A few people watch me. Feeling out of place, I put my camera to my eye and start snapping pictures. It takes a while, but as I move about the room, I lose myself, focused on capturing the perfect shot of Emmy Hawn dancing with Charles Brown. They look so in love, so unaware of anything outside their bubble, and I hope, for their sake, they can stay there.
Then Sam Ivanov dominates the dance floor when the music speeds up, and people are gathering around him to watch. These shots will show their faces shining with laughter and their bodies completely relaxed, swaying to the music.
Before I know it, an entire hour has passed. I finally manage a break and grab myself some juice. I sit at an empty table and take a sip, making a face at the alcohol aftertaste. Josh Danvers must have struck again with the flask he’d swiped from his father. Carey and I used to laugh about this, picturing Josh as a frat boy at whatever party school he ended up at.
Josh is a jerk, but I kind of miss him. Which is entirely pathetic because I’d never liked him all that much. The idiot used to put his hand on my leg when Carey wasn’t around.
As if thinking about him can make him materialize, he appears beside me. He’s wearing his usual belligerent look, and I grimace.
“Hey, Josh,” I say, praying he’s not here to pick a fight.
“Hey, Q. You think Carey knows you’re here partying while he’s off getting tortured?”
Nice. Right for the throat. I’m tempted to ask him why it’s okay for him to party. He’s Carey’s friend, after all. But the double standard is alive and well in our town, and I don’t want to fight. I gather my camera and rise, intending to leave. He blocks my path, and I close my eyes, feeling like I’m living out a stupid teen movie cliché. I try to step around him, and he heads me off again, bringing the scent of whiskey with him. He’s either drunk or on his way to it.
“Look, I just want to leave, okay?” I say in a quiet voice.
“No, it’s not okay. Nothing you’ve done is okay. I can’t believe you stabbed him in the back the way you did. He was my friend.”
“Is.”
“What?” Josh asks, confused.
“Carey is your friend.” It’s a stupid thing to point out, but I can’t let it go. “Don’t talk about him like he’s dead.”
“Suddenly you give a shit about him?” He’s towering over me, and I’m scared as hell because Josh is not my friend, but somebody who is big and muscled and pissed off. I try to leave again, and he grabs my arm. He’s not hurting me, but I’m looking around for someone to help me and worrying that no one will because they all hate me and—
And that’s when I see Blake standing behind Josh.
Chapter Twelve
Blake places a hand on Josh’s shoulder to get his attention. Josh tries to shrug it off without turning to see who is behind him, but he can’t shake loose from Blake.
“Hey, man,” Blake says in a deep, calm voice. “You mind? I want to dance with Q.”
I’m sure I look as shocked as Josh does when he sees Blake.
Josh snorts a half-laugh at Blake. “Right. Very funny.”
I use the distraction to slip past both boys. I take a few steps before I am stopped by a hand on my arm. Tired of being grabbed, I yank away. It’s Blake’s hand, I realize, when the fingers remain gentle.
“Easy,” he whispers to me, before giving his attention back to Josh.
“You’re serious?” Josh says to Blake.
I glance around. The buzz of laughter and conversation have hushed. The music plays, but everyone has stopped dancing. For once, all eyes are on Blake and Josh instead of me.
Blake shrugs. “I’m getting tired of everyone acting shitty toward Q. I don’t think Carey would put up with it if he were here. You and I both know how he feels about her. It stops now.”
There is some kind of warning passing between them that I don’t understand. Josh doesn’t exactly back down, but Blake walks away as if the conversation is over. He tugs me along with him, and I follow in shock. I feel sick, my body moving sluggishly, overloaded by pent-up fear. We reach the middle of the dance floor, and a slow song comes on. Blake shoulders my camera, takes my right hand in his left, and places his right hand on my waist.
“Put your hand on my arm,” he says near my ear. “We’re just dancing.”
We danced once before, but it turned into more than “just dancing.” That’s how we got here. I hesitate, but with all eyes on us, I feel like I can’t refuse without making a bigger ass of myself. I put a tentative hand on his shoulder and follow his lead as we sway to the music. I try to look anywhere but at him. Instead, all I see is him.
Blake’s not wearing a suit like the other boys. He’s disheveled and wrinkled in jeans and a gray T- shirt with a faded AC/DC logo. Probably his brother’s. He’d thrown a suit coat on over the shirt, but it’s obvious he hadn’t intended to come to the dance.
“You look beautiful, Q.”
I finally let my eyes meet his solemn gaze. I’m so uncomfortable, my skin wants to crawl away.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and the anger that began when I saw my mother snaps in my voice. He doesn’t seem to hear it.
