Sunday—day seven of a punishment that isn’t grounding in name but feels like its identical twin. My phone was gone until last night. My Jeep privileges are trashed, and I’m not allowed to hang out with friends. My parents are calling it a period of self-reflection. I’m calling it an eternity of horrifying silence. And to make today even more crapola, it’s our would-be deadline for finishing Ella’s case. My dad gave me back my phone last night, but I haven’t had the guts to turn it on. Not after that article that blew up Summer Love.
I sit at the kitchen table, slumped over my tea and picking at the edge of a pastry.
Within twenty-four hours my email filled up with friends and parents from past cases, and requests from the press for comment, which Dad informed me was out of the question. He said that if I gave any response at all I’d lose my laptop, too. But it doesn’t matter because the damage is done. Our business is irrevocably smashed. People are pissed. And everyone in town will not shut up about it, or so Mom says.
Then there’s Mom. My pregnant mother, who I can’t even think about without getting teary. She’s trying to act normal, not to snip or sigh, but last night I heard her crying in the bathroom when she thought no one was around. All Dad keeps saying is just wait for the results from the specialist. But it feels like that’s not good enough, like we’re failing her in some major way.
To top it off, there’s my silence with August. I wrote him an email a couple of days ago checking in, and all I got in reply was a one-line response that he’s fine and how am I. But since I didn’t want to answer that, I haven’t written back. And since he also didn’t write again, I know with certainty that we both suck.
I glance out the window at him, where he sits in our “office” with his Snoopy coffee mug beside him on the dock. I can tell by his drooping shoulders that he’s stewing.
“Same,” I say under my breath and glance at Bentley’s house, who’s the only person I seem to be talking to normally right now. He hasn’t put any pressure on me to explain. He hasn’t asked me about the gossip. He’s just been reassuring and patient and the perfect escape from all the crap in my head.
As if Bentley knew I was thinking about him, he opens his screen door, heading toward his weights. Only halfway there, he stops and glances at August.
“Don’t,” I warn him. “August will eat you alive right now.”
Bentley apparently agrees with my assessment even though he can’t hear me, because he looks away from the dock and throws his towel over his shoulder. But before I fully unclench, he looks at August again, and this time he starts walking toward him.
I jump up from the breakfast table, sending my chair screeching back. And now I do turn on my phone, running to the window and rolling it open as fast as I can.
I click past my million notifications and type out a warning text for Bentley to abort because August is in a foul mood. But he gives no indication that he has his phone on him.
I press my hands and forehead against the window screen. If I go out there, my punishment will likely get extended. If I don’t go out there, they’ll probably bite each other’s heads off like hostile gerbils.
“Hey, man,” I hear Bentley say. “Thanks for returning my phone.”
August sips his coffee, still staring at the water. “Sure.”
Can’t you see he’s brushing you off? Walk away, Bentley. Just slide on out of the danger zone and back to flexing your man muscles.
But Bentley tries again. “Crazy what happened at that party. Sorry about that girl, man.”
August turns, and even in profile I can tell it’s not going to be good. “Cut the shit. If there’s something you came here to ask, just ask,” he says, sounding exhausted.
Bentley momentarily tenses, but he lets it go. “Nah, I get it. Must sting. Valentine says you really like that girl.” I can tell he’s trying to be understanding about August’s bad mood, but it definitely isn’t landing.
August’s eyes shoot to my house, and when he finds me pressed up against my kitchen window like a smushed bug, I know he’s pissed. And I also know why—he thinks I told Bentley his personal business, which I guess I did.
“We done here?” August says, getting up.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll leave you to it, man,” Bentley says, gesturing at the water.
“Good,” August says. “Then move.”
Whatever patience Bentley was utilizing just ran out. “Way to be a dick, dude.”
August’s eyes darken. “Right,” he says. “You’re blowing smoke up my ass, and I’m the dick. Don’t pretend you came here to check on me. Ask what you actually want to ask: Did I see the text? Yes, I did.”
My heart jumps into my throat. What text?
Bentley looks confused. But a second later his expression clears as he obviously catches on to whatever August is talking about. “Wait . . . you hacked my phone?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I looked at your front screen, and it took me about two seconds to confirm that you’re exactly who I thought you were.”
Oh no.
I register August’s expression and know that if I don’t get out there, things are going to spiral. I run to the porch door, and for a split second I hesitate.
“Sorry, Dad! Emergency!” I yell to him in the living room and rush outside without bothering to grab my flip-flops.
My bare feet pad onto the wooden dock just as August growls, “Like I said, move.”
Bentley follows it up with an equally Neanderthal, “Make me.”
“Both of you knock it the hell off!” I say with feeling, and two surprised faces turn in my direction.
“I thought you were still housebound—” Bentley starts.
And under his breath August says, “Good thing Cassie was free.”
Which only sets Bentley off again. “What the hell are you implying?”
August gives him a withering look.
I frown. “Cassie?” I say, confused, looking at Bentley for explanation.
But Bentley’s not looking at me. “Just because you can’t get a girl unless you pretend to be someone else doesn’t mean you can take your frustration out on Valentine. No wonder Ella wants nothing to do with you. Who would?”
I physically wince. “Bentley, no,” I say, my tone a warning. I don’t care who’s right and wrong here, or that I’m currently annoyed with August—he can’t take a blow like that right now. “That’s so out of line.”
Bentley looks from August to me and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I came over here to ask him if he was okay. I can’t win with you two.”
And for a second, I feel bad.
August scoffs. “Why don’t you tell Tiny the truth, Bentley: you came over here to find out if I’d seen Cassie’s text and if I was going to out you.”
“Can someone please tell me what this Cassie thing is about?” I ask, annoyed in every way possible. Bentley isn’t the only one who feels like he can’t win here.
“It’s nothing,” Bentley says, which only makes me more uneasy.
“August?” I ask, which earns me a disappointed look from Bentley, but I don’t have time for a long gentle discussion. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t come out here already.
August pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was a text on his lock screen from Cassie asking if they were still meeting up. Followed by a heart and a kissy face.”
I pull my shoulders up and in, trying to keep the storm of worry at bay. I turn to Bentley for an explanation, but he doesn’t offer one.
“Did you . . . meet up with her?” I ask, unsure.
He hesitates, his jaw tight. “Yes.”
His answer is like a beesting, fast and sharp and sure to hurt more later.
We all stand there, suspended in this long awful second.
Bentley turns on August, blame etched in his eyebrows. “This is when you walk away and let me clean up your mess.”
“My mess?” August snaps. “Try again. You don’t deserve Tiny, never will. Better to just bow out now.”
“Coming from a guy who gets paid to mess with people’s love lives?” Bentley fires back. “I mean, I might sometimes be an ass, but the one thing I never am is for sale.”
“Right,” August says. “You screw people over for free.”
I hear their words, but my reaction is muddled and slow.
Bentley clenches his hands. “That’s it—” he starts, but he’s cut off. By my dad.
“Enough,” Dad says from the porch, not even loudly, but in that dad tone that makes everyone freeze. “Bentley—your yard. August—yours. Valentine—inside now.”