Unforgettable (19 page)

Two seconds after deciding to let Easy sweat it out, the eighth person stepped on Callie’s toes, and she decided maybe it would be a little warmer—and less crowded, certainly—inside the barn. She slowly extricated herself from the beer line and walked around the corner of the barn, pretending to be searching her red leather tiny Hobo International bag for her cigarettes. The sounds of the movie and the crowd became fainter as she made her way toward the barn door, using the light from her cell phone to make sure she didn’t step in any cow shit or on any other disgusting barn-bred things. She peeked inside the half-closed door and saw a faint light at the back of the barn, some scary-looking shadows projected on the huge walls. She shivered a little, only partly from the cold. Could barns be haunted like old houses? And was Easy really in here, or was she all alone?

“Easy?” she whispered loudly, her voice wavering in the darkness.

“Hey!” At the sound of his voice, Callie’s heart sped up, and when his head popped up over the side of the last stall, she had to catch her breath. She hadn’t realized how anxious she was to see him until she’d kind of thought he wasn’t there. “Over here.” The faint light disappeared and then reappeared as Easy stepped out of the stall and stood at the end of the barn, holding a flashlight.

Callie walked slowly toward him, her knees wobbling a little as she stepped over the uneven barn floor, half covered with hay. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. Maybe because she didn’t want him to know she was drunk already. Maybe because she could feel his dark blue eyes watching her every step. She couldn’t help but feel completely beautiful under his appreciative eyes—skinny legs, too-short skirt, bulky turtleneck sweater and all. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she stopped two feet in front of him. “You’re missing the party,” she chided, only because it was the first thing that came to her mind.

Easy smiled at her. “I’ve seen movies before. And drunks,” he added playfully.

Callie stared at his cheekbones, which, in the glowing light of the lantern, looked even more striking and defined. He wore a paint-splattered flannel shirt that she was dying to rub her face against, with his beat-up tan cords that had a hole forming in the knee and a splotch of blue paint on the right thigh. He stood the flashlight on its end on the floor of the old horse stall, which didn’t smell as horsey as the stables, so thankfully it must not be used anymore. Callie noticed for the first time that Easy had sort of cozied up the stall. A thick, nest-like bed of hay had been formed, and a heavy Scottish wool blanket covered the whole thing. A maroon fleece Waverly blanket was balled up in a corner, presumably to lie down
under,
and a tattered copy of
The Great Gatsby
was lying facedown on the blanket.

“Were you
reading
?” Callie teased, trying to hide the fact that she was really moved by the way Easy had set up this space for her—for
them
. She shivered again, even though it was warmer inside than out. She couldn’t even hear the movie anymore.

“Nah.” Easy scratched his head, embarrassed. “I was just waiting for you.” Callie felt her resolve weaken, but not completely disappear. She crossed her arms across her chest and tried not to look straight at him, sort of like trying not to look straight at the sun. It was too painful. But then she noticed the three red roses, lying at the other corner of the blanket, as if waiting for her. “Why three?” she asked, a lump in her throat.

Easy coughed. “I don’t know. A dozen seemed … too corny.” He ran his hand through his unruly curls. “And one just seemed like not enough.” His eyes were lowered, and he peered up at Callie through his thick, dark eyelashes. She pictured him, standing in the stuffy little Rhinecliff florist’s shop, debating as to how many roses would be “enough.” That was so un-Easy-like.

She melted.
Easy
. Before he could do anything else, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His mouth met hers eagerly and she wrapped her fingers around the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Let’s lie down,” she murmured after a few intense minutes of kissing. They fell onto the wool blanket and Callie snuggled up against Easy’s long, lean body, wishing she weren’t wearing her bulky turtleneck. She just couldn’t get close enough to him—she wanted their skin to touch.

As if reading her mind, Easy toyed with the bottom of her sweater. “Can this come off?” In response, Callie sat up and kissed his neck, then slowly tugged the sweater up and over her shoulders, revealing her sheer pink Chantelle demi-bra with a tiny black tulip in the center.

She felt his breath against her skin. “Pretty,” he whispered, running his lips over her shoulders. His fingers trembled as they traced her collarbone.

