Jorie's property could never be considered anything but rural. Even though it's not quite as deep into the swamp as Gran's house, it's not in the city, either.
The first thing I notice about Jorie's house is the driveway. Mostly because she doesn't have one. Where a driveway should be is an archway cut out of the trees-a path scraped through the forest.
I bend to angle my head so that I can peer up and out of the windshield at the curling branches above us, thick with moss and leaves.
"Jorie, this is beautiful," I say.
And, if I'm being honest, a little terrifying. The light has trouble breaking through here, as though the trees have forbidden it to shine. I drive along slowly, taking in the scene around us. It's quiet here. The woods seem to know we're coming. The leaves have stopped chattering. There's only the slight whisper of the wind, and even that's hard to make out.
The path opens into a quaint clearing-nothing short of enchanting.
A stone cottage rests lazily in the shade, its roof slanted to the left side like a slouching shoulder. The bones of the structure are cracking, sending fractures through the stones, and the windows are shrouded in curtains, making it impossible to see inside.
"You want to come in?" Jorie asks.
Well, I certainly don't want to wait in unfamiliar woods alone. My mind plays tricks on me, making me think the smears of mud are moving, that the vines have come to life, that something sinister could be waiting around the next sickly tree. Usually, I'm comfortable in the swamp, but Jorie's house is far removed, and I don't know these woods.
"Sure." I follow her through the overgrown grass up to the front door, which swings open before we reach it.
"You must be Willow," a woman says.
She's Jorie's mother, I'm sure of it. Her skin is much darker than Jorie's, but her hair is similar. Behind her stands a man in an unassuming shirt and khaki shorts. Jorie's father. His skin is the shade of mine, and his hair is deep blond. He has kind blue eyes that smile at me from the doorway.
"I am," I reply.
"I'm Veronica," Jorie's mom says. "And my better half is Jameson. It's great to meet you. Your name is the usual around here. Nice to put a face to it."
"It's great to meet you, too."
Over the front door hangs a sign with their last name painted on it in block letters: langston. Around these parts, people tend to label their houses with personal information, like they want everyone to know just who the property belongs to.
Jorie gives her parents a wide smile as she brushes past and beckons me to follow.
"I'm just grabbing a suit," she says, heading toward the back of the cottage.
I eye the pot on the stove. Something that smells like heaven is bubbling and popping inside. I have no idea why Jorie likes Gran's cooking so much when clearly her parents know how to whip something up.
"Smells delicious," I say. I find myself wandering over to the pot.
"Jambalaya," Mr. Langston says. "My wife's recipe mixed with my Creole family recipe. Turns out, it's the perfect blend. Want some?"
"No!" Jorie calls from the back room, which seems to sit right behind the kitchen, from the sounds of it. "We're heading to the pool, remember?"
Mr. Langston chuckles. "Of course, honey, just trying to be polite."
Jorie reemerges in a textured bikini top and jean shorts with a towel flung over her shoulder.
"Save me a bowl for tonight?" she requests.
"We'll save one for Willow, too, if she's coming back," Mr. Langston replies.
"Great!" Jorie says. "See you later!"
She brushes a quick kiss on her mother's and father's cheeks before rushing out the door. I manage a wave, not nearly as inclined to leave so quickly. What a beautiful place to call home.
"You ready?" Jorie says as we slide into the car. "The pool is bound to be packed."
She hands me a bottle of lemon tea she grabbed from the fridge. I uncap it and relish the sweetness. Heat on my skin, smile on my face, we head to the pool.
14
Beau
Leaning back in a warm lounge chair, I feel as though my skin has actual real Georgia sunshine living within it.
I glance at Willow, who hasn't spotted us yet.
"You've come to the pool because of her," Charlotte says. "She didn't invite you. Heard it myself through the open window."
"We would have come to the pool anyway, and you know it," I reply.
It's a Saturday routine of ours. I glance at Pax and Grant, who are attempting to talk to a group of girls. Well, mostly Grant is making a fool of himself. Nothing new.
Charlotte laughs. "Fine, fine. You're right. But the point is that you've been fixated on her, and that's unusual."
