As I drive past the Claymore house, I spot Nathan sprawled on the porch swing. My hurried steps crunch over the gravel up the alley, and as I come around the corner of the house, he cracks open a beer. Before he can drink it, I reach over his shoulder and dump it out.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. You actually came.”
I shrug. “I’m on a mission to make sure you don’t ruin your life.”
Nathan shifts, dropping his leg so there’s room for me on the swing. The chains creak when I settle. “Your life must really suck if you’re willing to babysit me.”
“Poor little rich girl,” I say with just enough edge to sound like Morgan.
“Let me guess, Clay asked you to check on me.” He makes it sound like I’ve been sent to scout a radioactive bomb site.
I skirt that guess. “You have friends. Why aren’t you with them?”
“Because I don’t feel like partying.” His tone contains a certain irony.
“Whereas drinking alone is fine.”
He slams a palm into the external wall so hard that the clock on the other side topples onto the love seat; through the window I see it bounce. “What part of ‘stay away from me’ didn’t you understand? Seeing you without Liv is like having my insides cut out with a rusty garden trowel.”
“That one of your SAT vocab words? And you asked me to come over, remember?”
“Jesus, were you always this much of a pain in the ass, or did Clay rub off on you?” Nathan lurches off the swing, but I think his lack of balance comes from leaving a moving seat, not being shit-faced.
I follow him into the house before he can shut the door and lock me out. Maybe it’s because of the role I’m forced to play, but right now, he seems so young. Technically, he’s only a month behind me, November to October, and we’re among the oldest in the junior class. Who knows, though? In his shoes I might refuse to get out of bed at all. This morning, I saw him eating cereal, but he probably hasn’t had anything since. I sigh softly.
“If the Claymore villa isn’t up to your standards, go home,” he snaps.
That does it. I push past him, through their two bedrooms, and into the kitchen. Rummaging through the kitchen turns up a couple of half-empty fifths of whatever, whiskey probably. I dump that down the sink while Nathan grabs at the bottles from behind. One advantage of being Morgan is that he can’t reach over my shoulders as easily. The fridge has milk, eggs, butter, various condiments, lunchmeat, some lettuce, tomatoes, half a loaf of bread, and beers. But there are only two left, not enough for him to get drunk. I leave those.
“Want a sandwich?”
Nathan levels a long look on me, and I can’t read it. For the first time I realize I don’t know him as well as I thought. The question echoes in the back of my mind: You never told her, right? Dammit, what secret do Nathan and Morgan share? The idea that my best friend and my boyfriend have been conspiring behind my back is enough to kill me a second time.
“Fine,” he says at last.
Silently I build him a sandwich, adding lettuce and tomato, omitting the mayo for a thin layer of mustard and precisely six pickles on the bottom slice of bread. It’s not until after I’ve put it all together that I realize Morgan wouldn’t know his tastes so well. I should’ve checked first. Nathan stares at me so hard it feels like the top of my head might burst into flames.
I try to play it off. “Does it look okay?”
“It’s perfect.” His eyes are bottle green in the afternoon sunlight, sort of murky and opaque, too.
There’s only one way to explain this. “I don’t think you realize how much Liv talked about you. I know all kinds of things.” That comes out sort of taunting when I didn’t mean it that way, but his expression lightens.
“That doesn’t explain why you remember, rich girl.”
“Lately everything she told me seems more important,” I murmur. “Even when it’s about you.”
“I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Mostly not,” I say, because Morgan would.
Yet the snark makes Nathan smile. He picks up the sandwich from the plate and takes a huge bite, studying me across the battered kitchen table. The sunlight is good to him, finding coppery lights in his dark hair and gilding his skin. He’s finally shaved, too, and I remember all too clearly how it feels to skim my palms down his cheeks.