“Hey, did your teacher like your painting?” she asked suddenly, sitting up to look at him. She started thinking of the last time she and Easy had kissed. It felt like so long ago when he had told her he loved her. He loved her. Easy Walsh loved Callie Vernon. Her flesh instantly goose-bumped, which she really hoped wasn’t a total turnoff. She wanted him to say it again. Things felt different now—right again, or even
more
right than before they’d broken up.

This was the way it was supposed to be, she thought, for your first time.

“What? Oh.” Easy rubbed his hand along her left arm. “Are you cold?” He grabbed the fleece blanket and threw it over them.

Callie shook off his hand impatiently. “She didn’t like it?” The sides of his mouth curled up into his familiar crooked grin. “She loved it. She wanted to know where I found such a beautiful model.” “Liar!” Callie put her hands on Easy’s shoulders and pushed him down to the blanket. “
Your
turn.” She pulled at the buttons on his flannel shirt impatiently. While just a few minutes ago she’d been thinking about running her face against it, now that wasn’t good enough—she wanted to touch his skin, to feel the warmth of his body against hers. He helped her push the buttons through the holes, feeling her urgency.

“Hey.” Easy stopped with his shirt and grabbed Callie’s chin gently, staring straight into her eyes. “What are we, uh, doing?” “Don’t make me spell it out.” She reached into her hip pocket and pulled out the shiny turquoise-and-silver package, slipping it into his hand in one smooth move.

Easy stroked her hair. “Really? You’re ready and everything?” She thought she’d never seen him look so happy before.

She pulled his shirt off his shoulders and pressed her ear to his chest, where she could hear his heart almost thudding through his skin. She’d never been more ready for anything in her life.

Brandon stood off to the side of the barn, sipping his beer and scanning the crowd for Elizabeth’s familiar blond head. No luck. He’d gotten her e-mail that she’d be late, but the movie was half over. Not that he was following it—no one was, really. Kids were lying on blankets, smoking cigarettes and drinking Heath’s crappy keg beer, huddled together ostensibly for warmth. The sight of all the cuddling couples made him miss Elizabeth even more. Who the hell wanted to watch goony Alan St. Girard, who could never be bothered to shave his nasty beard scruff, sucking face with sweet little Alison Quentin?

And then he saw her, standing over by the kegs, wearing the pleather motorcycle jacket she’d had on when he first saw her, a red pashmina wrapped around her neck. Brandon breathed a huge sigh of relief and took the first step over to her.

Except just as he did that, she leaned forward and touched the arm of the guy she was talking to. He could tell from the way her red-gloved hand flexed that she was giving him a squeeze. The same way she had once squeezed
his
arm.

And now she was doing it to Brian fucking Atherton. Brandon counted to twelve, as his father had always insisted on doing when angry, because “after twelve seconds, big things don’t seem so big.” Twelve seconds of watching Elizabeth lean closer and closer to that asswipe, tossing her head back with laughter, the white curve of her neck almost glittering in the moonlight. And all for Atherton, who was staring at her as if she were a Big Mac and he had the munchies. Brandon stormed over to them, not noticing whose blankets he stepped on. “Down in front,” someone called out. People giggled.

Suddenly, he stopped. What was he going to do, punch the guy out? He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of a dickweed like Atherton. He tried to remember what Easy had said to him. Give her space, and she’ll come to you. Brandon clenched his fists. He’d told her he’d give her space. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to change his mind twenty-four hours later.

He stalked over to the pair, still trembling with anger but determined not to show it. Elizabeth smiled when she saw him and waved a red-gloved hand at him. She looked so happy to see him. “Hey, babe!” She leaned toward him and planted a kiss on his cheek, leaving behind the smell of patchouli.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Atherton held up his palm for a high five, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face that seemed to say, “You think this is your
girlfriend
?”

Brandon ignored the high five and nodded toward the film projector. “I heard some freshman girls talking about you back there.” “No shit.” Atherton’s eyes scanned the crowd. “Were they hot?” “Yeah,” Brandon said sheepishly. “Back by the projector.” “Cool.” Atherton made a gun with his fingers and made a clicking noise with his mouth to pull the trigger. He leered at Elizabeth. “I’ll catch you cats later.” Elizabeth didn’t even watch him leave. Instead, she put her gloved hand on Brandon’s forearm and squeezed. Her other hand held a half-empty beer. “Good to see you, sexy.” Brandon could barely stand it. Did it really not matter to her that thirty seconds ago she’d been squeezing some other guy’s arm exactly like this? “Yeah, uh, you too. You look like you’re, uh, having a good time.” He tried to keep his tone light, but he couldn’t keep the bitterness from seeping in.

Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise, her cheeks rosy from the cold. “What does that mean?” Brandon rubbed his hand over his eyes, trying to make himself keep quiet. He couldn’t. “Atherton! He’s such a sleaze.” Elizabeth stiffened and quickly withdrew her hand from his arm. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Wait a second—are you mad at me? I was going to come and find you as soon as I finished my beer. What happened to Mr. Open?” “I know,” Brandon admitted, kicking the ground with the toe of his polished John Varvatos boot. “But I didn’t think that would mean having to actually
watch
you flirt with other guys.”

“So what
does
this mean, then?” Her eyebrows furrowed together in frustration, and Brandon could tell she was actually really surprised—and hurt—that he was acting this way. But there was really no other way he could act. As soon as Atherton had disappeared, so had all his bravado. That wasn’t what he wanted—to see the girl he was crazy about drooling all over someone else, and not be bothered by it? That was fucked up.

Brandon stuffed his cold palms into the pockets of his Rock & Republic jeans. “I guess it means Mr. Open is closed.” And he turned and walked away.

Brett leaned back, enjoying the feel of Kara’s fingers playing with her hair. Kara was sitting cross-legged on the thick cotton quilt Brett had brought to spread out, and Brett’s head was lying on a bunched up sweatshirt on her lap. Normally she would have been worried about how that looked, but she’d had a few beers by now and she didn’t care so much. Besides, Brett’s own hands were playing with Heath’s hair, who was lying contentedly on his side, his head resting against Brett’s flat stomach. There was something very soothing about the whole thing—of course it was totally weird how suddenly Heath was their good friend, but Brett had started to genuinely like him. He seemed totally sincere about keeping their secret, and it was kind of fun for the girls to pal around with him, leaving everyone else wondering what the hell was going on. It was a pretty convenient smoke screen, she had to admit.

Not that she liked feeling like she and Kara were fooling everyone. That wasn’t it. But it was important to keep their secret, well, secret. Things between them were so new still—Brett was trying to follow Jenny’s advice to just “go with it” and not overanalyze everything. She couldn’t do that if the whole world, or the whole Waverly population at least, was whispering about her.

Heath’s pocket vibrated and he pulled out his phone to read a text. “Ladies, I hate to leave you, but someone’s smoking something, and I need to be part of it.” He clearly had a hard time pulling his eyes away from them as he stood up. “Don’t do anything good without me. Or if you do, take pictures.” He kept his voice low so people around them couldn’t hear.

“Do you want me to get us some more beer?” Brett sat up and turned toward Kara once Heath had cantered off toward the cornfields.

The film flickered and cut to a day scene, lighting up Kara’s face. Brett could read from her expressive greenish-brown eyes that she was wondering if Brett was trying to avoid being alone with her in public. But all she said was, “Sure.” Under cover of the crumpled sweatshirt, Brett put her hand on Kara’s knee and squeezed gently. In a perfect world, she’d be able to lean in and kiss her right now, tasting her grapefruit lip gloss. Brett felt a deep ache in her stomach but ignored it and got to her feet. She looked down at Kara in her black turtleneck sweater and gray down vest from her mother’s athletic line of clothing. It was so weird to be looking at a girl and thinking about how badly she wanted to kiss her. “Be right back,” she promised.

Brett wove her way through the crowds of people sprawled out on blankets. The crowd watching the movie had thinned out a little, which was not surprising, as there seemed to be a multitude of other outlets for entertainment offered by the unsupervised, off-campus evening. How the hell had Tinsley managed to get this approved? And where
was
Tinsley, anyway? But Brett’s musings faded to the back of her mind as she noticed that people were sort of hushing one another as she approached. Were people …
talking
about her? Her face flushed immediately, but she managed to make her way over to the keg line gracefully enough.