Chapter 50Gage

“S

ome housewarming party this is,” Taryn leans over and says, wiggling her fingers in air quotes. She sits beside me, arms folded, eyes shifting around the room and stops only to lean back and flick apart the blinds on the picture window behind us, as if she’s expecting the cops to show at any minute.

In her defense, the rap music is pretty loud, vibrating the newly-hung picture frames on Farrah and Clara Jean’s apartment walls. Still, it’s a moot point to worry over the neighbors calling the cops when all the neighbors are busy dancing and shooting tequila in your living room.

She sighs loudly, like her twin powers will have some cosmic effect on Farrah. I smile. Taryn looks the part of an 18-year-old, and dresses the part, too, though her style ranges more on the conservative end of the spectrum as opposed to Farrah’s over-the-top, so-revealing-she-might-as-well-be-wearing-a-bikini wardrobe. She doesn’t act her age, though. Uber mature, thoughtful, and intelligent, she’s a stark contrast to her sister’s party-girl attitude.

That’s probably why Taryn and I have bonded as cousins ten times more than Farrah and I have. Every time I speak, Taryn stares at me as if I’m a jigsaw puzzle in pants, some experiment she can pick apart and dissect like the fetal pigs from her medical classes, then bandage up again in like-new condition.

She leans forward and picks up a bowl of fried mozzarella sticks and crinkles her nose, tossing it back on the table. If this were Taryn’s party, there’d be petit fours and finger sandwiches and punch. Traditional Southern stuff. Not the wings, dips, fried cheese, beer-and-liquor-fest this is.

Clara Jean weaves through the crowd and sits on the coffee table across from me and Taryn. She hands us each a shot glass of tequila and a wedge of lime. “Shoot ‘em!” she laughs, and I throw mine back then bite the lime, its sour fingers wrapping around my tongue.

Taryn stares at hers, holding them both mid-air. “Go ahead,” I say, leaning over to her ear. “It can only make this party better or make you not care. Win-win.”

She smiles and chucks it back, lapsing into some sort of full body shiver as she swallows. Clara Jean reaches for the shot glasses but pulls back when her phone buzzes. She squeezes it out of her skin-tight leather pants and glances at the screen, eyes narrowed.

Taryn leans forward and grabs her arm. “Is it him again?”

She nods, and I can’t help noticing the bright redness that creeps into her cheeks. “Same old thing. I miss you. I love you. I want to get back together.”

“Yeah, you’ve only heard that one about nine hundred times.”

“Yep, and that’s 899 times too many. I’m done with it.” Clara Jean says it with authority, but her voice trembles on the back end like she’s putting on a front. She’s nowhere near as strong as she says she is.

She scoops up the glasses and heads to the kitchen, where once again she pauses by the sink to check her texts. Damn, this guy is persistent, and not in a good way.

“He cheated on her,” Taryn whispers. “More times than I can count. Talked down to her, telling her no other guy would want her. Did a crazy number on her self-esteem.”

“Her?” I shake my head. No way. “But Clara Jean’s a beautiful girl. She’s smart and funny. Why does she listen to that?”

Taryn shrugs. “If someone tells you that you suck long enough, you eventually start to believe them.” She stops and stares at Clara Jean and bites her lower lip. “She keeps going back because he’s her first love. First love’s a bitch, and it’s rarely love at all. More like a walk down Hell’s highway.”

The edge in her tone hints that she speaks from experience. And then I realize these two wonderful girls are reeling because of dipshit guys, and my mind immediately goes to Rayne. Is this the way she feels about our relationship? Is that why she’s with Preston now? Because I’m the dipshit guy who messed her up?

But no matter what happened between me and Rayne, what we had was real love. I know because I still feel it, even more if that’s possible.

Three hard knocks sound at the door and Taryn immediately stiffens, as if the police are about to charge in and throw everyone in handcuffs. She does a quick count, noting each guest with a head tick. “Who could that be? Everyone’s already here.”

