Page 7

Chapter Six

Scarlett

I t’s been a weekend. First, that dinner with the Brauns on Thursday night. Then the championship football game and the party Friday, where Seb finally hit the wall. Essentially, his lies finally caught up to him, just like I warned him they would. But he needed a best friend, not an “I told you so”. So, I held his shattered soul together most of the weekend and did my best at damage control while he was at his worst. And now I’m wiped. And not thrilled that I have to start my day driving Dylan Braun to school. I feel like I need to be firing on all cylinders to deal with his brand of messed-up, and I’m barely firing at all.

I wait for him in my Mercedes coupe (red, of course) at the end of his driveway. The top of the car is up since the early November weather is too cool to be cruising along the ocean with it down. Which is too bad, because I’m all about the top down, tunes blaring, breeze in my hair.

I peer out the windshield at the Brauns' sprawling cedar-shingled house, just as the front door opens. Dylan emerges, all long limbs, tapered waste, and broad shoulders.

His blond hair is pulled up in a messy bun again and he’s wearing an outfit that can only be described as “rocker meets surfer dude”. Similar to his sister, he seems to have a way of throwing together a bunch of random clothing items that shouldn’t work together at all, but end up looking ridiculously cool. I bet he spent five minutes total throwing that ’fit together. I spent thirty minutes getting ready this morning, and that was rushing.

Beside him, Phil is leaning in, speaking intently. Dylan looks straight ahead, standard-issue bored expression in place. I’m halfway tempted to roll the window down so I can hear what they’re saying. I don’t, though.

They make their way down the front steps to the circular driveway, a few stray fallen orange and yellow maple leaves crunching under their feet. Dylan’s hands are shoved in his pockets. He toes the cobblestones with his worn sneaker as Phil rests a hand on his shoulder before stopping at the end of the drive. He says something and Dylan nods as he continues toward my car, eyes forward.

The passenger door opens just as I’m applying a coat of lip gloss. Dylan ducks, pausing as our eyes meet.

I almost forgot about the draw of those eyes. Beautiful, but also haunted. It’s like everything about him is a mix of contradictions. The fact that he’s tall—over six feet. But then looks younger than I expected; his skin tanned and baby-face smooth. Yet there’s also something about him that seems way older than his seventeen years, too. Possibly his general demeanor. Like nothing or no-one could ever take him by surprise or come close to penetrating the icy shell he seems to have shielded himself with.

I don’t even like the guy and I am halfway blinded by his stupidly beautiful features. Girls are going to go nuts over him. Like, they will full-on lose it. He has no idea how much action he is going to get if he wants it. That is, if he’s willing to let anyone get within ten feet of him.

He gives me an almost wary once-over. Not a reaction I’ve ever had from a guy before. Especially wearing this sweater. I look amazing in this sweater.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” I joke, capping the tube of lip gloss and tossing it back in the cupholder.

His eyes narrow a fraction, like he’s legitimately considering not getting in.

And what the hell is this guy’s deal with me? It’s the kind of reaction that makes me want to chip away at his seams, crack him open and see what spills out.

He eventually slides in without a word, dropping his backpack at his feet, then sits back and stares out the windshield, face blank again. Phil keeps standing there in the driveway with his hands in the pockets of his freshly pressed chinos, eyes on Dylan. He watches us pull out with one of those expressions again that is gutting. There is happiness… But also something else. Worry. Guilt. Possibly both. He stands there until he becomes just a dot in the rear-view mirror as I continue down Ocean Drive towards the end of our prestigious peninsula subdivision.

“Did he take one of those photos of you on the doorstep this morning, holding up a First Day of Grade Twelve sign?” I go for light-hearted. Because someone needs to lighten the mood here. It’s like car-pooling with the grim reaper.

“Huh?” Dylan looks at me like I just asked if he sleeps in the nude. And then I remember: kidnapped at three. Barely attended school. He has no idea about the suburban pre-requisite yearly elementary-school Facebook photo, wearing your first-day outfit, forced smile and crisp new backpack.

“Never mind.” I pull to a stop at an intersection and use the opportunity to sneak a glance at him again. Head against the headrest, turned to stare blankly out the window, he looks like he’s heading home at the end of an exhausting twelve-hour Friday night shift instead of less than an hour into a Monday morning. He looks like maybe he didn’t sleep a wink last night. Meaning he is stressed despite the “couldn’t care less” expression he insists on wearing all the time.

