“I had fun celebrating,” she says when we reach the truck. I fish for my keys as she leans against it, staring at me like she’s lost in thought. “Thanks for celebrating with me. It means a lot.”
I slip my key into the passenger door and yank it open for her like her own personal coachman. “Hop on in. Let’s get you home.”
She doesn’t move. “I mean it, Jensen. Sometimes I think you’re the only person who actually gives a darn about me.”
I smile. Even when she’s drunk, she can’t bring herself to swear. Her hand lifts to my face, her fingertips tracing my jaw as her eyes narrow and attempt to focus on my mouth.
“That’s not true.”
“The way you look at me.” She exhales her words. “It’s different. No one else looks at me the way you do.”
I shrug. Sure, I think the world of her. She’s pretty much the only person I’ve ever known that I don’t completely dislike. But we don’t talk about how we feel about each other anymore, not since that first week when we both made it clear we shared a mutual attraction. Shit got weird, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since we got past that.
“You’re imagining things. Get in.”
“Am I?” She still won’t move. “Am I imagin-in-ing-ing it, Jensen?”
She’s had too much to drink. Her filter is loose, if not missing altogether. She’s speaking whatever’s on her mind, and she’s going to regret it tomorrow. I opt not to engage in this drunken conversation in lieu of getting her home safely.
The second we pull up to the main house, I make sure the lights are out and Mark Miller’s not lurking in the shadows somewhere. She’s passed out beside me, her head pressed against the condensation-covered glass of the passenger window. The coast is clear, so I climb out, grab Waverly, hoist her over my shoulder like a rag doll. Inside, I quietly carry her upstairs, where I deposit her gently into her bed.
She stirs slightly, then makes a faint humming sound as she breathes. “Jensen?”
She’s awake.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
“Now will you kiss me?”
She’s drunk. She’s just saying that. She doesn’t mean it.
Fuck, do I want to kiss her.
But that ship has sailed.
Not that I haven’t thought about it every single day since I’ve lived here.
Besides, she won’t remember it in the morning, and I won’t forget, and that’ll be a problem for me.
***
“We’re having company over for dinner tonight.” I overhear Jane talking to Bellamy and Waverly in the kitchen as they prepare breakfast the next morning. Fridays usually mean cinnamon French toast and scrambled eggs. This place is a tightly run ship with intricate routines and a careful balance of customs and schedules.
Company?
I’m surprised they’re having someone over given the fact that they live their lives in secrecy. Must be another poly person.
Summer labors over a hot skillet, minding her own business. It’s like she’s not even there.
“Please wear your Sunday best,” Jane says. I glance over to see her pointing to both her daughters.
Why would they need to dress up for a Friday night dinner?
“Should I dress up too?” I interject facetiously from across the room where I’m finishing up some homework before breakfast. Three sets of eyes dart toward me.
“I can’t make it tonight,” Bellamy says casually. “Work thing.”
“You didn’t mention that before. And it’s not on the family calendar. You’ll have to reschedule it.” Jane says it in such a way that Bellamy doesn’t bother arguing. “Our guest is coming from out of town. Your attendance is mandatory, and Waverly, why on Earth do you look so tired this morning? You feeling okay?”
“Are you going to tell us who’s coming?” Waverly asks, blinking bloodshot eyes. She massages her temples as soon as her mother looks away.
“Your father will talk to you this evening.” Jane leaves it at that, walking off to set the table.
Tonight must be when they drop the bomb on Waverly about her college plans, but why would they do that with company coming over?
This family is so fucking weird.
CHAPTER 18
WAVERLY
“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” Bellamy’s somber words send a chill down my spine, settling the anxiety that’s been coursing through my body all day into a pool of liquid nerves.
We’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror. I’m curling my hair and she’s slicking on a couple coats of mascara. Conservative dresses cover our bodies. She leans forward, turning her head from side to side and then up and down as she inspects her lashes.
“No, I don’t. Care to enlighten me?” I run my fingers through my warm curls, breaking them into loose waves.
Bellamy, normally a vision of coolness, is shaking like a poodle.
“No, I’m asking,” she says. “You know what’s going on?”
“Of course not,” I huff.
“Something’s up.” She clicks her blush compact open and grabs a brush, taking her sweet time as if she’s trying to prolong the inevitable.
“Obviously.”
“Last-minute dinner guest. Us being told to look good.”
“Maybe it’s someone from the UAB? Dad’s always trying to get on their good side. They don’t like that he left the old community and moved us all out here.”
Mom always said he didn’t like being financially dependent on the UAB back in Scottsbluff, and when he found a pharmacy for sale here, he jumped at the opportunity. They didn’t like that, and he’s been trying to redeem himself ever since.
“Could be a friend from work?” I suggest. “Maybe he’s just being sociable? I heard there are secret poly families all over Whispering Hills.”
Bellamy clicks her compact shut and turns to me. “Stop being so naïve, Waverly. He’s trying to marry us off.”
I resent her tone. “You don’t know that.”
“It’s the only logical explanation.”
“Dad wouldn’t do that. I just got into Utah. I’m going to college in a couple months.” My heart breaks for my sister. If she is right, she’s way more likely to be married off than me.
She turns to her reflection, her shoulders tensing as she grips the ledge of the counter.
“I thought you wanted to get married soon?” I say. “You’re almost twenty-two. You’re done with school. Aren’t you just waiting for—”
“No.” Without any further explanation, she exits the bathroom.
As the oldest of the family, Bellamy carries a great burden. She’s to set an example, be a shining image of perfection in our father’s eyes. She’s supposed to set the precedence and we’re all supposed to follow it.
The hard knot in my stomach tells me life as we know it is about to change.
Several slow, intentional steps carry me downstairs to where my mothers are preparing a feast fit for Christ’s second coming. That, coupled with the fact that Bellamy and I were excused from kitchen duty so we could get dressed up, tells me my sister’s suspicions might be founded.
Dad leads the younger kids in from the family room, and Jensen struts down the steps a moment later. I take my usual seat, twirling the stem of the iced tea glass between my thumb and forefinger.
Stiff silence fills the air. No one dares to speak.
There’s an extra chair between where my mother and father usually sit. A cool sweat glazes over me. I try to tell myself that Bellamy got me all worked up. That this could be nothing. It all might be in our heads. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if my father was going to marry one of us off, it’d be Bellamy. She’s ready. She’s smart and pretty and she can cook and sew. She’s great with kids.
I continue listing off all the reasons Bellamy would make a better wife than me, but then I remember her face in the bathroom. She doesn’t want to be married.
But neither do I.
I’m not ready.
The doorbell rings, sending my heart galloping like a runaway horse. Dad rises from the table and heads to the foyer. A second later I hear voices—both male. I watch, breath suspended, for them to emerge from around the corner.