Classic (7 page)

“Heath Ferro was telling everybody at lunch that he has a secret recipe for a certain Three-Legged Race Iced Tea,” Julian
said, tapping his fingers against his legs as if drumming along to music in his head. “Without any iced tea in it, of course.
He says the goal is to booze up as much as possible and then blame any falling down on the race, not the drinking.” He grinned.
“But he would say that.”

“I like winning more than drinking,” Jenny said with a little shrug. “But then again, I don’t see why we have to choose between
the two.”

Julian’s eyes met hers, and he nodded.

“You are a girl after my own heart, Jenny Humphrey,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling.

Jenny laughed. “We are going to dominate the race,” she said. “Especially if everyone else is staggering around trying to
recover from Heath’s iced tea.”

“I think we should take a bait-and-switch approach,” Julian said, leaning in like he was imparting deep, dark secrets and
didn’t want anyone to overhear him. “I think we
pretend
to get loaded on the iced tea and then smoke everybody straight off the starting line.
Then
we enjoy the iced tea—as, like, a victory drink. Homemade Waverly champagne.”

Jenny tapped her fingers against her chin, like Dr. Evil mulling over a plan for world domination. “We’ll already have an
advantage,” she mused. “You’re so tall and I’m so short that no one will think we’ll be able to pull it off.”

“Bait and switch,” Julian said again, laughing. He put his palm in the air. “High five, Match. I think we’re going to kick
some ass.”

Jenny smacked his palm with hers as the lights started to go down. As the room darkened and a few Owls started applauding,
she realized with some surprise that planning their three-legged-race strategy with Julian had actually taken her mind off
Isaac.

At least, for the moment.

C
allie stretched in her comfortable leather recliner and propped her feet up. She admired her weathered tan Marc Jacobs ankle
wedge boots for a moment, then made sure the huge bag of popcorn she’d been unable to resist was still held securely between
her knees before tipping her head back so she could see the huge Cinephiles screen completely unimpeded.

“If you push back even farther,” Alan St. Girard said from beside her, “you can, like, almost tip over into the ceiling.”

Obviously, he was stoned. He was always stoned. But Callie pushed back anyway and giggled when she saw that he was right,
stoned or not: if she tilted her head back as far as she could, she felt like her recliner was almost in free fall. Trust
Alan to have discovered something like that.

“How many movies did you watch in here before you figured
that out?” Callie asked, turning her head sideways so she could look at Alan, the most random “perfect match” of all time.
Exactly what did they have in common? Her occasional use of herbal tea to soothe a sore throat and his all-day, everyday love
for herbal refreshment didn’t really scream
compatible
.

Alan grinned, his hazel eyes sleepy, and crossed his arms over his faded-to-gray North Face hoodie. It had a hole in one elbow
and several bleach stains.

“Um. One?” He shrugged. “I like to lean.”

Callie was still giggling when she felt someone sit down on her other side. She twisted around to look and felt her breath
catch.

Easy.

He wore his familiar, paint-spattered, worn-in Levi’s and threadbare black sweater, but his short hair reminded her this wasn’t
the Easy of old times.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey.” He didn’t smile, though his dark blue eyes seemed to glow. “You want to share that popcorn?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”
He looked past Callie and tipped his chin in the universal male sign of greeting at Alan. Alan flashed him a peace sign in
return and settled back in his seat with his hands behind his head.

“Help yourself,” Callie murmured to Easy, indicating the popcorn she held on her lap. And whatever else he wanted. Like maybe
her heart.

Easy smiled slowly, and Callie’s toes curled in her boots. And then the lights dimmed above them, and the screening room went
totally dark.

The movie flickered upon the screen, and Callie watched, but she could hardly make sense of what she was seeing. She registered
plaintive piano music, snow, and brick buildings that reminded her of the Waverly campus, but that was about all she took
in. All of her attention was focused on Easy. He sat so close beside her that she could smell the faint hint of the Irish
Spring soap he used, and she could feel the heat of his muscular shoulder against hers.

“Thanks for the popcorn,” Easy murmured into her ear. His hand brushed hers inside the cardboard bucket, and their eyes met—then
held.

Callie looked away first, feeling suddenly shy. Or maybe she just couldn’t believe that Easy was really here, right next to
her with his dark blue eyes fixed so intently on hers.