I throw him a glance. “Ready for your first day?”

“Sure.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is tied back again in that bandana thing, so the motion causes a bunch of wavy blond strands to come loose, falling randomly around his face. Not that he’s bothered by it. He doesn’t re-tie it or even tuck the stray locks behind his ears or anything. I hate that I’m holding back from doing it for him. Let him be a slob if that’s the first impression he’s settled on. It’s his social funeral.

Who am I kidding? Girls are going to eat up the whole “I’m ridiculously sexy and I literally don’t give a crap” thing he’s got going on.

“Sooo….” I try to think of something to talk about that won’t seem too intrusive. “Do you have your schedule already?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, yeah? Who do you have for math?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s what he does any time he isn’t sure how to respond to a question, I realize. Or just doesn’t want to answer, or if it makes him uncomfortable. He just ignores the question altogether. It’s a simple but pretty ingenious strategy, honestly. Also, really annoying.

“I know you heard me,” I say, conscious of not sounding bitchy; since it comes so naturally to me these days.

He sighs. “I don’t have anyone for math,” he says, his tone slightly irritated. Like it’s a huge bother to answer even a basic class schedule inquiry. His head is still angled towards the passenger window, so I just see a small vertical sliver of his face when I dart a look in his direction. And maybe that’s the safest way to take him in—in smaller sections like this. So I’m not slammed with the full force of all his perfect features at once.

“I know you have someone for math,” I tell him. “Everyone has to enroll in a math class… Even hotshot billboard models.”

I meant it to sound teasing, but it comes off snarky. Being nice is so much harder than I remember. He punishes me by withholding his response. Again. And I steal another glance. He’s still looking out the window. He runs his hand through his hair. More strands fall loose. This is going to quickly become a pet-peeve of mine, I can tell.

“Yeah, well, not me.” He tugs his hand through his hair. Again . This time, almost all his blond waves tumble around his chiseled face, and the bandana thing loosens. He wraps it around his hand and brings both arms up to tie his hair back in a gesture that’s smooth and obviously second nature to him, as he adds, “I’ve got a personal tutor for math… And English and Science.”

Ohhhh. I clamp my mouth shut. Now I get it.

And it isn’t news to me that Dylan has hardly been to school over the years, but I never considered how far behind that would put him academically, jumping straight into senior year. So, not only is he dealing with the whole “finding out his entire life’s been a lie”, and the new family, new town, new school, and a past that’s been sliced wide open, spread out and sifted through, then scavenged by the entire country— he’s also dealing with the kickback of an elementary school level education, at best.

I feel bad now for pushing.

I never feel bad for pushing.

“Makes sense,” is all I say, though. “Still, that blows.”

No response this time. He did just offer up two full sentences a second ago, though, so he’s probably still recovering from that. I drum my manicured fingers against the steering wheel. We’re stopped at the traffic lights at the intersection of Ocean Drive and Driftwood Way, right by the town center of Sandy Haven. The left side of the street ahead of us is lined with quaint pastel storefronts, restaurants and cafes fronted by wide patios all the way down, overlooking the boardwalk across the street and the wide sandy beach and ocean beyond that. In the summer, the patios are jammed with parasol tables and thousands of tourists and summer residents. Now they’re dotted instead with bales of hay and clusters of pumpkins or corn husks and stuff. Farther down, closer to Hooks, the town has set up a small maze out of bales of hay that little kids can drive through on little ride-on cars. And in a few weeks, they’ll set up a Christmas market and ice sculptures and a throne made of ice where Santa sits for photos on weekends.

I glance over at Dylan, taking in the scrapes on his cheek that are almost healed now but still a contrast against his chiseled profile. He’s staring steadfastly out the window, lost in thought. I can’t imagine what’s going on behind those stoic steel-green eyes—if he lets himself think about what this place would look like to him if things hadn’t happened the way they did.

There’s suddenly a loud thwack! on my side window, and I screech, jumping back in my seat. Dylan jolts, eyes wide. "Mother fu—."

Before he has time to finish his colorful retort, a huge, tanned palm lands against my window. And a second later, Seb Murdoch’s grinning face appears beside it as he crouches down.

