I nod at Bishop when I realize I’ve taken a little too long to answer. “Sure.”
He tilts his head, and it’s as though no one else is here. Everyone seated around us dissolves into thin air. “When did you figure out you liked Korean food?”
I pick my fork up again and shuffle it through the sauce and meat. “When I smelled it for the first time.”
“—which was?” he further asks, and my eyes snap up to meet his.
Brantley tenses beside me. “Ask the fucking question you want to ask, asshole. Go on.”
I’m instantly confused. The dynamic of the group is confounding. First, they’re hitting each other and threatening to kill one another, and then the next they’re sitting down to have a meal. But on top of these two factors, there’s something else that is always around them. It’s strong and indestructible.
Something I can’t quite figure out.
“Fine, I will.” Bishop smirks before leaning forward and resting his elbows on top of the table. “Did this guy ever let you out of the house?”
Instant. “No.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow on Brantley. “I get it. You’re the fucked-up one, but wow.”
Brantley chuckles, and it’s so unfamiliar that I find myself looking up at him. When I say up, I really mean up. I could fit in the palm of his hand. “You’re one to talk. Chasing Madison through forests with our faces on was any better?”
“All right.” Nate shakes his head, cutting through the conversation. “No fucking arguing while we eat.”
Brantley reaches for his glass and brings the rim up to his mouth, swallowing whatever is inside of it. The muscles in his jaw jolt as he tenses. When he places his glass back onto the table, his teeth drag over the swell of his bottom lip before he finally says, “She never saw the outside world because of our world, you feel?”
When everyone falls silent, I twist my fork on my plate. I’m never one to pass up food, but the tension is bloating the air.
“Brantley’s right,” I whisper. “It was never a—” I pause, not that I’m struggling to find the right words to say what I want to say, but because I’ve never spoken about my life before to anyone. It was sacred. Brantley never told me that I wasn’t to say anything to anyone; it had always been a decision of mine to not want to talk about him. I never wanted to talk about him in fear that others might say something bad about him. Not that I couldn’t handle it. I’ve been on the receiving end of his mood swings more times than I can count growing up, but that never once stopped me from being protective over him. So maybe that’s why I’m talking now. “It was never a prison environment.”
“You just weren’t allowed out of the house? Did you go to school?” Bishop asks.
I bring my eyes to his. “I didn’t, but what I had was three of the best lecturers in the United States of America who would tutor me five days a week. Math, English, and science.” No one is speaking, so I continue. “I didn’t need anything else. I made friends with the maid and the cook, and I was happy with that.” I look back up at Brantley. “Am happy with that.”
He’s ignoring me. I’m used to it. But his focus is on Bishop.
Bishop exhales, running his hands through his hair.
“Okay, look, we get it. You’re on edge, B. But you can’t be lashing out—” Nate is cut off once again by Bishop.
“—how long have you been talking to her?” Bishop snaps, now at Tillie.
I’m getting whiplash from all of the directions these arguments are going.
Tillie crosses her arms in front of herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the shit, Tills. How long?”
Tillie flips Bishop off and stands from her chair, grabbing her plate and leaving for the kitchen.
“Nice, asshole. Throw me in the doghouse.” Nate glares at Bishop before following Tillie into the kitchen.
Brantley stands, one hand slipping beneath my arm, and I briefly watch as his fingers overlap when they go around my entire limb. “Bishop.”
Bishop ignores him, his eyes trained on one spot on the table.
Brantley turns to me. “Go wait outside. I’ll be out in a second.”
I want to say something to Bishop. He seems broken. Instead, I let my feet take me to the foyer. He’s hurting, and it’s obvious it’s about this Madison girl. I did the Myers-Briggs personality test online once. It said I was an empath. I didn’t know what that was until tonight. Until I was surrounded by a group of people. I felt Bishop’s pain, Tillie’s betrayal, and Nate’s anxiety. When it came to Brantley, though, all I felt was cold.
We left after that. By we, I mean they didn’t really give me a choice. Not that I would say no. When they directed me toward a matte black Maserati, I knew these boys definitely were not from here because I would have noticed their cars.
He drove us out onto the highway, and then over the bridge. I should have asked where we were going, but I didn’t. Too lost in my drunken thoughts and too thirsty for more.
“We going somewhere else?” I asked, and they both looked at each other, then the one driving—the disinterested one’s—eyes came to mine in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, the night’s still young, don’t you think?” Whenever either of them spoke, I got the feeling they meant something else. Like their words were only foreshadowing what they were really wanting to say.
“Sure.” I ran my tongue over my bottom lip. The music was louder, the car moved faster, and before I could even register where we were, I noticed the Hamptons sign.
Shit. I was told to stay away from this side. But I was also told to stay away from boys, and I never listened to that advice. Clearly, which is why I was in this situation to begin with. We drove through the township, until the angry one raised his phone to his ear, cranking down the music. It was perfect timing really, because I just caught the first thing that whoever it was on the other end said.
“Brantley, turn around.”
Saint
The sky is the color of sadness today. It’s as though someone dipped the tip of a paintbrush into bland gray and took angry strokes through a placid blue.
I like it.
Unlocking my phone, I check the forecast quickly after changing into some comfortable clothes, hoping I’ll have time to plant my new desert rose when a text comes through.
Unknown: Is your name Saint?
I sit up, confused. I’ve never had a text message before from anyone. Well, unless it’s Brantley who sends some basic line like make sure you lock the gate or one of your tutors is canceling a session—which never happened.
My fingers fly over the keypad.
Saint: Yes.
I toss my phone onto my bed and start French braiding my hair to one side. It’s not long after I tie the end when my phone dings.
Unknown: Can you keep a secret?
I feel my brows knot to the middle as I fire off my reply.
Me: Who is this?
Now that I’m invested, my phone remains in the palm of my hand as I wait for the reply.
Unknown: Your new secret. Change your passcode to your phone and don’t tell anyone about this.