All We Left Behind (15 page)

“Conner invited me to the party,” I say, hoping that makes him back off, but he nods like that make sense, and beer slops from my cup. It hits his shoe, beading up like globs of sweat. “Have you seen him?”

“Nah, I don't think he's here yet. Which is good for me.” He winks, and I don't know how to untangle myself from him politely.

“Have you seen Kurt?” I try, hoping Kurt holds more clout than Conner, but Tommy shakes his head, or at least I think he does. It's hard to tell, because his hand is on my neck.

I take a drink and look out the windows, but all the panes of glass are covered in steam. The beer is bitter and I consider spitting it on Tommy just to get him off me.

“Are you a natural blonde?” he asks, his hand in my hair.

I can't breathe. It's too hot and there's creek water under my toes. I close my eyes and try to swallow but my breathing is unsteady and all I can see in my mind is that man from the barbecue. Beside me. Wrinkled shirt. Untidy shoes.

The house is huge, with
too many mirrors and ugly pieces of art. The house belongs to Carrie, one of the cheerleaders, and as he leads me down the hall, Conner explains to me that her parents are in Spain or Portugal.

I want to bail. I'd rather go to the quarry and shoot some bottles, tell Conner about Josie. But he insisted we come to this party. Not that it matters. What would I tell him anyway? That my father locked Josie up? Fuck that.

We find the party in the back. Everyone's hanging around a pool so small it looks like a parking space for water. Someone forgot to turn on the air, and it's damn muggy. And everyone's got stupid umbrellas in their cups.

“Hey, would you look at that,” Conner says, nodding to the pool and showing me his shit-eating grin. “A body of water. How interesting.” He grabs my shoulder and I glare at him. “Do you think later you might get inspired,” Conner teases, “and, I don't know, go
swimming
?”

“What did you do?” I scan the room.

“Nothing.” Conner laughs, shaking his head. “I just heard that water gets you wet.”

“You're a fuckhead.”

“I'm your fuckhead, baby,” he says, checking the crowd. “Only, I think pre-swim you might want to visit the keg.” He swings a finger to the corner and pulls it against the air like it's a trigger. “Because Tommy's poaching the party favor I worked real hard to get here for you.”

I look to the keg and Tommy's leaning over a pretty blonde.

I don't know who I'm more pissed at, Conner for pulling this stunt or Tommy with his arm around Marion's neck.

“Happy swimming,” Conner says, and I elbow him in the gut.

“Oh, I'm sorry—” I turn to him. “Did you run into my elbow?”

He clutches his stomach and grins through the pain. “You're welcome,” he says, before limping away.

I stand there watching them. I should leave, but Marion's hair is down and Tommy's hand is in it. It makes me wish she'd worn it up, like at school.

The smell of pot and chlorine makes my head throb and I'm walking before I even know what I'll do.

I want his hand out of her hair.

“Tommy.” My voice comes out low.

Direct.

He looks up and I want to smile at the way he cowers.
I stare him down, keeping my face cold, and I can feel Marion looking at me. Her breath gets shallow, and I want to tell her I got this, but I have to deal with Tommy first.

“Hey, man,” Tommy says, laughing a little, but I don't move.

“Hey,” I say flatly, and he knows that's a challenge. His arm tightens around Marion's neck and it reminds me of the bruised arms on that guy Josie was dating, when I visited her in Boston. His arm hung over my sister like he owned her. Tommy better play this right or I'm going to take off his head.

I glare and the stink of marijuana closes in on Tommy. His Adam's apple slides up and down his throat and there's a clicking sound when he swallows. But he doesn't back down. I'm so close to both of them I can't tell if other people are watching, but I count to five and tell myself to breathe.

“I think you should get me a beer,” I say finally, and Tommy nods.

“Sure, man.” He turns to the keg. “No problem.”

But his arm is still hooked around Marion. His weight bends her neck, causing her to hunch, and he pulls her with him. Her eyes hit mine, and I see that hollowed expression in them. Like when she looked at me in my car. Maybe worse.