“Shit, Seb! You scared the hell out of me!” I check my rear-view mirror, then the light, which is still red, and then quickly glance around.

His black Jeep is parked diagonally just outside Mallard’s Convenience.

I put the window down. “What the hell are you doing here? I’m at a freakin’ traffic light! I could have—”

“Relax.” Seb grins, leaning back to peer at the road, then back at me. “Don’t get your knickers all in a knot. There’s no one behind you.” Then his eyes flicker to Dylan. “Oh, hey.” Seb looks mildly bashful. “Didn’t realize there was anyone else in the car… Sorry if I freaked you out.” His lips quirk into a genuine smile. “Seb, by the way.” He does one of those chin thrust things guys do as a greeting.

“Oh? He gets an apology?” I interject. “And I get the mild heart attack?”

“So dramatic, Thiels.”

“So ugly, Murdoch.”

He grins wider, popping his dimple. “… Lies.”

I cave and relinquish a smile. It’s what he’s really after. “This is Dylan, by the way,” I gesture with my chin towards my silent passenger. “Dylan—Seb.”

“Good to meet you, man,” Seb squats lower so he can stick his head a little farther inside to address Dylan. “First day?”

“Yeah.”

Seb’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “What the hell did you do to get stuck carpooling with Scarr?” One side of his grin curls a little higher to match the arched eyebrow. “’Cos that’s a harsh welcome to Sandy Haven, man.” He pulls back, grinning wildly as he dodges the smack I aim at his forehead. “I swear we’re not all as intense as Scarr, here.”

“Shut up, Seb. No one asked for—”

“Some of us actually even smile sometimes,” Seb finishes, backing out of my reach.

And Dylan sort of reacts. I mean, not a smile. Never that. But he does a kind of double-nod thing.

“Hang tight for a sec, ’kay?” Seb glances up at the now green light, then back at me. “Can you pull over? I have something for you.”

He doesn’t even wait to see if I’m going to wait for him, and jogs back to his Jeep. I pull over on the wider stretch of road alongside the boardwalk, and Seb’s already back by the time I put the car in park. He crouches, stretching his arm inside the window, brandishing a Rusty Hook takeout cup. “Figure I owe you.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to the milkshake he stole from me on Thursday evening or the fact that I provided round-the-clock damage control all weekend, while he was at his worst. Either way, a milkshake first thing in the morning is a rare and wonderful thing. I lean forward and peer inside the cup, then take the token peace offering.

“It’s mint chocolate chip,” Seb says.

“Well, I would freakin’ hope so.”

He laughs at that. None of my barbs ever come close to piercing his ego. Which is the way I like it. I’m snarky with Seb all the time, but I’d never want him to think I actually mean it.

I study my best friend more closely. He looks better than he did on the weekend, but still not back to his regular self. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks are more flushed than usual. Thankfully, I’m almost positive everything that went down this weekend gave him a harsh enough scare that he’s been jolted into opening up to Caroline. And I’m counting on Caroline to bring his parents up to speed now. Ironically, dorky wall-flower Caroline Heinz has way more backbone than I do. I never could bring myself to go against Seb’s wishes and tell his parents what’s been going on with him.

I take a sip of milkshake. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to go grovel to?”

“Already on it,” he says. “We talked last night… Kissed and made up. I’m officially forgiven.”

“You’re officially an idiot,” I tell him. “And a lucky bastard. I would have dumped your ass after the bullshit you pulled.” I take another long sip.

Seb has the good sense to look bashful, at least. “You want me to say you were right?” His eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline. Then he does an abbreviated version of a shrug, given the confined space. “You were right, Scarlett Thiels… I should have listened to you.”

“You should always listen to me.” I twist the milkshake into the cupholder. “Your general life skills are maybe a three out of ten. Mine are a solid nine.”

Seb steps forward and reaches his muscular football-throwing arm through the window again, removes the milkshake, and less than a second later, he’s pulled back and casually slurping from the pale teal straw. He swallows. “Just for that, I’m taking back my gracious gift.”

He takes a few long strides backward, peering over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. “I’ll see you losers at lunch.” He glances back our way, flashing a final signature Seb Murdoch grin. “Or in history, if Abbott doesn’t lock the door on me again.” And with that, he turns and jogs back to his Jeep.

