While You're Away

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Holbrook, Jessa.

While You’re Away / Jessa Holbrook.

pages cm

Summary: “Once a cheater, always a cheater?”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-101-63731-9

1. Women college students—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 3. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 4. Commitment (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: While you are away.

PS3608.O48288W55 2014

813’.6—dc23

2013030120

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

T
o make it sound classier, Tricia Patten called it a Gods and Goddesses party.

Everybody was supposed to show up in togas. A lot of skin and a lot of beer to celebrate the crazy weather, almost eighty degrees in April. Unfortunately,
The Avengers
was a thing. That’s why half the Aphrodites at Tricia’s lake house that night were getting flirty with a palette of Thors.

“I don’t think this is what Tricia had in mind,” I told my boyfriend, Dave Echols, grabbing his hand and nodding at the mixed-deity crowd as we set up our stage gear.

With a grin, Dave said, “She wanted a party, she got a party,” and leaned over to kiss me.

Dave and I were the intermission entertainment—a local band that would already be at the party when the deejay had to go pick up his mom at work. Usually, we played our own songs. But tonight it would be an hour of funny indie covers of frat rock songs.

As I tested the pickup on my acoustic guitar, I cut a quick look at the crowd. A spotlight seemed to follow me, and not in a good way. Everyone hesitated and ran their eyes down my costume. The best expression was bafflement, but the worst was amusement. I forced a smile and kept setting up.

I hadn’t gotten the memo that a sheet over a regular little black dress was enough of a costume. Geek that I was, I’d raided my sister Ellie’s closet. She danced for the Columbus Repertory Ballet Theater, so she had plenty of bits and pieces that added up to a goddess. A gauze wraparound skirt over a silver-shot leotard. Silver slippers with matching ribbons crisscrossing my legs.

Producing extra ribbon, Ellie threaded it through my thick, dark hair. Alternating white with gold, she plaited and twisted, taming my wild halo. Then, because it was a permanent part of her ballet DNA, she knotted it in a perfect chignon on the top of my head. Pulling tendrils out around my face, she considered the look. After taking a picture with her phone, she declared me ready to rock and sent me on my way.

When I’d left home, I felt good—pretty, even. A little bare, because I never wore my hair up. But good.

That confidence burned away as soon as I stepped onto the temporary stage in front of Tricia’s French doors. The party was packed. A wood dance floor stretched over the pool. Snacks and drinks circulated under a white light-strung arbor. And there I was, the trying-too-hard girl on stage, crazy obvious in front of a sea of sheets and plastic plate mail.

Power-mingling, Tricia buzzed the stage. “You guys are so great. Thank you so much for doing this.”

“Anytime,” Dave said, zeroing in on her.

As soon as he did, Tricia turned her attention to him and him alone. Why shouldn’t she? With his fresh, all-American face, Dave got all kinds of attention. He was the blue-eyed, blond-haired boy next door, wrapped in a flag and carrying Mom’s apple pie. Seriously, at Fourth of July parades, people practically worshipped him. And after our gigs, girls did. By the bucketful, even if they had boyfriends.

It always bothered me when Dave flirted. Even if it meant nothing, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy whenever he turned his attention elsewhere.

Tricia had her own boyfriend—none other than Will Spencer, our high school’s biggest player. Exactly nobody understood how she’d caught him and kept him. Tricia was well-off, gorgeous, and genuinely likable, definitely a catch. She stood apart from other girls, with a mane of copper hair and green eyes clear as glass. But Will had never seemed like the type to settle for one girl. Or ten. Or a hundred. Not when he could have his pick
and
have them all. Will and Tricia were the senior class’s enduring mystery.

I couldn’t help but wish the enduring mystery would step away from my boyfriend.

“I’m so glad you do private parties,” Tricia purred, clutching Dave’s mic stand.

Dave powered up his amp and smiled. “For you? Anything.”

My heart sank, but I said nothing. Dave flirted with everyone. Every
thing
. Once, I’d seen him wink at a baby, and then a dog. People fawned over him, and he couldn’t help reflecting some of that glow back.

To be fair, he flirted with me, too. When we played, sometimes he’d lean over to murmur in my ear. Between the mics, just loud enough for me to hear:
You killed that verse, love the way the lights catch your eyelashes.
Things no one else could, or would, ever say to me.

Which meant I had to get over myself and get back to work. Giving my guitar a quick tune, I strummed a few chords—the universal notes for “stop flirting and let’s get this gig started.”

“Later,” Tricia said, and when the crowd surged, she was gone.

Dave stepped back. Nudging me, he turned on the smile for me and me alone. In the uneven light of the party, his eyes looked more stormy than blue. There was a quiet place in that gaze, one that helped me find my center. I felt too bare in this costume, and now I was asking everybody to look at me.

But when Dave kicked off the first number, I started to feel better. A hum wavered across my bare skin. It shielded me from the chill trying to roll off the river. My gaze lingered on Dave’s, and he broke the night with his honeyed tenor. On the chorus, our voices tangled in harmony. For a moment, it was just the two of us. Just him, and me, and the music.

Then, the power kicked on. It was electricity, holding his gaze and holding on to the audience at the same time.

They laughed because we wanted them to. There’s something inherently hilarious about two people with acoustic guitars playing LFMAO and Kanye; that’s part of the act. But half a song later, everybody started to sing along. They put their cups up and they danced. Gods and goddesses moved in time—in our time.

Soaring on the rush of making music with Dave, I felt like I could touch the heavens. My fingertips burned, and sweat rose on my skin. I poured my whole body into the music, and I shimmered. So did Dave, golden and handsome.

His flush warmed his skin; his sweat gathered in the fascinating dip of his collarbone. When he threw his head back to laugh, everyone looked. Everyone had to. They all wanted to touch him, and I understood completely.