My sister's not wrong.
"She's not making it easy," Charlotte says. "Aren't you bored of it yet?"
"Not at all," I answer honestly.
Charlotte hasn't stopped harping on this.
"Do I need to remind you how worthless you are with her around?"
My sister's comment stings worse than swamp yellow jackets. Still, I don't let on how much.
"No." I shift my gaze because someone has blocked my view of Willow.
"Like a sad little puppy, trotting behind. You used to always be grinning. Now I catch you looking like you're deep in thought, transfixed. Your friends are here, in case you've forgotten. Why aren't you over there talking to those girls with them?"
"Shut up, Charlotte," I growl.
"Maybe I'll warn her off, tell her some of the stories of all the girls you've made cry," Charlotte whispers.
I whip around. "You can go to hell."
"Oh, I'm sure I will," Charlotte coos. "But not just yet."
Her threat is empty, it seems, because she doesn't move a muscle.
"I don't actually need to tell her," she continues. "Looks like she might be mad enough without my warning."
I look up. In my distraction, I didn't notice that Willow had spotted us. She and that friend of hers approach.
"Are you following me, Beau?" Willow asks, hands on her hips.
I smirk. "Now why would I do that? Far as I remember, it's a free country. And by God, it's a hot one. Which, incidentally, the pool helps with."
It sounds almost as though my sister whispers, "Liar," but I can't be sure.
"Funny thing, you never mentioned you were coming when I told you my plans."
Willow looks edible with her angry scowl and red bikini.
"Did I need to inform you?" I ask, cocking my head to the side.
Her skin is bronzed by the sun and shines with oil. She's not as thin as some of the girls here, and I like that-the way her body curves and moves. Her hair sticks to her back, and there's not another girl more beautiful.
"Usually that's the sort of thing reserved for boyfriends and girlfriends," I say. It's mean of me, but as much as I want Willow around, I don't need her thinking I'm all that into her. Even though I am.
I've never actually wanted a girlfriend.
This shouldn't be an exception.
For a moment, the only sound between us is my hard exhalation of breath, then laughter, the spring of the diving board, and loud splashes join our silent conversation. Not once does Willow or I say what we actually mean.
I think she wants me here but won't admit it.
I know I need to see her, but I won't tell her that.
Our day is wrapped in false pretenses and tension, the illusion of control.
She huffs. "Fine, Beau. Enjoy your afternoon at the pool."
I wish she would've invited me herself. I also wish that I didn't want her to.
I watch her go. Her friend won't make eye contact with me.
Beside me, Charlotte beams. "You are such a fool."
"I'm five seconds from drowning you in that pool if you don't shut it."
A guy approaches Charlotte.
"Maybe I'll ruin your chances here," I hiss.
Charlotte laughs. "Go ahead. Unlike you, I don't care. There are many more to choose from."
Frustration laces through my thoughts. Charlotte can so easily dismiss them all. I used to be able to do that, too. Until Willow. I have a weakness, and my sister knows it.
The guy reaches the foot of her chair. He's nervous but brave when he introduces himself, wondering if she wants to go for a swim. She tells him she'd love to. I'm relieved to see her go.
Now I can eye Willow in peace.
Willow takes a few steps into the Olympic-size pool. A group of guys rest their arms on the edge of a corner near her. One sits atop the ledge.
I can't make out their words, but a couple of guys have approached. Jorie seems to enjoy the attention, and it doesn't look like Willow is opposed to it, either.
My blood suddenly feels as though it's boiling. Damn this sun.
I can't look away. Willow smiles. Laughs at something one of them says. I worry she might like him, and that pisses me off. I don't want those guys talking to her. She's driving me crazy, and I don't like it one bit.
I know the emotion I'm experiencing, though I've never actually felt it before. Well, maybe a bit the day in the hall when Willow agreed to a date with someone else. I'm definitely sensing it now. Disbelief punches my heart. Anger swarms, clouding my vision. I want to be allergic to this feeling, to stay as far as possible from it, to remain cold and neutral, but I can't push it away. I don't like it. I've seen it on other people's faces. Never on my own.