I’ll never possess whatever magic runs through Sienna’s veins. It’s not something you can acquire; it’s something you’re born with, like freckles or allergies or double-jointed fingers. My best imitation of her carefree allure would no doubt come across awkward and antiseptic. A little girl stumbling around in her mother’s high heels.
When Chris finally sets Sienna back on her feet, she looks straight across the island at me. Her heavily-mascaraed eyes scan me up and down, seeming to pick apart every facet of my existence from my simple fishtail braid to my oversized white wool sweater to the lack of makeup on my face.
“Drink up,” she says, jerking her head at the cups in front of me. “You lost.”
I glance down at the cups. White balls bob like tiny ships atop the frothy yellow beer. It looks about as appetizing as urine.
I clear my throat. “I actually wasn’t planning on drinking…”
“God, you are such a stick in the mud.” Sienna rolls her eyes. “Why do you even bother coming to our parties? Stay home and knit something instead next time, for Christ’s sake.”
A few of the jocks muffle laughs into their beer cups.
Anger bubbles through me, undercut by a stream of embarrassment so thick, it’s difficult to breathe around. Sienna Sullivan is the worst kind of popular — the type that revels in it. She finds joy in annihilating those below her on the social totem pole. Probably because she assumes we’re plotting to steal her spot at the top. She’d never understand that some of us are quite happy on the bottom rungs; that we’d rather stay anonymous than step on everyone else in order to ascend the meaningless echelons of Exeter Academy.
“Come on, Valentine.” My nickname is said in a mocking sneer through pouty pink lips. “Show us you’re not the total Goody Two Shoes everyone thinks you are.”
I bite my tongue to keep from snapping back at her. It would be a waste of breath. Nothing I say will make her magically morph into a better person.
“Well?” she taunts, eyebrows arching. “What’s it gonna be?”
I shift back and forth on my leather flip-flops, wishing I could disappear. Sienna notices my uneasiness; her smile widens like a cat with a canary between its paws.
She’s fully aware I hate being the center of attention. She’s known since sixth grade, when I spelled the word EXTEMORANEOUS as EXTEMPOR-ANUS in front of the entire school at our annual spelling bee, sending the audience into hysterics — and me, into a tearful rush off stage. (It took Archer two hours to coax me out from beneath the bleachers.)
The chance to humiliate me in front of the baseball team is too tempting for her to pass up.
“Well?”
I swallow hard. “I…”
“I’ll drink them,” Ryan offers, reaching for a cup. “I really don’t mind—”
“No.” Sienna’s order stills his hand. She’s looking at me, her eyes like blades. “You didn’t even throw, Ryan. This isn’t your game. It’s hers.”
There’s a brief pause between songs. In the sudden quiet, I notice that the kitchen has gone strangely silent as Sienna and I face off. I can feel the weight of many eyes on me; the pressure of impending laughter swelling in the air like a summer storm-front. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see if I’ll run away. Expecting me to bail.
Boring Jo Valentine never lets loose, never does anything unexpected.
On a normal night, that would likely be true. I wouldn’t think twice; I’d just walk away. Shrug it off. Head home to watch The Great British Bake Off in my safe little bubble.
But this isn’t a normal night. And beneath the annoyance I feel when I look at Sienna, there’s something else, something deeper — a simmering resentment that has nothing to do with a game of beer pong.
“Screw it,” I mutter, reaching for the closest cup.
Chapter Four
ARCHER
I sit on the edge of the bed for a while after Sienna leaves, trying to clear my head before I go back downstairs. It’s no use. No amount of deep breathing will be enough to wipe the memories of tonight away.
Or the guilt.
I’m not insulted Sienna didn’t stick around. V-card in hand, she promptly kissed my cheek and vanished through the door. I seriously doubt I rocked her world, but she didn’t seem to mind. For her, sex is more about power — about popularity — than physical pleasure. Just another tactic to make herself relevant.
Seeing how the guys on the team trail her around like lovestruck puppies, it’s a damn effective strategy. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a teenage boy’s sits directly behind his zipper. And Sienna is more than happy to trade a quick romp between the sheets for undivided male attention — however fleeting. Fake orgasms are just one more line item on her list of artificial qualities.
Fake tan.
Fake hair.
Fake nails.
Fake nice.
The girl adopts and discards new personality traits faster than most people change their socks. I honestly can’t stand her. Terrible to admit, given I’ve just bonked her brains out and all, but it’s the truth. It’s also the only reason I let her lead me into this bedroom.
Better her than someone who might think it actually means something.
I drop my head into my hands and rub them over my face, hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. Slapping my own cheeks, I command myself to stop being such a mopey fucker.
I made a choice.
There’s no taking it back.
No changing it.
Just living with it… and its fallout.
After all, that was the whole point of this charade, wasn’t it? I didn’t screw Sienna for my health; I sure as shit didn’t do it for my heart. It wasn’t a drunken mistake or a momentary lapse in judgment. It was a calculated move, designed to inflict maximum damage.
When I walked through this door, I knew exactly what I was doing — and who I’d be hurting. I knew I was drawing a line through my old life. Crossing out certain possibilities with permanent marker.
A face flashes in my head. One I’d memorized every facet of by age four; one I’ve spent every year since staring at with ever-increasing intensity.
Upturned nose, smattering of freckles.
Quick smile, dimpled cheeks.
Jo.
I slap myself again. Hard. Rattling every thought of her out of my skull. As if the physical pain I inflict on myself will somehow detract from the relentless ache inside my chest.
I’d cut my own heart out if I thought it would help. But there’s no help for this.
For me.
For us.
I was fully aware it would be hard. But this — the pain I’m feeling, the unbearable finality of it all — is excruciating. I tell myself it will get easier with time, knowing it’s a lie.
What’s one more?
Add it to the list.
Hauling in a final deep breath, I force myself to leave the room. Hiding out up here like a coward, unable to own up to my own decisions… unable to face the hurt I know awaits me in a pair of wide blue eyes… is just putting off the inevitable.
Rip off the Band-aid, asshole.
Downstairs, the party has petered out a bit as the beer and the drugs weave their dark web. More than a few people are already passed out, sprawled on various surfaces. In the foyer, I head for the first keg I see and pump myself a beer. It tastes like foamed piss, but I chug it down anyway, then promptly refill my cup.