His lips stop, like, millimeters away from mine. “Everyone’s right out there, Kat.”
I put my hands up on his shoulders and drape myself against him, boobs pressed up against his chest. If nothing else, it’ll warm me up. “What are you worried about that for?” I whisper. My breath comes out in puffs. I close my eyes and wait for him to plant his lips on mine.
Nothing.
When I open my eyes, Ricky’s looking at me with these pathetic puppy-dog eyes.
I let my arms fall to my side. “Are you for real? We’re not doing this right now?” My voice is much less sexy. It’s straightup pissed off.
Ricky shrugs. “Come on, it’s cold. Let’s get back in the hot tub.”
I walk away from him, teeth chattering so loud it’s all I hear. The last thing I need is to get hung up on another ballless guy.
Ricky tries to guide me to face him. “Kat, wait.”
I’m already gone, headed to the hot tub. But instead of getting into the water again, I grab my shit from one of the outdoor lounge chairs. “Hey. The cops drove by and flashed their lights in the yard. We’d better bounce. Now.” Ricky comes back, he hears me tell this lie, but he doesn’t call me out on it. Everyone rushes out of the water and heads barefoot back to where we parked the bikes.
I follow them out, but at the last second I glance over my shoulder at all the shit we left around Alex’s yard. The empty beer cans and the cigarette butts.
“You coming?” Ricky asks me.
I don’t answer him. And he doesn’t ask again before he leaves me behind.
I find a trash bag inside one of the garbage cans and start walking around the yard, using my cell phone light to find the trash in the grass. Not long into it, snow begins to fall. My shirt is soaked; I don’t even have a ride home. FML.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s snowing outside. Teeny tiny flakes that barely stick, but it looks beautiful. I always did love Boston in winter. The city looks like something out of a Charles Dickens novel.
We’re waiting for a table at Salt, my mom’s and my favorite restaurant. They have the best lobster bisque; the waiter serves it tableside in a silver urn. We had a seven o’clock reservation, but Mrs. Lind took so long getting ready we missed it, and now it’s almost eight and we still haven’t had dinner. I feel faint.
“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Lind says loudly, so everyone can hear. She’s in a fox-fur coat and black stiletto boots that go up past her knee.
“They should have one for us any minute,” my mom says. “I see them clearing a table for four now.” Even though she sounds as serene as ever, her lipsticked red lips are a thin line, and I know she’s annoyed.
“We’ve been waiting for half an hour,” Mrs. Lind huffs. “On a Wednesday.”
“It’s a five-star restaurant,” my mom reminds her. “And this isn’t the island.”
Mrs. Lind shakes her head from side to side, her coppery hair swishing around her shoulders. “I’m going to say something to the hostess.”
“Celeste,” my mom starts to say.
Luckily, the hostess comes over to us then and says our table’s ready. “At last,” Mrs. Lind huffs, and Alex and I exchange a look.
It’s been like this since we got here—just shy of tense. Like, my mom wanted to stop by her old interior-design office before dinner, so she and I could say hi to Bert and Cleve, her friends who’ve known me since I was a baby. They’re partners, and they travel all over the world getting inspired by rugs in Marrakesh and ceramic tiles in Provence. They send Nadia and me the nicest Christmas gifts—lavender oils and crystal bracelets and jars of Dead Sea mud.
But we couldn’t go because Mrs. Lind was all, Grace, we need to stop by Hermés before it closes; I want to get your opinion on that end table I’ve got my eye on. So we did that instead. Alex kept making a pretend gun with his fingers and pretend shooting himself in the temple. I kept lingering by the enamel bracelets, hoping my mom would notice and add one to my Christmas wish list. I super-casually pointed out one I liked and she was like, Not going to happen, Lil; you do not need a six-hundreddollar bracelet. Mrs. Lind tried to tell the saleswoman to add it to her bill, and my mom said absolutely not, which Mrs. Lind made a face at. I felt guilty about that, because if I’d known how much it cost, obviously I never would have said anything. Though I had to admit, wearing it to school and seeing the look on Rennie’s face would have been worth the six hundred dollars.
And then, when we were touring the BC campus, my mom wanted to look at the library and the art building and Mrs. Lind kept complaining about her feet hurting. I knew what my mom was thinking because I was thinking the same thing—why would you wear four-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on a campus tour? So impractical.
The hostess seats us in the back, at a sleek leather banquette. I sit down next to my mom, and Alex and his mom sit down across from us.
Mrs. Lind picks up the wine list. “Red or white, hon?” she asks my mom.
“I might have a glass of sauvignon blanc,” my mom says, reaching over and tucking my hair behind my ear. To me she says, “You look so pretty tonight, honey.”
“Oh, Lil’s always a knockout,” Mrs. Lind says. “God, I wish I could still dress like that.”
I smile a humble smile, through my lashes. I did take extra care with my outfit. I feel like on Jar Island it’s whatever, but people get more dressed up in Boston. They care more. I’ve got on a snug heather-gray sweater dress with a white patent-leather belt that cinches around my waist and a pair of platform booties that I bought for this trip. I curled my hair and pushed it all over to one side in a low ponytail. When I came out of the bathroom, Alex told me I looked nice. He was wearing a navy cashmere sweater, but after he saw me, he went and changed and put a light blue button-down and a tie underneath.
As soon as the server comes over, before he can say a word, Mrs. Lind says, “We’ll have a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”
My mom looks alarmed. She’s not a big drinker. “Celeste, I don’t know—”
“Live a little! We’ll let the kids have a sip of the champagne. The wine is for us.” Mrs. Lind winks at me, and Alex and I shrug at each other.
“A tiny sip,” my mom says to me.
Alex and I drink a thimbleful of champagne each, and our moms finish the bottle. With each new glass they get sillier and sillier, and the tension from before fades away.
