And then it was out there. Cass Owens was the girl who slept with two best friends, only weeks apart. When the boys practically formed a line—I obliged. My reputation spread fast, and for the most part, I kept up—all the way until the end.
I never said it aloud, but it always hung out there between Paige and me. This lack of trust—it runs deep. So deep, that once I ask Paige to keep this secret, this new secret, the one that is bringing me more joy than anything has in months, she doesn’t know how to answer. I can see the redness fighting to take over the whites of her eyes. I’ve hit a nerve, but Paige Owens doesn’t cry. She never shows weakness. And she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep.
Without a word, she grabs her purse and keys and walks away, careful not to slam the door in her wake—always under control, even when she wants to stab me.
It takes Rowe almost an hour to realize that Paige is gone. She finally turns her iPod off and looks around as she wraps the cord up neatly. “Paige left?” she asks.
“Yeah, she had some party or something. I think she’s dating a football player now,” I respond, quickly returning my focus to the dress in the closet and the perfect shoes to go with it. It’s not a total lie—I think Paige really is into a football player. But who the hell knows about the party. I just know she’s not coming back tonight.
That’s the weird thing with twins. You fight enough—you start to really understand the idiosyncrasies of your match. And I know Paige won’t step foot in front of me again until she can look me in the eye and tell me I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. And when she does, her face will almost convince me she’s right.
Chapter 12
Ty
When Kelly looks at her phone, she’s going to think I’m a crazy man. Scratch that—a crazier man. I’ve called¸ heard the start of a ring, and hung up a dozen times. I know it records every missed call, and I know there’s a chance Jared is probably going to see my name lighting up her phone screen about a million times. And it’s going to piss him off. But he won’t say anything. Not directly, at least. So I dial again, my finger hovering over the END CALL button while I force myself to hear two rings this time.
Once I make it to two, I power through, like I’ve passed some stupid barrier. Once the third ring finishes, I almost press to end the call, but Kelly’s voicemail picks up.
Hey, it’s Kelly. I can’t talk now, but I’ll be sad I missed you, so please leave a message.
And then there’s the beep.
Fuck! I’ve already let two or three dead seconds pass before I stutter into talking.
“Kel, hey,” I start. This is weird—this whole thing is weird. She had to know this would be weird. And she had to know that there was no fucking way I would be able to wait until Thanksgiving—almost two months away—to find out what’s wrong.
“I’m returning your call. You kind of, well…left me hanging there with that message. I was just worried about you. So, uhm…yeah. Give me a call when you can. I’d love to talk.”
Beeeeeep.
My heart sounds like a goddamned drum line. I’m waiting for a prompt, something that tells me I can erase and rerecord, add to my message, get more time. But nothing happens. Soon, there’s a dial tone. That’s it—I called her back. I don’t even remember what I said, and I hope like hell I didn’t sound like an asshole. I don’t think I sounded like an asshole. Returning call…worried…call me—no, I was okay. That message was okay.
The banging on the door saves me from my own head. It’s almost time for dinner with our parents, so I bet it’s Nate, and I bet he forgot his key.
“You’re running wayyyyy late, fucknut,” I say, pulling the door open and feeling it release from my hand as it swings fully into the opposite wall. Paige marches in, sliding past me with finesse and speed. She turns, her arms folded over her chest, her fancy purse pulled up high on her shoulder and stuffed under one arm.
“Mind shutting that?” she says, nodding to the door. She sounds pissed. What the fuck? I’m pretty sure when I left Cass, she was good—things were good. No, things were…great!
I shut the door and move closer to her, my eyebrows low and my eyes unable to move away from the shiny long fingernails she is tapping against her own arm. How is she making that noise on her skin? Those things sound like they’re rapping on a tabletop.
“You and me need to have a chat,” she says, popping one leg out a step so this balled-up energy she’s holding onto can seep out slowly through her tapping toe.