He's fucking done.

I shift my weight, wedging myself between Tommy and Marion. He feels me behind him and twists, but he can't
move because of how close I am. My hand is on the back of his neck, forcing his head forward so he can't look at me.

“Let her go,” I say quietly, leaning in to make this as uncomfortable for him as I can. So he knows I'm gonna lose my shit if he doesn't do it. He instantly releases her and Marion exhales sharply. She moves behind me and I grab the beer from Tommy's hand, not giving him any space. He cowers. Body hunched toward the ground like a fucking dog. Tail between his legs.

Good.

I keep him there.

I stand over him long enough so that he understands just how much more uncomfortable this
could
be.

I step back and turn to Marion.

“Outside,” I say, pressing three fingertips into the small of her back and moving her to the door. I don't care who's watching.

The air is so fucking cold outside it slaps me awake. It tastes bitter and I don't know if I'm riled up because of Tommy or because it's her or if it's the fact that I'm out here under the stars—again—with
this
girl.

I drop my hand from Marion's back and I walk ahead of her, moving so fast I'm already at the tree line where the grass is damp. She catches my eye and I'm so jumpy I dump out my beer and chuck the cup into the darkness. I'm not sure what it is about this girl, why she riles me up so much, or what I'm supposed to do with her.

She inches up beside me and I don't say anything, because whatever comes out of my mouth right now is going to be messed-up and wrong.

“You don't drink?” she asks, holding her cup away from her like a bum asking for money, and I shake my head.

“Not tonight.”

She stands there a moment before tipping her cup over and throwing it out to meet mine. She smiles irreverently and that urge rushes through me. Damn, if she was
anyone
else, Vanessa or one of the cheerleaders or . . . I kick the ground, but it's slippery and unsatisfying.

“Tommy's a jerk,” I say, and she looks at her feet. She's got on glittery shoes that catch the pool house lights. They shoot flecks up her ankles, and my eyes slide higher to the dots on her knees and thighs and—
shit
! I've got to stop thinking about this girl like this.

“Thanks for helping with Tommy,” she says, picking at the manicured grass with the point of her shoe. I stare into the woods and realize we've stood here long enough for my eyes to adjust. I can see twenty feet ahead of me.

“So, uh . . . ,” I start, but my palms sweat and I steal a glance at her. She's watching the dark like it's something we can stand in, and for a moment I want to tell her things I don't tell anyone. About how I'm scared to death because Josie's home, looking worse than I ever imagined she would be. And how I don't want to look at my sister because it means she's not okay, like really not okay. Like Mom. And
I want to ask Marion how she can cry the way she did and still stand here next to me. 'Cause I don't know what I'm supposed to fucking do.

I really don't.

Suddenly I need us to not be standing here, saying nothing.

“You like music?” I say, and she squints like that was a stupid question, because it was. But it's the only thing I could think of.

I
want
music.

“Right, so . . .” I run a hand through my hair and wish I still had my beer.
Something
to occupy my hands. I'm not used to doing this. The talking part. It's not what I do. But there's no way I'm letting her back in that pool house with Tommy.

“I like music,” she says, bailing me out, and I laugh nervously. I look to the side of the house, toward the driveway, and I know this is a stupid idea. I shouldn't. I don't have my guitar.

“Right. Who doesn't like music?” I joke, brushing my palms against the sides of my jeans. “So, do you want to—”

There's a distant laugh. I look to the pool house and a group is lingering by the doors. A few people are smoking and one chugs a beer with gold wings on the label.

I should walk away right now. Leave her here by the trees. Disappear into the crowd. Like at the lake. Forget—

“Do I want to what?” she asks shyly, and the softness in
her voice kills me. It's stupid. So damn stupid. It makes me want to trust her.

“You want to hear something?” I say, jamming a hand in my pocket like that might make this easier. “A song, I mean.”

“Like your favorite band?”

I roll onto my heels. What am I doing?