But I can’t show Nathan how much I want him or how much he means to me. I get him a glass of water quietly and sit down across the table. He eats fast without offering me anything. There’s nothing in the house I can have anyway. Ignoring me, he washes his plate and then comes back. I recognize this expression, though I didn’t see it too often as Liv.
Regret.
“Sorry. I used you as a verbal punching bag again.”
Morgan probably wouldn’t forgive him easily, but I’m not her, and this is all I can offer. “Don’t worry about it. If it helps to vent, I’m stronger than I look.”
“I know,” he says.
Before I’ve even made a conscious decision, I’m tiptoeing toward their secret. “Let me ask you something…”
“What?”
I can’t meet his gaze or he might realize I’m shooting in the dark here. Which would make no sense at all. “Did you ever consider telling Liv?”
“About us?” Those words feel like they’re launched on a barbed line that sinks into my chest and yanks my heart out in a bloody gush.
“Yeah.” I can barely breathe.
Morgan and …
I can’t even pair his name with hers in my mind. Nathan was mine. He was always, always mine. Right? Tears burn the back of my throat but Morgan wouldn’t cry over this. This is idle curiosity, nothing more, so I examine my cuticles.
Nathan has no idea what he’s doing to me, so he doesn’t hesitate even for a second. “She never had a clue. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?” He touches my hand, forcing me to look up. “It’s not like we were a couple. It was just sex.”
This … this is worse than I thought. My whole body locks, and I can barely move my mouth to respond. “True.”
“Do you ever think about me when you’re with Clay?” By his smirk, I know he’s joking, but the knife twists slowly in my stomach.
“Heh, no.” I have to know. When did this happen? I fake a yawn. “That was what, a thousand years ago?”
Something flashes in Nathan’s green eyes. “Cruel. Don’t people claim you never forget your first time?”
“Is that what I said?” Once, I fell off the jungle gym and got the wind knocked out of me. That’s how I feel now, though I frame a smile, trying to cover that gut-punched reaction. “Maybe I lied. Maybe my first time was with a hot Italian guy.”
He seems oddly serious, palms flattened on the counter, as if he’s restraining the urge to reach for me. Or her. The uncertainty is excruciating. “Some things, you can’t lie about. In some cases, it’s pretty damn indisputable.”
So … the summer before our freshman year, Morgan hooked up with Nathan. I don’t know the circumstances and I can’t ask, but … she lied to me. She claimed it was some guy in Venice. I remember the dispassionate way she talked about it. Fast, awkward, and messy … that was Nathan? Who claimed he was waiting. For me.
I don’t know what’s true anymore.
All I’m sure of is that the guy I thought loved me more than anyone in the world? He was Morgan’s first. Shit, if she’d wanted to keep him, he probably wouldn’t have even looked at me. Pain lances through me, so I have to curl my fingers around the edges of the table in discreet, white-knuckled anguish.
If Nathan was Morgan’s first, does Clay know?
There’s a limit to how much I can take. Before, I was so anxious about Nathan, but now I can’t stand to look at him. My phone pings.
It would be awesome if it was Clay or even one of the art kids who want to annex me, but instead, it’s from my favorite blackmailer. The message reads, Tick-tock. Your father’s getting an email tomorrow. While Clay told me not to worry—that I can talk my way out of it—I’m not so sure anymore. The deeper I dig, the scarier my best friend’s secrets become.
And the more painful.
“Who’s it from?” Nathan asks.
“My dad.” I lie without hesitation. “I have to get home. Sorry to cut this short.” Morgan wouldn’t ask if he’s all right, and I don’t. At the moment I don’t particularly care.
Being careful has gotten me nowhere. As I pause outside the blue VW, I tap out a reply. Don’t be like that. Let’s meet and talk about it.
Just send the money.
No deal. I may be in for a shit-storm, but without seeing me, YOU don’t get paid. This is more for your benefit than mine.
Maybe this scumbag has some answers.
An hour later, I’m on my way to the arranged meeting point and wishing like hell there was someone I trusted as backup.