Page 4

Chapter Fou r

Xavier

PAST (Fall, Senior Year)

" H ere you go, buddy." I hand Finn the pool rack. "Make sure they're tight."

"I know how to do it." He balances on his tiptoes, tongue poking out as he arranges the balls with pro-level precision. "I've done this like a hundred times."

Bass thrums through the mirrored walls of the Smoking Room, rattling the velour couches and sending ripples through every surface. My mother designed this place after visiting some fancy British manor, but with her weird-ass taste, there's nothing British or classy about it. If Versailles and a Vegas casino had an unhinged love child, this room would be it.

Mason chalks his cue. "Kid's got skills. Unlike his big bro."

I flip him off and lean into the table, lining up my shot. Two stripes sink clean. The crack of impact barely registers over the rumble of music and voices. The space stretches at least eighty feet, packed with the usual hundred or so people.

The music shifts, the crowd near the bar erupts—probably another round of shots celebrating our win. Post-game parties are always wild, but tonight is next level since we advanced to the state championship this evening, for the first time in seventeen years.

I grip my cue, aiming for a tricky bank shot, then freeze.

A shock of familiar pink hair catches the light from an overhead chandelier. Maggie LeClair. The Welsford counselor who gave me shit about picking up Finn that time at the beginning of the summer. She’s laughing with Jackie Delaney, totally at ease.

What the hell is Maggie doing here? She made it pretty clear she hates my guts.

Then I remember Seb’s bet with Caroline—two weeks without detention, and she'd come to a Titans game, with Maggie in tow. Somehow, he pulled it off. Dude’s got it bad for his tutor. Personally, I don’t get the appeal. Caroline Heinz seems high-maintenance, but what do I know? I’ve never fallen for a girl and don’t plan on it. I do know enough to realize a girlfriend situation is a bad idea for a guy like me, though. Girls see me as a good time and a free-access no-limit bank account. Best to keep things light and brief. No pretences plus no commitments plus no expectations equals zero disappointments. Simple math.

Finn tugs at my T-shirt. "Can I try?"

"Sure." I hand him my cue, lifting him so he can reach. "Nice and steady, remember?"

He sinks a solid red and beams like he struck gold. "Did you see that?"

"Looking pro." I ruffle his hair, catching another glimpse of Maggie laughing at something Jackie said.

Mason sinks the two-ball, then misses his next shot, but I’m barely watching.

"The pink-haired chick," Mason follows my gaze. "She from Ocean Heights?"

"Yeah."

He raises an eyebrow. "You know her?"

"Nope." I line up my shot, trying to focus on the game instead of how Maggie’s nose crinkles when she laughs. Three-ball down. Then another two stripes.

I’m about to go for the eight ball when a pair of arms wrap around my waist from behind.

Piper Shen. I don’t even have to turn around—I recognize the fruity scent of her perfume.

"Hey, Pipes." I lean into my shot, her body shifting with mine, arms still locked around my stomach.

"Hey, Xaaaave. "

She’s drunk. Piper’s the mellow kind, though—loose-lipped, clingy, draping herself across couches and, apparently, me. Sort of like a human weighted blanket, but drunk and with better hair.

I sink two more balls.

"Mad skills, Xave," she purrs, cheek pressed between my shoulder blades. But my focus drifts back to Maggie. And I’m not the only one watching her. She’s not the kind of girl you can ignore. There’s just something about the way she moves—like she owns the whole damn room.

Another thing about Maggie that's hard to ignore? Her eclectic wardrobe choices. Tonight it's a particularly memorable pairing of super baggy bright green pants with a yellow stripe down each leg with a cropped graphic print pastel pink tee, and several sparkly barrettes in her strawberry milkshake pink hair. She looks like someone put the Muppets in charge of a fashion line. And it kinda works.

She glances my way, and for a split second, our eyes meet—just as Piper’s hands slide up my abs to my chest, fingers curling into my T-shirt.