I never minded sharing him when we performed. On stage, we were like one, and the adoration was for both of us. We were so stratospheric together, how could I mind? It was when the music stopped that I had a problem. When we descended the stage, it was like Dave never touched the ground. He mingled and flirted and was adored, while I grew shy without music to hide behind and was relegated to watching from the sidelines. I crashed. And it hurt every single time.

~

After the set, the adulation started. Dave didn’t bother to take off his guitar once the deejay reclaimed her stage. Instead, he waded through the party, arm curled around his black Epiphone Jane, her strings gleaming beneath the café lights. Idly, Dave stroked the guitar’s curves as people plied him with drinks and compliments and bites to eat.

My guitar in its case, I walked off, completely unnoticed. I pulled out my phone, checking Instagram to see if anybody had posted shots of our set. It was a good way to look like I was busy instead of simply alone.

Dave getting all the attention didn’t surprise me anymore, but I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it. Our songs really were
ours
, collaborations. Even when we sang other people’s songs, it was half-and-half, and full harmony whenever possible. But once we broke the set, I didn’t exist, and Dave was the star.

Across the party, a script unfolded, and I watched it play out. Again. Heatherly Watkins, whose parents plainly didn’t understand the way adverbs worked, plastered a hand in the middle of Dave’s chest. I couldn’t hear them over the din, but I saw her laugh,
Ha-ha-ha-oh-Dave-you’re-so-funny
.

There was a particular shape to that. Her head tipped to one side, and she looked at him through her lashes—careful to laugh, but not so hard that something horrifying like a snort escaped. I would have felt sorry for her, but the burning in my chest distracted me. I hated watching Dave’s post-show game, for lots of reasons. Tonight it especially bothered me.

I ducked beneath an arbor, putting my back to Dave and Heatherly. My best friend, Jane, was around there somewhere. She could be counted on for a ride home, for sure.

As I searched for Jane, the one and only Will Spencer drifted toward me. Tricia’s boyfriend. Notorious player. All confidence, in Hollister shorts and a vintage T, he trailed a finger across my shoulders.

Though his touch skimmed like a feather, it felt like a kiss. A whispered secret that carried an unexpected shot of heat. Caught short, I held a breath as I burned from the inside out. That urgent, animal reaction held me in place.

He circled and stood in my way. “And you are?”

My brain kicked in right before I told him my name. Of course he knew my name. Not twenty minutes ago, I’d leaned into a mic and said, “I’m Sarah Westlake, this is Dave Echols, and we are Dasa.” Even if Will and I hadn’t gone to the same schools since pre-K, my identity wasn’t a mystery.

I think it was the costume that interested him. It made me feel like I had bigger breasts and curvier hips than my usual clothes. Like I was just out there, every inch of me exposed. I crossed my arms over my chest before I answered. “Athena.”

“Goddess of wisdom, keeper of owls.”

Surprised, I said, “Exactly.”

“Good choice.” Then, he nodded toward the makeshift stage. “Good set, too.”

All at once, everything was
fine.
All because Will was
that
guy. Above it all but incredibly there. Even when I was a freshman and he was a sophomore, he was at the top. High school royalty, full of noblesse oblige.

He had black hair that curled in the heat. Black brows and black lashes set off beach-blue eyes. Going into senior year, he’d grown into his height. Broad shoulders, narrow waist—half the people at that party would have paid good money to be a Thor hammer hanging from Will’s belt loops.

Instead of walking on among his people, Will lingered. With
me
. Leaning against the arbor rail, he studied my face. Just my face. His gaze never drifted lower, but it didn’t have to. The way he stared at my lips made them sting.

Summoning up some bluster, I replied, “Thanks. Now explain yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s this?” I asked, gesturing at his non-costume. “The host is your girlfriend. I know you got the Evite. ‘Gods and Goddesses’ sound familiar?”

“Atlas is a god.” Will tugged his T-shirt, flattening the silhouette of a man holding up a globe.

“No, he was a Titan. There’s a difference.”

Waving a hand dismissively, Will caught my eye in a sideward glance. “If Thor can stay, so can Atlas. You don’t think it counts?”

The spark in his smile made me contrary. I raked my gaze down to his sneakers and back up to his gym clothes. For the first time ever, I was doing some flirting of my own. And it felt amazing. With a careless shrug, I informed him teasingly, “Sorry, no.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “Nope. And like you said, Athena is wise, so I must be right.”

“Obviously,” he said.

He thrust the stack of empty cups into my hands. Then, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and peeled it off. His skin was pale from winter. It made the dark dusting of hair on his chest stand out. It trailed down to his navel, disappearing into shorts that hung too low. Way too low—and I was staring.

“Now I’m Hercules,” he said, taking all but one of the cups back. “Get a beer, Athena. Dance a little.”

With a wink, he tossed his shirt over his shoulder and walked away. As cut as his chest, his back rippled as he walked. Two dimples at the base of his spine taunted as he moved through the crowd.

Clutching my cup, I shook my head and called after him. “Hercules doesn’t count. He’s a demigod!”

Will looked back. It felt nice, having all of a demigod’s attention. Even in the middle of a party packed with guys dressed to flirt, he stood out. It was like something had outlined him, tracing him in silver. Every edge, every detail—when I blinked, I still saw his shape in the dark.

With a brash smile, Will saluted me. Then he pointed to the table with the keg, shooing me along without a word. I felt a wash of heat, nothing to do with the weather. In fact, as the sun slipped down, it grew colder. In my skimpy costume, I shivered. I probably should have gone home, but this is why I stayed:

The wicked, infamous Will Spencer looked back at
me
.