Chapter 22

When you’ve been best friends for as long as Isabel and I have—ten years and counting—you get pretty good at reading each other’s faces. Isabel knows when I’m making my “I’m embarrassed and about to make it worse with a terrible joke” face. I know her “I’m maybe not telling the entire truth” face. And I definitely know her “I’m about to hand this stupid boy his ass” face because I’ve seen it in class about a hundred times.

And that is very much the face Isa is wearing now.

I thought we’d find them all cozied up, Isabel’s face aglow with princely attention. Or maybe they’d be kissing, which would be worse.

What I didn’t expect was to see them standing near the bar, staring each other down, with Isabel yelling over the music, “You’re a complete jackass, you know that?”

Seb is looking as stunned as I feel, and next to me, Miles pulls up short.

“This is . . . unexpected,” he mutters.

“I beg your pardon?” Seb asks. Neither he nor Isabel have noticed us yet, so intent on whatever it is they’re arguing about.

“A jackass,” Isabel repeats, not even fazed. Her shoulders are back, chin lifted, and ohhhh, this is bad. “Or whatever word you use for that here.”

“I’m familiar with the term,” Seb replies, some of his shock giving way to the icy disdain thing I’ve seen El pull. “I’m just not sure why it’s directed at me.”

Before this can get any worse, I step forward, practically dragging Miles with me. “Hey, you two!” I say, and my voice is so loud and so bright that I actually wince.

“What’s going on?”

Seb and Isa both startle a little looking over at us.

“Monters?” Seb asks, confused, and Miles goes to stand next to Seb, slapping one hand on his shoulder. I do the same on Isabel’s side—well, minus the show of testosterone—and Miles and I glance at each other, suddenly realizing all we’re doing is hemming our feuding besties in closer together.

Which is clearly an issue since not even our presence is going to stop this argument.

“It’s not sexist, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Seb says to Isabel, obviously just picking up wherever this left off. “I certainly have no problem with women, but Gregorstoun isn’t the place for them. It would be . . .” He waves one hand, looking up at the ceiling like the answer might be there. “Distracting,” he settles on, and Miles groans, tipping his head back.

“Seb,” he says, “we’ve talked about this.”

“I’m right!” Seb insists, turning to look at Miles. “You know I am. And that place is a bloody nightmare, Monters, do you think girls would like it there?”

“Wait, there really aren’t any girls at your scary boarding school?” I ask, and Miles meets my gaze again, his expression apologetic.

“There aren’t, and it’s become a bit of an issue. Some of us live in the twenty-first century and think going coed is not a bad idea. Others of us are—”

“Sensible,” Seb finishes, giving Miles a light shove. “Honestly, Monters, this has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with tradition. And . . . and safety.”

Isabel’s eyes are practically blazing. “Why wouldn’t girls be ‘safe’”—she makes air quotes before tucking her hands back under her elbows—“at your school?”

Seb looks so flummoxed that I almost feel sorry for him, and when Isabel’s meaning dawns on him, he seems genuinely horrified. “I don’t mean they wouldn’t be safe from us, Christ, what sort of person do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a spoiled, selfish, sexist jackass,” Isa says, not even hesitating, and on the other side of Seb, Miles’s eyes go big. It’s clear no one—and certainly no girl—has ever talked to Seb like this.

“I’m a prince,” he finally splutters, and Isa makes a clicking sound with her tongue like that explains it all.

Shaking his head slightly, Seb looks down at the floor. All around us, his friends—or people who’d just like to be his friends—are still dancing and drinking and probably lighting more things on fire, but we’re having a conversation about coed schools. “Gregorstoun is isolated and remote. They make us . . . sail boats in awful weather, and climb bloody mountains, and run in the freezing cold. That’s all I meant, that it’s simply too . . . too physically taxing for women.”

With that, he fumbles on the bar to his right, grabbing a glass of whiskey that may or may not be his. He throws it back, then looks to Miles.

Miles just shakes his head. “Not a shovel big enough to dig you out of this one, mate.”

Sighing, Seb slams his now-empty glass back onto the bar. “This night is really not going the way I expected,” he mutters, and Isabel huffs out a sigh before turning to me.

“The feeling is mutual,” she says, and then goes to push her way through the crowd.

But before she’s swallowed up, she turns to look over her shoulder at Seb and calls out, “For the record, I’ve had better kisses from band geeks.”

That actually gets the attention of some of the people on the dance floor, and one girl with long, stick-straight blond hair actually covers her mouth with her hand, eyes going wide.

With that, Isabel walks off, leaving me standing by Miles and Seb, Seb’s face going stormy, Miles looking like he wished he was anywhere else.

I know that feeling.

I hurry after Isabel, dodging Missy, who somehow got even drunker in the past few minutes and calls after me, “Is Monters still here?”

“He’s by the bar!” I shout back. “Knock yourself out!”

She wrinkles her nose, but I’m already at the stairs, catching up with Isa.

She’s halfway up, and I catch her arm.

“You kissed him?” I ask, breathless from the drunk rich people gauntlet I just ran through, and she sighs, rolling her shoulders.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Pausing, she tilts her head, long black hair sweeping over her shoulders. “And I lied about the band geek part. It was actually pretty awesome, but I’m retroactively taking away points because he’s such a toolbox.”

We make our way up the stairs. The main part of the club is empty now, Gilly and his leggy lady nowhere to be seen. The bodyguard is still by the door, though, and Isabel stops, moving her bag to her other shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I look at her, confused.

“For calling Seb a toolbox? You shouldn’t be, he kind of is. I was going to tell you that earlier, but I didn’t want to ruin your—

“Not that,” Isabel says, shaking her head. “For ditching you. I was just . . . everything with Ben, and then there was a prince asking me if I wanted to get away for a little bit, and I . . . got dazzled.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Which is totally unlike me, but this place is weird.”

That’s the truest thing I’ve heard all day, and I nod, throwing my arms out to the side, taking in Seb’s club, Seb himself, this entire day. “Welcome to my world.”

Shuddering a little, Isa shoves her hands in her back pockets. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick to reading the blogs from now on.”

We head for the door, and Isa gives another sigh. “It was all going really well up until I asked about his school, too. I mean, not well, maybe the conversation was kind of awkward, but the kiss was promising.” Then she screws up her face. “I can’t believe I kissed a dude who doesn’t think women should go to his precious boarding school.”

I wonder if I should bring up my own Seb kiss but then decide that no, this night has been a lot already.

Something Isabel confirms as she says, “I just want to forget the past few hours ever happened.”

“Solid plan,” I agree as the bodyguard opens the front door for us.

But any thought of forgetting this night happened is erased as about a thousand flashes go off in our faces.