Oblivion (15 page)

“Well, you can’t wear Land’s End to homecoming.”

“I feel funny in Land’s End, too.”

“Fine. Fucking wear leggings if you want.” She reapplies her lip gloss and bats her lashes at me. “You look hot, all right?”

The guys are already here. They’re downstairs, likely lifting Mr. Hutch’s decanter of scotch, as Lindsey’s parents left for a charity dinner at the Whitehall Hotel hours ago. There’s a limousine parked in the driveway, alongside Elijah’s borrowed Jeep Wrangler, suggesting this is a normal, anticipated high school event, but I’m much too nervous to enjoy it.

How do I conduct myself with Elijah under John’s watch? And how do I interact with John? How will John interact with Elijah? God, I hope they don’t compare notes about their experiences with me. I hope they get along. This night could be mighty stressful, if they glare at each other all evening.

To assure John I’m thinking of him—and that I haven’t forgotten his admission about Hannah Rynes—I’m wearing my rosary like a double-strung necklace. It’ll have to be enough for him, as I can’t imagine looking at him tonight, let alone touching him, without being utterly transparent. My fingers gravitate to the crucifix pendant, then to the small ruby ring perpetually rubbing my skin, hidden amongst the peridot and topaz of the rosary.

I follow Lindsey down the stairs and into the den, where Elijah instantly wraps me in an embrace. I breathe in the
scent of him—all asphalt and manliness today; no rose-scented perfume remnants of the girl about to take my place.

One of his hands lands on my rear, the other, on the back of my neck. “Oh, baby,” he whispers into my ear.

“You look great,” John’s saying, leaning into Lindsey, politely kissing her on the cheek. They look like the ideal, new high school couple, and having ridden side by side perched on the back of a convertible wearing Carmel brown and gold in this morning’s parade, they’ve been acting like one, too.

“Nice.” Although Elijah backs off, he tightens his grip on my body and flicks the crucifix. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s vintage,” I tell him.

This is my first school dance. It’s a far cry from the homecomings of Elijah’s high school, which are held at the school gym and are no big deal, he’d said, which is the excuse he gives for why we aren’t going to attend. Carmel Catholic’s homecoming dance, on the other hand, takes place at a resort in Lincolnshire in a small ballroom. Ducks waddle astride the flagstone path down which we’re traipsing through a courtyard on our way to the entrance. It’s the end of a season, but the gardening staff has replaced the summer blooms with multitudes of autumn foliage. Mums, vines, hay bales, and pumpkins
populate the stone planters that rise from the earth at meticulously planned geometric intervals.

Lindsey and I are holding hands and leading the way, which leaves the guys a few steps behind us on the path. This is one of Lindsey’s techniques. On the long walk from the curb, where the limo dropped us, she knows John will be staring at her ass. A glance over my shoulder, however, tells me he’s taking in other sights, lackadaisically strolling with his hands in his pockets. Elijah’s doing the same, with my backpack slung casually over his right shoulder. He winks at me when he catches my gaze.

The breeze is cool, and I don’t have a shawl. The crucifix at my throat bounces like an ice cube against my skin. I’m nervous … and a little excited.

Quickly, once we enter the building, however, I decide I haven’t been missing much. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t think there’d be breathalyzers at the entrance and flasks smuggled into the girls’ room, tucked into lacy garters at inner thighs, where rent-a-cops aren’t allowed to pat, not that anyone at Carmel Catholic—or the Marriott Lincolnshire—garners a frisking. I didn’t get the memo, apparently, because nearly everyone brought something to sip on—even Lindsey.

She takes a sharp sip off the vessel bedazzled in faux purple gems—“Just to calm the nerves”—and passes it to me.

I don’t want it, but I take a nip, too. It can’t hurt to mellow, considering the night I have ahead of me. The
peppermint-flavored liquor burns going down my throat. “John seems really into you.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Her eyes sparkle. She takes the proffered flask and tucks it into her purse. “You know, I thought for a while he was seeing someone else. Yasmin Hayes, maybe.”

The green-eyed monster within me rises in my throat like bile. I hadn’t considered I’d have competition outside my own household. “Yasmin?”

“Yeah, last week in chapel, he kept looking over his shoulder, ogling her. And remember, he defended her that day at the Vagabond.”

The snippet of relief I feel quickly turns to nervousness. My heart races; the beats bombard my eardrums. He wasn’t staring at Yasmin; he was looking at the girl who sits next to her—me. Maybe Lindsey knows this, maybe she’s testing me. “Have you asked him?”