Callie watched a few more minutes of the movie, still not really seeing anything. She was suspended in a dream where there
was nothing but Easy and the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. Hours could have passed. Days, even. But she was
snapped out of her trance when Alan suddenly jerked up and stood up from his seat.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. Alan usually moved slowly.

“This dude’s voice is tripping me out,” Alan said, gesturing at the screen. “I’m out of here.”

He nodded a good-bye in Easy’s direction and then took off. Callie watched him go, noticing for the first time that it was
standing room only along the walls of the screening room. A flash of guilt washed over her when she saw that Brandon was one
of the people standing there. She had ignored a call from
him earlier, not to mention a few texts. She hadn’t felt like talking to him… because she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t
know what to do. She bit her lip and noticed he was standing with a very geeky-looking girl she’d never seen before.

The girl’s awful plaid skirt and ugly glasses looked almost silly next to Brandon’s perfectly worn-in APC New Standard jeans
and a black Pringle cashmere zip-front sweater with stand-up collar and oxford gray stripe across the chest. Talk about an
odd couple. She almost laughed when she realized that the girl had to be Brandon’s Perfect Match.

Brandon’s eyes caught Callie’s from across the room. He pushed away from the wall and came over to slide into Alan’s abandoned
seat, leaving his match without a backward glance. Suddenly Callie found the whole thing a lot less funny. With Easy on one
side and Brandon on the other, she’d been thrust back into last night’s dream. Except this was real. It just involved hot,
buttery popcorn instead of sweet red grapes.

Callie kept her eyes trained on the movie screen and bit back a nervous little giggle. She reached into the bucket for more
popcorn, not sure what else to do.

Brandon brushed against her fingers with his as he grabbed a handful. Then, seconds later, Easy did the same.

Nobody spoke.

Callie suddenly found herself wondering if a girl could actually die from sensory overload. She felt as if her skin was too
tight, like it was stretched too thin over her body. She could hardly manage to catch a full breath. It was awful and wonderful
at the same time.

And then, suddenly, Easy and Brandon both jerked back—and Callie realized that the two of them had touched each other’s hands
rather than hers in the popcorn bucket.

Easy glared at Brandon’s perfect, unwrinkled sweater that looked like it belonged on a male model and his hair gelled
just so
. Why had he even come over here? Why couldn’t he leave Callie alone? Easy dug his fingers into his jeans and reminded himself
that the guy was still technically with Callie. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring straight ahead
at the screen, her jaw set, tugging on a strand of her wavy strawberry blond hair—which she did whenever she was stressed
out.

Easy leaned back into his seat and tried to focus on the movie. Ryan O’Neal was carrying his wife over the threshold of their
new apartment, but Easy didn’t care. His mind was racing. Why was Callie stressed? And why hadn’t she broken up with Buchanan
yet? She’d had plenty of time to do it today…. Did she not want to?

Brandon could not believe that Easy Walsh was lounging in the seat next to Callie like a moody, blue-eyed flashback. He did
not like the way the night was going. At all.

First he’d been waylaid by Cora on his way into the Cinephiles screening room. The girl had turned out to be as hard to shake
off as a barnacle from the underside of one of his dad’s boats. She would not stop talking—so Brandon had missed his opportunity
to find Callie before the lights went down. He’d seen her sitting with her Perfect Match, Alan, which was fine, but he hadn’t
seen Easy Fucking Walsh until Alan had left and he’d taken his spot.

And now Callie wouldn’t even look at him. She wouldn’t snuggle up to him or hold his hand. She shot a look at Easy, and Brandon
felt the same old jealousy seep through him. He gritted his teeth.
No way,
he thought stubbornly. There was
no fucking way
that Callie would do this to him again. She’d told Brandon repeatedly that Easy was in her past—but, something inside him
whispered, now that Easy was back from playing soldier, all bets were off.

No.
He refused to believe it. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this to him, not again.

But he wasn’t about to take his eyes off the two of them, just in case.

Callie stared straight ahead, afraid to look at either boy. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t handle the two of them
at once. She could hardly handle one of them at a time! She’d been with Brandon sophomore year when Easy had swept her off
her feet, and she was technically with Brandon now—and, more to the point, the previous night when she’d made out with Easy
outside Dumbarton. This messed-up love triangle had been plaguing her for years. But she couldn’t be with them both at once.
She had to choose.

Callie blew out a breath. Her dream had very quickly become a nightmare.