“No, like—” I shake my head. Legs going weak. I kick my foot into the earth and dig the toe in, like when I switch directions in a game. Commit. Trust gravity. Trust the inertia and the dirt. “No, something else.”

I don't know how to explain this. I just want her to hear it.

“Come with me.” I take her hand and lead her around the house. She squeezes my palm like that first handshake at the bonfire, and now I'm sure I have to do this.

In front of the house there are at least twenty cars parked and double parked in the U-shaped driveway. I weave through them, spotting my car, when—

She lets go.

I turn to see what's wrong, but then I get it. My car. She thinks—

“Hey.” I raise my hands like a criminal, adrenaline surging. This isn't
that
. “We're not getting in my car, okay?”

Her eyes are wide.

“Stay here, all right? I'm going to get my player. I'll be right back.”

I head for my car and hope she doesn't bolt. I pick up my pace, wanting her to hear the music. Mine. Mom's and mine. Music I haven't listened to in four years. I don't know why this feels so important, but something about her eyes in my car and the fact that she's still standing here not running away makes me think that if she heard it, she might get it. Like how she knew to dive into that lake after me.

I grab my iPod from the glove compartment and weave my way back to her. She stands by a blue SUV running her finger over the back of the passenger mirror, tracing invisible constellations in the stars.

“Here,” I say, holding out two earbuds and the iPod. “This is, well . . .” I don't want to explain it. “Just listen.”

A curious smile quirks her lip and it makes me more sure of this. She puts in the earphones and it takes me a second to cue up the song.

I hit play and her gaze softens over me. I jam my hands in my pockets, because I'm going to need a straitjacket if she's going to look at me like that. Especially while listening to Mom's song. But then she closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side and I can't take my eyes off her. She's serious. Really listening. Not just bobbing her head. Not pretending.

I hear the hum of an acoustic guitar, and her head sways. Blond curls brushing her collarbone. But it's the dimple that tugs her left cheek that fascinates me. It presses in as
her mouth tips in an almost smile, but not quite getting there.

Then her lips part with a quick breath, like she discovered something. And I want to ask—
What? What was that?
It makes me anxious and reckless at the same time, like before a game, when the field's untouched and nothing's determined yet.

Like anything's possible.

I don't know what I
expected.

Not this.

The song in my ears is quiet, acoustic and voiceless. It's just a strum and a melody, and after a moment a second guitar layers in over the first. I stare at the ground trying to focus, even though I can feel Kurt watching me.

I close my eyes and listen, because he's sharing something, and it's pretty. Which is a word I'd never associate with Kurt, and yet that's exactly what it is.

It's pretty.

It's simple.

It's a harmony that folds and whispers, with both guitars calling out for each other. Haunting. I press my hand into the pad of his chest and feel the cotton of his shirt, his muscle.

The guitar thrums and I pull him closer till his breath is snared with music. His hands drop to my waist, barely touching, and with three fingertips at the small of my back, he nudges me forward—

And into.

Her fingers spread against the
cotton of my shirt, wide over the muscle, and the urge to—

Only I
can't
touch this girl. Not after what happened in my car.

I pull away, but she grabs my collar like she's the hot and lustful one. And the smell of girl overwhelms me because she's so close. And it's not just the smell of girl but
this
girl, who I can practically taste, and want to taste, but don't taste. And I don't know why I'm fighting this but I am.

Through the earbuds I hear the faint thrum of my guitar. Strumming. And my hands go weak. They drop to her waist, barely touching. I can fight part of this, but I can't fight all of it. If she was just a little closer, instinct might kick in. She might go back to being any girl, and not the one who won't get in my car. Not the one who—

Lips.

My lips. Her lips.

God, she tastes good.

My hands clutch the fabric of her dress, and someone trembles. Fuck! That better not be me. That better be
her
, under me.

I press my weight into her, leaning us against the car. Not fast. Not hungry. Not like normal—but slow—because she tastes so damn good, and I don't want it to stop.