Maggie rolls her eyes and looks back at Jackie. And what the hell is her deal, anyway? No girl has ever reacted to me the way she does, and honestly, it irks me a little. Sets me on edge and makes me want to either piss her off or make her smile; I can't decide which.

I refocus, sinking the eight ball.

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner!" Finn squeals.

Piper’s grip falls away as I straighten and high-five my little bro.

"You wanna go again?" Mason asks, chalking his cue.

"You guys go ahead." I hand Piper my stick and lift Finn onto the table in front of Mason. "Here. Give Mace a few pointers—think he could use the help."

Mace flips me off, and I chuckle, grabbing my drink before weaving through the crowd. The cheerleaders are mid-routine on the makeshift dance floor, laughing their asses off. One hooks an arm around my shoulder, dragging me in. I go with it, sipping my drink with one hand, the other tucked in my pocket. The bass vibrates through the floor, the girls’ squeals ringing in my ears. Sensory overload—equal parts annoying and comfortingly familiar .

I finally break free from the dance floor and spot Maggie leaning against an ebony and gold claw-footed credenza, sipping soda. She doesn't look like she's uncomfortable being alone surrounded by a bunch of people who are most likely strangers to her.

This girl. Man, I don't know what to make of her. Think I'd find her kind of intriguing; maybe a refreshing brand of cool, if she didn't have such a crater-sized chip on her shoulder.

I take my chances and head over. She looks less ready to bite my head off than she did at the Kid's Club or the bonfire. I think.

"Question…" Figure I'll meet her halfway between small talk and mild antagonization. "Do they come in different colors, or just your run-of-the-mill khaki?"

I lean beside her, and her eyes narrow, like she's already figured out ten different ways this conversation could annoy her.

"What?"

"The lobster pants." I take a sip from my drink. "You know, the ones you were so disappointed I wasn't wearing that day at the Welsford."

Her lips twitch. "Ah, the lobster pants. They come in a range of tastefully obnoxious shades—mint green, pastel yellow…" She shrugs. "Royal blue for those really daring prep school types."

"Fascinating." I rake my teeth along my lower lip, weirdly pleased she’s playing along. "And here I’ve been slumming it in basic jeans like a common peasant."

"God, how embarrassing." She blows out a breath. "Especially since someone of your status could totally pull off the limited edition dark salmon version I hear is all the rage."

The bass drops, the crowd erupts, but Maggie stays locked in, watching me like I’m some puzzle she doesn’t want to solve but can’t help studying anyway. Her eyes flick to my lips, my cheekbones—maybe she just thinks I’m hot.

Which, yeah—most likely scenario. Ninety percent sure she still hates my entire personality. Or my life circumstances. Same thing, as far as she’s concerned. As far as a lot of people are concerned, I've learned over the years.

Suddenly, Finn rushes over, crashing into Maggie and squeezing both her legs with his scrawny arms. "Maggie!" he squeals, nearly knocking her drink over. "You're at my house!"

Oh!" Her eyes widen and she leans down to hug him. "Hey Finn!"

He zips over to me, tugging at my belt loop. "Look who's here! It's Maggie from Kid's Club!"

"Yeah, buddy, I see that."

"Did you know she can make alien puppets from socks? Real alien puppets! And she knows how to talk like a pirate!"

"Huh." I chew the inside of my cheek, setting down my drink. "Fluent in pirate. Impressive." I aim a grin at Maggie, but she’s only got eyes for Finn. Nothing like watching your five-year-old brother have more game than you.

He leans his back into me, reaching his arms back to wrap around my legs, clutching at my pants to hold himself up as he leans his body out and then back. Out and back. Always in motion. Dude's only still when he's sleeping.

He cranes his neck up at Maggie as he keeps rocking back and forth. "What are you doing here, Maggie?"

Funny how kids think their teachers or counselors don’t exist outside of school or camp or whatever. I remember being the same way—like, why is Mrs. Litman buying fingerling potatoes at Hannaford’s? Poof! Mind. Blown.

Maggie crouches to his height. "I could ask you the same thing. It’s almost midnight, dude."

