Page 2 of Try Me
Chet merged with the shadows, moving in long, sure strides until I could no longer distinguish him from the trees.
The punch grew sweeter with every sip until it became too much, and I chugged the rest just to be done with it. Someone cranked up the stereo, and Beyoncé blasted around me, conversation rising in volume to compete. The blue glass surface of the pool gleamed invitingly, heat lamps flickered at intervals around it, and I knew people would be splashing around before long, despite the cold.
Fuck it. I tossed my empty cup on a table, stuffed my hands in the pockets of my Maple Hall hoodie, and started down the path toward the pond. The voices behind me congealed into an anonymous clump of sound. The darkness melted around me, then receded the closer I got to the dock, where a few lampposts strung along it pushed out weak yellow light.
Not seeing anyone on it, I scanned the shoreline before turning around to gaze back at the house. Maybe Chet left. MaybeIshould leave. Because I definitely wasn’t feeling it tonight. Not the girls, not the booze, not even the camaraderie of my teammates. There was no reason for me to be in such a sour mood. We’d won the game. I didn’t have any tests looming, and without a doubt I could walk back to the party, slide an arm around Erin’s waist, and get laid. But there I was, having a nonspecific emo moment while staring at the back of Kacey Holcomb’s mansion.
Off to my left, a faint orange glow flared, then faded.
I headed toward it, catching a whiff of pungent smoke as I went—the good stuff, not the skunky dime-bag schwag that usually circulated the hallways and got stuffed into pockets between classes.
I found Chet sitting on the ground between a stand of trees, knees angled close to his body, forearms dangling over them, a joint pinched between thumb and forefinger. The deft flick of his middle finger sent a shower of sparks raining toward the ground as I stopped in front of him. An ember lit on the toe of my sneaker, glowing hot and dying quickly on the damp fabric. Totally intentional, I was sure. Chet had mad technical skills and wicked precision; I’d watched enough tape to know and had seen it in action plenty of times. Not to mention I’d been next to him on the court when he first started honing his talent back in middle school.
My glory days as a letterman would end with the toss of my graduation cap in May, but Chet might still be able to make something of basketball in college. Or so I’d heard.
“Kick rocks, Farrow,” he growled, gaze tracing an upward path from my knees to my face.
I snorted, undeterred, and plopped down onto the leaves beside him. “Kick rocks, huh?”
“Fuck off works, too. Thought I’d mix it up a little. See if the softer touch would work on a good boy like you.” He sneered, but it wasn’t full-blown. More like a watered-down impression of antipathy. Like he couldn’t be bothered.
“You’re stoned.”
He separated his finger and his thumb. “Tiny bit. Mostly just buzzed.” He said it soberly enough, though.
“Uh-huh. And where was that ‘softer’ touch when you full-body checked me on the court tonight?”
“That was a love tap,” he deadpanned. “Funny the ref only caught the time I didn’t actually do shit.” He picked something from his lips, and I got stuck watching the gesture. I was used to seeing that generous mouth drawn in concentration, or in the frequent snarls he served up on the court when he was deep in game mode, ever the relentless competitor. I remembered other things, though, from years back: teasing half-smiles. Grins. The dimple when he laughed. “But we both knew it’d go down that way, huh?” The venom in his voice seeped into the damp air around us.
“It was a bullshit call,” I agreed. “How’s your dad?” Even mentioning him constricted the air in my lungs.
“Fuck my dad,” Chet spat, then huffed out a gusty breath that was somewhere between a sigh and frustration. “How’s yours? He enjoying the great toilet flush of Silver Ridge? Bet he has box seats to it, yeah? A big fat tub of popcorn. A butler to pick up the kernels he spits out.” I winced as he drew from the joint again, held the smoke, and exhaled in an opaque whoosh that surrounded me in sweetly acrid plumes. “I’m sure they’ll charge him.”
“Shit. That sucks.” My gut tightened. This was what was wrong with me, I thought. Sympathy. Or empathy. I could never remember the difference. My dad probably would’ve said both were useless. My reaction kind of stunned me, though. Since freshman year of high school, our interactions had been limited to our on-court rivalry and the occasional competitive jibe at parties like this one.
“Guess it was nice while it lasted.” Chet shrugged, then blew at a strand of hair. Since he wasn’t looking at me, I gazed my fill, drinking in the dark ends of his hair that went wayward near his temple and scythed across his sharp cheekbones. He used to have the same haircut I did, the one I’d basically had my entire life: trimmed on the sides, a little loose on the top, but neat. It shouldn’t have bothered me that I couldn’t remember when he changed the style. But it did.
“Seriously,” he said, with more force behind the words this time. “Get out of here. I’m not in the mood.”
“Party’s loud. It’s nice and quiet down here.” I dug the heel of my Nike into the leaves and the damp muddy scent of them rose around me.
“Yeah, you don’t think that Suit will find it interesting that you’re down here talking to me?”
“He seemed happy in his car with his magazine and coffee.” I’d noticed the agent when I’d arrived at Kacey’s earlier. It was kinda hard not to, given the make of the car and the older man sitting quietly inside, gaze trained on the house. “What, do they think you’re gonna try to sneak your dad out or something?”
“Something like that, maybe. Who fucking knows?” He paused for another toke. “How about your dad?”
“How about my dad, what?”
“What would he think about you talking to me?”
I glanced at Chet sidelong, because that was a sore subject and Chet probably knew it, but his attention remained fixed straight ahead. “He’s not here, far as I can tell.”
“How about that Erin girl?”
“How about her?”
“Aren’t you seeing her?”