“Angel called,” he explains. “She heard Josh getting riled up after he saw you arrive and thought you might need help. The better question is, what are you doing here?”
“Yearbook. And you didn’t really answer my question. Why did you come here to help me?”
Then Sam Ivanov dominates the dance floor when the music speeds up, and people are gathering around him to watch. These shots will show their faces shining with laughter and their bodies completely relaxed, swaying to the music.
Before I know it, an entire hour has passed. I finally manage a break and grab myself some juice. I sit at an empty table and take a sip, making a face at the alcohol aftertaste. Josh Danvers must have struck again with the flask he’d swiped from his father. Carey and I used to laugh about this, picturing Josh as a frat boy at whatever party school he ended up at.
Josh is a jerk, but I kind of miss him. Which is entirely pathetic because I’d never liked him all that much. The idiot used to put his hand on my leg when Carey wasn’t around.
As if thinking about him can make him materialize, he appears beside me. He’s wearing his usual belligerent look, and I grimace.
“Hey, Josh,” I say, praying he’s not here to pick a fight.
“Hey, Q. You think Carey knows you’re here partying while he’s off getting tortured?”
Nice. Right for the throat. I’m tempted to ask him why it’s okay for him to party. He’s Carey’s friend, after all. But the double standard is alive and well in our town, and I don’t want to fight. I gather my camera and rise, intending to leave. He blocks my path, and I close my eyes, feeling like I’m living out a stupid teen movie cliché. I try to step around him, and he heads me off again, bringing the scent of whiskey with him. He’s either drunk or on his way to it.
“Look, I just want to leave, okay?” I say in a quiet voice.
“No, it’s not okay. Nothing you’ve done is okay. I can’t believe you stabbed him in the back the way you did. He was my friend.”
“Is.”
“What?” Josh asks, confused.
“Carey is your friend.” It’s a stupid thing to point out, but I can’t let it go. “Don’t talk about him like he’s dead.”
“Suddenly you give a shit about him?” He’s towering over me, and I’m scared as hell because Josh is not my friend, but somebody who is big and muscled and pissed off. I try to leave again, and he grabs my arm. He’s not hurting me, but I’m looking around for someone to help me and worrying that no one will because they all hate me and—
And that’s when I see Blake standing behind Josh.
Chapter Twelve
Blake places a hand on Josh’s shoulder to get his attention. Josh tries to shrug it off without turning to see who is behind him, but he can’t shake loose from Blake.
“Hey, man,” Blake says in a deep, calm voice. “You mind? I want to dance with Q.”
I’m sure I look as shocked as Josh does when he sees Blake.
Josh snorts a half-laugh at Blake. “Right. Very funny.”
I use the distraction to slip past both boys. I take a few steps before I am stopped by a hand on my arm. Tired of being grabbed, I yank away. It’s Blake’s hand, I realize, when the fingers remain gentle.
“Easy,” he whispers to me, before giving his attention back to Josh.
“You’re serious?” Josh says to Blake.
I glance around. The buzz of laughter and conversation have hushed. The music plays, but everyone has stopped dancing. For once, all eyes are on Blake and Josh instead of me.
Blake shrugs. “I’m getting tired of everyone acting shitty toward Q. I don’t think Carey would put up with it if he were here. You and I both know how he feels about her. It stops now.”
There is some kind of warning passing between them that I don’t understand. Josh doesn’t exactly back down, but Blake walks away as if the conversation is over. He tugs me along with him, and I follow in shock. I feel sick, my body moving sluggishly, overloaded by pent-up fear. We reach the middle of the dance floor, and a slow song comes on. Blake shoulders my camera, takes my right hand in his left, and places his right hand on my waist.
“Put your hand on my arm,” he says near my ear. “We’re just dancing.”
We danced once before, but it turned into more than “just dancing.” That’s how we got here. I hesitate, but with all eyes on us, I feel like I can’t refuse without making a bigger ass of myself. I put a tentative hand on his shoulder and follow his lead as we sway to the music. I try to look anywhere but at him. Instead, all I see is him.
Blake’s not wearing a suit like the other boys. He’s disheveled and wrinkled in jeans and a gray T- shirt with a faded AC/DC logo. Probably his brother’s. He’d thrown a suit coat on over the shirt, but it’s obvious he hadn’t intended to come to the dance.
“You look beautiful, Q.”
I finally let my eyes meet his solemn gaze. I’m so uncomfortable, my skin wants to crawl away.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and the anger that began when I saw my mother snaps in my voice. He doesn’t seem to hear it.
“Angel called,” he explains. “She heard Josh getting riled up after he saw you arrive and thought you might need help. The better question is, what are you doing here?”
“Yearbook. And you didn’t really answer my question. Why did you come here to help me?”