"I'm playing pool with Xave! I'm getting really good!"

She straightens, eyes locking onto mine, judgment creeping in. "Playing pool… at a high school party?"

"He’s fine," I drawl, steadying Finn as he stumbles. I hoist him onto my shoulders. "Right, buddy?"

"Right!" He shifts, getting comfortable, tiny fingers twisting my hair into tiny ponytails—his latest habit.

"He should be in bed," Maggie says, that Welsford edge back in her voice.

"He’s fine," I repeat, retrieving my drink and taking a sip.

"He’s five . "

"Which is why I only let him have one beer," I quip.

She doesn’t laugh. Which is disappointing. I was just starting to think the girl might actually have a sense of humor.

"Of course. Joking about a kindergartener drinking beer—at a party surrounded by drunk teenagers. Super mature, Rockwell."

Christ. She seriously doesn’t get sarcasm?

"Thanks for the unsolicited advice," I say evenly, as Finn's small fingers keep twisting my hair. "But think I've got things covered."

"Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re letting a five-year-old run wild at a party where half the football team is doing shots."

"And from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong." My voice stays level, but this girl is seriously pushing it. "Drop the counselor act. Summer’s over."

"It’s not an act. Go figure, I actually care about Finn."

"Right. Because watching him build sandcastles at a glorified playgroup makes you an expert."

"Seriously?" Her eyebrows lift and she makes this sort of huffing sound. "Well, at least I’m responsible enough to—"

"Hey, Finny," I cut her off, tugging on his ankle. "You want to go to bed right now?"

"No!" he squeals, fingers briefly pausing in my hair.

I quirk a brow at Maggie. "See?"

She exhales sharply. "Are you— seriously? You think asking a five-year-old if—"

I reach up to stop Finn from yanking too hard on my hair and cut her off. "Why are you always such a buzzkill? And so hung up on rigid rules about what people should or shouldn't do?"

"Why are you such an entitled, ignorant ass?" She slams her drink down, soda sloshing over the rim.

Finn pets my head, oblivious to the insults Maggie and I are flinging at each other. "Done! Now you look pretty."

"Thanks, dude." I fist-bump him. "What’s the damage? "

"Seven ponytails!" He sounds proud.

"Awesome."

He shifts, resting his chin on my head. "Can I have another Orange Crush?"

I lift him off my shoulders. "Sure. Go ask Seb." I nod toward the bar where Seb is standing, as I set him down.

"Kay. Bye, Maggie!" Finn darts off, curls bouncing.

I turn back to her. "You catch that? Orange Crush. Not a J?gerbomb."

"Nice," she deadpans. "So he's been mainlining sugar all night. No wonder he's still wired."

Christ. I cannot with this girl.

And she’s not done. "Where are your parents, anyway? Do they know Finn is—"

"Where are your manners?" I scoff. "You come into my home and you—you're just so judgmental. Christ."

She swallows, stepping back. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… It’s just really hard to see a five-year-old in this situation and not—"

"Still doing it," I point out, voice flat.

She shakes her head. "Letting him do whatever he wants, whenever he—"

"Look," I cut her off. "You don’t know a damn thing about my brother. Or about me." My voice stays level, but there’s an edge now. "So, if you want to play pool, or join a beer pong game, or if you want me to grab you another drink or something, cool." I down the rest of my Heineken. "But if you’re gonna keep shoving your opinions down my throat about how I handle my brother, then kindly just…" I crush the can, toss it into the antique jar on the credenza, and replace the lid. "…Fuck off."

She pushes off the side table. "Well, enjoy your bitchin’ party, Xavier Rockwell. And the meltdown you’ll have on your hands when Finn’s sugar crash hits in half an hour." She pauses, eyes flashing with mock realization. "Oh, wait. I guess ‘the help’ will handle that, won’t they?"

She stalks off before I can respond. Not that I have the words anyway .

And I take back what I said earlier. There is nothing intriguing or refreshingly cool about Maggie LeClair. She is pure annoyance and holier-than-thou judgment. My least favorite kind of person.