“Doesn’t really matter.” She shakes her head as she checks her reflection, fluffs her hair, gives her breasts a lift by tugging on her strapless bra. “I think I’ve got him now. I mean, think about it. He’s on the football team. Yasmin’s into academic clubs. He needs someone more social, you know? Just in case, though, I started a nasty rumor that she got crabs from some public school scum.”

Our glances meet in the mirror.

“What?” She smooths her lipstick with her ring finger. “Oh, don’t tell me you feel sorry for her. Served her right,
trying to horn in on my territory. If it isn’t true, the truth will come out—it always does—but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t sweat a bit in the meantime.”

Poor Yasmin. “I don’t think she’s ever been into him.”

“Well, just in case. He won’t give her the time of day now that she has crabs. Besides, he was holding my hand all through the parade.”

I force a smile—and hope it doesn’t look forced.

“And it’s all thanks to you.” She throws her arms over my shoulders, plants a kiss square on my lips.

When we meet the guys in the ballroom, John’s explaining to a senior on the yearbook staff that although the sign in the parade read
Jon Fogel
, he does, in fact, spell his name with an
h
.

“Anyone up for a smoke?” Lindsey tosses one arm around me, and another around Elijah. “We have a long, dull two hours here before the party starts.”

I’m confused. Lindsey’s been looking forward to this night for months, and she’s already bored? I shake my head in refusal. But Elijah, after only a mere glance in my direction, shrugs. “I’ll hit it with you.”

She brushes a kiss over John’s lips. “Be right back.”

Elijah nibbles my shoulder and flashes a smile, as he drops my backpack at my feet. He makes his way toward whichever courtyard my pseudo sister has secured for her appointment with her bowl.

Seconds later, my glance collides with John’s. His eyes soften upon contact. “You’re killing me, you know that?
Did you have to look this good for him?”

“It’s Lindsey’s dress.”

“Your body’s inside it.”

Passion surges from parts deep inside me, radiating out like a halo. “You’re one to talk.” My voice remains at a whisper, but my nerves are so inflamed—angry, turned on, edgy—that I can’t imagine how I’m going to keep it cool. “Do you have to be so good at playing the role? I mean, in the rain at Highland Point, we … you know … and now you’re—”

“God, that was great.” His shoulders slouch; he leans against the wall, kicks at an imaginary stone on the floor. “It was like spontaneous combustion.”

“Now you’re holding her hand, acting like—”

His glance darts up, fiery. “Hey, you told me—”

“I know what I told you! I asked you to take her to homecoming, not fall in love with her!”

“Fall in love with her? Is that what you think is happening tonight?”

I want to hold my tongue. I sound so desperate, so jealous, so … girly. I’d never dreamt of putting myself in this position with Elijah, yet here I am: a couple of late-night conversations and a few forbidden moments into things with John, and I’m losing my head. “No. I mean, maybe. Lindsey’s amazing. Why wouldn’t you fall for her?”

He pushes away from the wall. Without a word, he sweeps up my backpack and gestures for me to follow.

Three minutes later, my back is against the wall in an
empty coat check closet, and John’s lips are on mine.

I melt over him, around him.

My eyes fall closed. I smell the lake, but we’re too far from the shore for it to be anything more than my imagination—or a memory. I hear the shovel. Feel the cold rain. I tighten my hold on John’s body.

“We should stop,” I whisper.

“Mmm hmm.” He draws out another languid kiss.

I don’t want to stop. We’re good together. But—

Voices rise outside the door: “Well, they have to be here somewhere!” It’s Lindsey and Elijah!

He breaks our connection, backs away, and readjusts his clothing, while I straighten my dress.

I smoothe away a trace of my lipstick from his lower lip.
Strangled
.

We make a clean exit and are standing about four feet apart by the time Lindsey and Elijah round the corner, wafting an overpowering Vera Wang scent in their wake. I cough when the strong aroma enters my lungs. At least it masks the pot. John’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. The words start spinning in my head. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. It’s as if someone’s sitting on my chest, covering my mouth. I shove a hand into my ever-present backpack, which Lindsey beseeched me to leave at home. With my refusal, she decorated it with an obnoxious pink satin bow.

“Baby?”

Elijah.

