Not that I care.
The last thing I’ll ever feel for Mason is jealousy.
“He’s a boy,” she insists, her voice a whisper because, even to her, it sounds wrong. “You know how it is.”
Before I have the chance to remind my mother what century it is, my phone vibrates from the bedside table. A quick glance at the screen tells me it’s time to go.
“Ivy and Ava are here.”
She’s says nothing as I push to my feet and cross the room. Before I can walk through the door fully, she speaks at my back.
“Keep your legs closed, Emily.”
My eyes roll so hard I can see the back of my skull.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ten minutes later and we’re on the road. Ava is driving, and Ivy is riding shotgun. I don’t mind having the entire backseat to myself, it gives me the ability to focus on the trees passing by instead of their excited conversation.
It isn’t until Ava says my name and lifts her eyes to the rearview mirror that I blink and snap out of my thoughts.
“Did you hear anything we just said?”
Not a word of it.
While they were discussing the latest school gossip and planning the rounds they would make at the party tonight, I was imagining what my future would look like as Mrs. Mason Strom.
We won’t be officially engaged until after graduating college, which gives us another ten years before I have his ring on my finger. But that just means I have to behave like a modest, appropriate, future wife while he gets to be the playboy.
Again, not that I care.
Mason could fuck every willing hole on the planet - both male and female - and it wouldn’t bother me in the slightest.
I just hate the idea that every day is one step closer to the grand finale of my life as Emily Donahue. I can’t even be excited about giving up my last name, or choose not to like some wives do.
Our engagement will be my funeral, and I decide right here and now that I’ll wear black on that night to mourn the loss of my identity instead of white like I’m sure my mother is planning.
“She wasn’t listening,” Ivy answers when I don’t. “Which means I have to repeat myself and say that one of the twins was just seen making out with Hillary Cornish. Can you believe that shit? She’s a walking STD factory.”
I know what she’s doing, and it won’t work.
Ever since finding out I had a few weak moments with Ezra, these two have been all but tying me up and dropping me on his doorstep.
Ava was against the idea at first, but Ivy came out of left field with the opinion that having a secret fling with him would be good for me.
Ivy knows I can’t fall in love. And when you can’t fall in love, your heart can’t be broken. Ava knows it, too, but she wasn’t immediately convinced I can have a few months of fun without developing feelings.
Blue eyes meet mine.
“Wouldn’t you like to know which twin it was?”
“I don’t care,” I lie.
And it is a lie. Just the thought of Ezra with someone else is trapping my stomach in vicious claws, talons tearing at the flesh.
If anything, this feeling is only a confirmation that I need to keep my distance. I’ve only kissed Ezra a handful of times, and already my heart is dragged into the mix.
Maybe it’s because I’m chaste that I feel like this. And by chaste, I mean so desperate and bothered to be like all the other girls that I feel naive and vulnerable when it comes to boys.
I’m not allowed to date.
I’m not allowed to know any boys.
Unless, of course, that boy is Mason Strom.
Every dance in my life has been with him, a perpetual, unwanted date to the cotillions in our youth, plus every homecoming in high school.
We stand stiffly beside each other for all the photos, our mothers cooing at how great we look together, our fathers drinking scotch and smoking cigars.
After we’re whisked off to where the event is being held, Mason and I immediately unlock our arms as he goes to find his real date and I stand pathetically against a far wall.
It happens every time without fail. And maybe that’s another vein of dread I’m feeling tonight. Prom is in a few weeks, and it will be the same story again.
Except, if I let this thing with Ezra go further, I’ll still hold up the wall at prom, I’ll just be doing so while watching him dance with another girl.
Only a stupid person would continue on with this and unnecessarily add to her misery.
“We’re here,” Ivy shouts, a note of excitement in her voice.
I have no idea why she’s looking forward to this. Gabriel still hasn’t gotten her back for the sex lube stunt at school, and parties are always his favorite place to target her.
One would think after her sweet sixteen party, she’d have learned her lesson.
Nobody knows how Gabriel managed to replace the net of balloons that were reserved to fall on Ivy when she walked into the room with a net full of dildos.
There stood Ivy, surrounded by everybody who mattered, all our parents applauding how beautiful she looked in her empress gown and sparkling tiara, only for that applause to stop suddenly, every jaw slack, when we watched her get pelted on the head by a hundred rubber dicks.
Gabriel’s silence during the incident was so pronounced even the adults in the room glared his direction, the rest of the Inferno standing with red faces and thin lips, tears leaking from their eyes from restraining their laughter.
Sadly, that was just the beginning of what he did to her that night.
Ava pulls the car up behind a long line of early arrivers, but only by our standards. We never show up to any event until it’s been in full swing for several hours.
As usual, Kevin Landry’s house is filled wall to wall with a frenzy of high school students, all drinking or smoking, dancing or practically fucking right out where anybody can see them.
His place isn’t as large as most of the typical hot spots, but his parents are out of the town the most, which makes it possible for there to be a party every weekend.
Ivy grabs my hand and shouts for people to move as we walk through the main part of the house en route to the backyard. They part on either side of us like waves, a sea of random faces smiling and calling out to say hello as we pass.
It feels like I can’t breathe until we reach the French doors in the back of the house and escape onto the pool deck.
Thankfully, this area isn’t as crowded.
Several kids are skinny-dipping in the water, a few couples making out, but we navigate the perimeter to reach the pool house, a thousand square foot mini replica of the larger mansion.
Only those sitting at the top of the food chain are allowed inside, my stomach already twisting at the thought of who I’ll see.
It doesn’t help that as we’re heading in, Hillary Cornish and two of her friends are walking out, her hair a mess and lipstick smeared.
She smirks at me, the expression not lost on Ivy and Ava. Ivy sneaks a side-eyed peek, and I can feel the protective energy rolling of her.
Sadly, Hillary doesn’t know Ivy like I do.
Dumb girl.
Hillary’s smirk becomes a broad smile when she speaks to her friends, but with a voice loud enough for me to hear.
“Ezra said I’m the only girl he’s actually wanted in the past few months. The rest he played. In fact, the last girl was so frigid-“