I put the car in drive. “So… that was Seb Murdoch,” I tell Dylan as I pull back out onto the road. “He’s… well, Seb is Seb.” Then after a second, I feel the need to add, “He’s a good guy. You can trust Seb.”

Annnd… Nothing. Not even a one-word response.

“So?” I take another stab at being nice. “You want the lowdown? The dos and don’ts of SH Prep?” I jerk to a stop at another red light.

“Sure.” He shrugs. So enthusiastic.

“Well, you’ve got your standard cliques,” I tell him. “Your nerds, your jocks and cheerleaders, your sporty girls… your standard fare hipsters, band kids, then theater kids and theater techies.” I dart a look in his direction. “Those are two separate groups, by the way—the theater kids and the theater techies. Apparently, they hate it when you clump them together. Not that I’m guessing you’ll be jumping to audition for the spring musical or anything, so… yeah, probably not pertinent information for you.”

I wait for a possible grunt of humor. No idea why. I get nothing, of course.

I continue. “Jocks rule the school, especially the football players. Cheerleaders are popular by association, sadly. Dark ages and all that. But the sporty girls are right up there, so there’s some progress, at least.” I pause, checking to see if Dylan is even paying attention.

His gaze stays fixed out the window.

I forge on. “Theater kids keep to themselves, but everyone loves the musicals. Band geeks are basically invisible. Student council members think they run the school, but they don’t. By a long shot.” I make a turn on Mariner’s Drive. “Ok. Teachers. Don’t cross Mrs. Hendricks in homeroom, she’s evil. Mr. Garza is crazy strict, but fair. And don’t ever show up late for Mr. Abbott’s history class. He locks the door.”

Dylan gives a slight nod. I’m not sure if he’s listening or just humoring me at this point.

“You don’t exactly give off big joiner vibes,” I continue. “So, I’m going to assume you’re okay if I skip the whole extra-curricular spiel.” I take his silence as assent and carry on. “Last thing: the dining hall. The food is amazing, but everyone likes to complain about it. Tradition or something. As for seating, it’s not like in the movies where the entire room screeches into sudden silence if someone dares to venture out of their paddock or whatever. Basically, no one cares much if you mingle.”

I glance at him again, because this next one’s important. “Sit by yourself on your first day, and it’s social suicide.” I pause, letting my words sink in and take root. “In your case, potential legitimate suicide, since you risk getting suffocated by a swarm of Volt fangirls if there aren’t a bunch of people around to buffer the rush.”

Another check-in, but he still isn’t reacting. Tough crowd.

“If you’re looking for a general dining hall seating lay-of-the-land, though: nerds and goths tucked in the back corner, smart kids and theater kids are by the windows. And the popular kids in the center.”

“That where you sit?” he asks, shocking me because—wow—an actual question! Blow me the frick over.

“Yeah, I sit in the center.”

“Figures,” he scoffs, totally condescending, still staring out his window. He literally doesn’t even bother to look at me while he’s being a jerk.

God, he’s a piece of work. I bite my tongue. Keep from saying any number of retorts already formulating in my head and instead press play on one of my playlists, turning up the volume. The rest of the drive goes by without another spoken word.

When we pull into the school parking lot, Dylan’s hand is on the door handle before I’ve even come to a full stop. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and unfolds his tall frame from the seat, stepping out and slamming the door without a word. He strides towards the main school building like he’s been here a hundred times before and knows exactly where he’s going.

Just over his right shoulder, I watch as a whole slew of girls hanging out on the steps of the main school building perk up the moment they notice him approaching—already moving in to smother and adore him. Like they’ve been standing watch, waiting for the arrival of the infamous Dylan Braun.

Dylan falters. Just barely. Then continues undeterred, swerving his path in order to avoid them. Not even glancing in their direction. The girls all turn to each other, eyes wide, practically bouncing and mouthing variations of “holy shit, it’s him” and “ ohmygod,” and “he’s even more beautiful in person”.

They’re not wrong. They also have no idea what they’re in for.

Dylan saunters up the steps, lifting a muscular arm to haul the door open, then disappears inside, totally oblivious to the fact that he just fueled the flames even more, just by being so … him.