Clara Jean ducks out of the kitchen and walks to the door, pausing to smooth her shirt and hair before opening it. She takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. She obviously knows who’s waiting on the other side.

The door swings partway in when a blond guy in a gray sweatshirt with Greek letters grabs it, throwing it the rest of the way open. Behind me Taryn groans, confirming my suspicions. He grips Clara Jean’s elbow and directs her into the hallway leading to the bedrooms, but she resists, pushing back against him.

“I told you it wasn’t happening again, Jeremy. I’m over it.”

He jerks her closer to him, leaning down to look her almost eye-to-eye. “You know you always come back to me.”

“Not anymore. Never again.” Clara Jean shakes her head profusely, tears welling in her eyes as she wrings her hands. “Now I want you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me,” he growls.

Something snaps inside me. The way he’s hovering over her. The way she’s shrinking under his glare. I push through the crowd and grab her shoulders, pulling her backwards beside me. “I think she’s made it clear she’s done. So get outta here.”

His attention is now fully directed at me. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

“And who’s me?”

“You’re looking at him. Leave Clara Jean alone. She’s with me now.”

The crowd gasps, people exchanging open-mouthed glances. Taryn pushes through the bodies, coming into the little circle that’s formed around our showdown.

“Is this true?” Jeremy laughs, panning his hand up and down in front of me.

The apartment is silent, the music on pause, everyone’s eyes glued to the scene. Clara Jean flits her eyes between me and Jeremy, then wordlessly reaches out and twines her fingers with mine.

The laughing halts, and his face hardens like stone, jaw clenched. He shakes his head and turns to go, then whirls around with a balled fist and lands a punch square on my chin. I trip backwards against the wall, knocking the back of my head into the sheetrock. Farrah screams, so loud it adds to the ringing in my head, and sweet, conservative Taryn runs by the door and says, “Hey Jeremy!”

When he turns around, she kicks him square in the man-biscuits and he drops to his knees on the welcome mat where she slams the door in his face and slides the lock in place.

My head spins and I’m not sure if it’s from the hit or watching Taryn level some justice on a dipshit guy. Maybe both.

Clara Jean sobs into her palms and runs to her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

A couple hours later, I’m on my way to the bathroom when I pass Clara Jean’s room. The door’s cracked open now, the only light coming from the outside courtyard lamppost. A series of grunts catches my attention, and I push the door open wider, glass clinking as it meets the wooden door. My boot kicks one of the objects and it rolls into a sliver of light. A vodka mini bottle. She’s just behind it, crumpled on the floor, head and arms slung over her trashcan.

Terrific. She’s drunk.

“Clara Jean?” I ask, squatting down beside her. She lifts her head slightly and darts her eyes up at me. Even in the dark, mascara is visible in rivers down her face.

All because of some dipshit.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping out of her room and into the bathroom where I grab a cool washcloth. I creep back to her room, kneel down, and press it to her forehead. We sit in silence for several minutes, and I’m unsure whether she’s just quiet or passed out, but then she speaks, slowly in slurred words.

“Your ex? Was she mean like that?”

“No. never.”

“Did she cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Did she appreciate you?”

“Always.”

“Did she make promises and flake out?”

“Nope.”

“Can I ask you a question, Gage?”

“Sure.”

“If she was so great, then why is she your ex?”

“Because I made a stupid decision. Took a gamble that she’d wait for me, but… she didn’t. She moved on.”

I half-expect another question, but I check, and her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open. I get to my feet and scoop her in my arms, carry her to the bed, and lay her down. I take off her shoes and toss them in the corner, then grab a blanket from her desk chair and cover her.

I tiptoe to the door and ease it open, trying not to wake her. “Your ex is the one who made a mistake. Moving on from you? She’s an idiot. You deserve better.” When I turn around, her eyes are still closed, but she’s talking to me just the same.