But speaking is impossible. I answer only with a wheeze. Shove my notebook at him, when he comes at me. Keep digging for a pen. Lollipops, Tarot, gum, folded square of paper … God, that’s John’s note!

The notebook claps against the marble tiled floor when Elijah drops it.

In surprise, I glance up at him.

“Callie, are you—” Lindsey’s voice dissipates, as the words in my head drown out whatever my sister is about to say.

My sometimes boyfriend lifts my chin, crushes my lips with a kiss. He tastes like cannabis and cinnamon gum.

But the words don’t fade this time. In fact, they start to scream, reaching an unprecedented decibel, rattling my brain. I’m struggling to draw in a breath.

I pat Elijah’s cheek and push away. Retrieve my notebook, take the red felt-tip pen from an outstretched hand. Bite off the cap. Purge. Breathe. And once the words have escaped the confines of my mind, I allow the notebook to slip from my grasp.

Strong, warm hands cup my cheeks. Thick fingers wipe tears from my eyes. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yeah.” I flutter a gaze upward and gasp when I see John Fogel’s face before me.

Elijah’s fingers tighten at my elbow. I gravitate toward him and nestle against him.

“Sorry,” John mutters. His glance passes over me, returns
for a split second, then rises, I suppose to meet Elijah’s.

Elijah’s jaw is set.

Lindsey glides between them, so that her back is to John. She pulls her date’s arms around her, leans against his chest, and addresses Elijah: “He was only trying to help.”

“Yeah,” Elijah says. “He had a fucking pen! The kind she uses!”

“Coincidence,” Lindsey says.

I glance down at the pen I’m still holding. There’s contempt in Elijah’s voice, and I can’t blame him. I assume it’s as obvious to Elijah as it is to me that John’s well versed in touching my face. I’m pretty sure Elijah suspects this isn’t the first time John’s looked into my eyes.

“You can’t blame him for his reaction. Do you remember the first few times you saw her write like that?” Lindsey’s speaking to Elijah as if I’m not in the vicinity. And part of me has yet to return. Lindsey’s words carry an echo, as if she’s still a few halls away, but I know I’m the one not totally present. “Kinda freaky, right?”

“I didn’t mean …” John’s voice trails off. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him stumbling over words. He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Just wanted to be sure she was all right.”

“I’m fine.” I push away from Elijah, clear my face of tears, and crouch to pick up my notebook. “I’m fine.”

When I’m standing again, John’s extending his hand in Elijah’s direction. Hesitantly, Elijah takes it. John grins. “I
can imagine that looked pretty bad, huh?”

Elijah chuckles. “A year ago, I would’ve kicked your ass.”

And I don’t doubt it. The Elijah of old has the arrest record to prove it.

I discreetly offer the pen back to John as the four of us head toward the ballroom.

“Pretty lucky you had a pen,” Lindsey says.

“Yeah,” John says. “Lucky.”

But I know he carries it with him now, whenever he’s in my company. He carries it for me.

If I’d known our after-dance plans included hanging out on the
Ikal del Mar
, I might not have agreed to attend the homecoming dance at all.

The boat is packed with athletes violating their training rules, and drunken, giggly girls making out with one another—Lindsey among them—slowly shedding pieces of their expensive dresses. At present, Lindsey’s walking around in her bra, underwear, and lace-top thigh-highs covered only with John’s button-down shirt, which she demanded with a seductive whisper and a lick from his collar to his earlobe.

I’m sitting at the banquette with a group of guys, rolling dice and controlling my intake of bittersweet pink wine from a box. I haven’t seen Elijah since he went on deck to smoke up about ten minutes ago, but I hope he’ll be back soon. John’s sitting immediately to my left, his leg pressed
against mine. He’s wearing a white, short-sleeved Hanes T-shirt, which I assume he wore under his more formal attire. The cotton hugs his chest and biceps.

“Promise me.” He leans in closer and whispers, “Don’t sleep with him tonight.”

I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the ribs. After a split-second meeting of our glances, I redirect my attention to the dice game and apologize for jabbing him. “Sorry.”

Without a flinch, he speaks again. “You’re going to, aren’t you?”

Shame rises, contracting like hands around my heart, slowly squeezing the life out of me. The truth is, I don’t want to sleep with Elijah solely out of habit. But I don’t know how I can avoid it, or even if I should. I have a history with him, and John knew that before he laid his lips on me. While not all of Elijah belongs to me, we’ll always belong to each other, in a sense.