Broken Beautiful Hearts(8)

I look back at the apartment door, imagining Mrs. Michaels crying on the other side. Why isn’t he going back inside to apologize?

We get in Reed’s car and for a few minutes neither of us says a word. The houses get larger and more opulent the closer we get to the party.

Reed steals a glance at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier today.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.” He reaches over and rubs the back of my neck and smiles. “You got into UNC. That’s a big deal. I’m really proud of you.” His mood does a complete one-eighty, as if the scene back at the apartment never happened.

“Thanks.” I’m not sure how to react. Reed’s moods have been all over the place lately, but I’ve never seen him shake a bad one this fast.

“Like I said earlier, we’re gonna celebrate tonight.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I give him a weak smile.

“If you really want to celebrate, let’s go somewhere by ourselves. I’m not in the mood for a party.”

Reed frowns. “I need to get out of my head, you know?”

“And you can’t do that alone with me?”

“Sure. But sometimes it’s easier when there’s a lot going on. We can go out tomorrow night, though. Is that cool?”

It’s not cool. Not even a little.

But I’m not in the mood to argue. “Sure, whatever.”

“Don’t be mad.” He turns into Quail Landing, the wealthy neighborhood where high school students throw parties and let strangers trash their homes whenever their parents leave town.

“I’m not mad,” I lie. We talked about the offer from UNC for all of two minutes.

My perfect day doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.





CHAPTER 4

Little Black Box

THE FACT THAT I asked Reed if we could spend time alone tonight and we ended up at a kegger sums up the current state of our relationship.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Reed holds out a plastic cup. “It’s your night. We should toast your acceptance.”

“But you’re not drinking,” I say. He never drinks the night before a fight.

“I’ll toast with this.” He holds up the can of Coke he’s drinking.

“That’s okay. We can celebrate next week at Bourbon Steak.” It’s our favorite restaurant downtown. We made a reservation weeks ago just in case I had college news to celebrate.

“Is that next week?” he asks.

I know what’s coming. “Yes. On Thursday night. It will be nice to spend some time alone.”

He puts down the plastic cup. “About Thursday. I’m working late. But you can pick another night.”

“It took weeks to get a reservation. You can skip one night at the gym.”

“I wish I could.”

He’s bailing on me. Again.

“Forget it. I don’t want to go anymore.” I’m not trying to guilt Reed into changing his schedule. I mean it.

“I thought you’d be in a better mood tonight.”

“I was until you bailed on me for the tenth time.”

“Hi, you two.” Tess enters the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her hairline sweaty from dancing. She twists her hair into a knot, studying us. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I cross my arms and watch a guy beer-bong a six-pack.

“Peyton is pissed off because I wanted to come to the party,” Reed says.

Was he paying any attention to our conversation?

“I’m not pissed.” But I’m getting there.

“You look pissed,” Tess says.

“I’m annoyed, and it has nothing to do with the party.”

“Right.” Reed exhales loudly. “She’s mad because I can’t go to dinner on Thursday. I’ve gotta work.”

“You didn’t even remember we had plans.” When did I become the girl who begs her boyfriend for attention? And how fast can I get rid of her?

“That’s not—” he says, but I cut him off.

“I don’t want to argue. It’s one stupid dinner. It doesn’t matter.”

Reed’s phone pings and he reads the incoming text. “Hold on.”

Sure. Why not? It’s not like we were having a conversation or anything.

Reed wanders away from us, focused on whatever he’s typing. Without looking up, he holds up two fingers and says, “Give me two minutes.”

“More like twenty,” I say loud enough for him to hear.

If he was actually listening.

Tess nudges my shoulder with hers. “I know Reed is a pain in the ass sometimes, but tonight it’s not his fault. He’s always a little off after the Sperm Donor calls.”

She’s probably right, but over the last two months, making excuses for her brother has become Tess’ full-time job.

“It’s not about whether or not he loves me. Something is going on with him, and it’s not just the phone call. Something changed. He’s different.” I didn’t realize how much until I heard him yelling at his mom.

Tess stares at the floor.

“Whatever it is, go ahead and say it,” I tell her.