“Actually,” Emmett starts, “I’m kind of worried about Emi. She just left all her stuff at the top of a cliff, including her car keys, with a bunch of people she barely knows. And you know how she gets with alcohol around . . .” He trails off, leaving me to fill in the rest. Emi’s not the most responsible person we know, and I’ve had to cover for her more than once.
I should stay here with Emi, but can I really face all those people again? Can I really deal with Pink Shorts’ intimidating gaze for the rest of the night? I visibly deflate. “Yeah, you’re right. We should stay.”
“Hey, that guy we were talking to, Eric, lives about a block from me,” Emmett says with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure he won’t mind if we catch a ride home. You go ahead.”
I was angry before, but Emmett’s charitable pity makes me bite my lip to stop myself from crying. He knows I don’t want to be here anymore, and he’s giving me an out. It makes me feel even more pathetic than I usually do.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Ask him if it’s okay and text me. I’ll wait if it’s not.” But it will be okay, because Emmett will make it okay; that’s the kind of guy he is.
“Want us to walk you to the car?” Kalani asks, handing me my purse. I’m grateful she grabbed it from where we were sitting, or I would’ve been forced to go back to get it, and that would’ve been mortifying.
Even from the middle of the trail, I can hear shouting and splashing. The sun is setting, and the air is colder.
“No, go back and talk to Eric. I’ll be fine.” And I want to be alone. I want to get home and cuddle with my dog, Kevin, who’s never pitied me or judged me or tried to throw me off a cliff.
“Are you sure?” Emmett frowns, but I’m already stepping backward toward my car.
“Yes, have fun! Text me.”
I make it back to my car in record time, just as my phone pings with a message from Kalani informing me that Eric agreed to drive them home. I don’t even bother putting my shoes back on—the bottoms of my feet are disgustingly dirty now anyway—and I pop my address in the GPS. The entire ride home, even though it’s the absolute last thing I want to do, I think about Pink Shorts, and all the insults I’ll hurl at him if I ever see him again.
Two
Saturday mornings in my house are always the best because that’s when my dad tries out new recipes. My house smells like freshly baked goods, and today, mouthwatering sugared strawberry lingers in the air.
“What are you making and why don’t I have a slice yet?” I ask Dad as I sit at the kitchen island.
He’s stirring something over the stove as he sends me an amused glance. Dad has hazel eyes, like me, but his are a smidge greener, and his hair is a deep brown. I get my lighter brown hair and height from Mom.
“It’s not ready yet,” he reprimands with a smile as he stirs. “Strawberries will be in season soon, so I’m trying to perfect our strawberry pie recipe before offering it at the bakery.”
My parents own one of the largest fresh bakery chains in the Greater Toronto Area. They started with a small store about ten minutes from where we live now, and the business has been expanding ever since. Dad is the genius behind the recipes, and Mom takes care of the corporate side of things. She’s the reason why they’re thriving and keep expanding; Dad’s content with simply hiding in the kitchen. They make a great team, and their hard work pays off. The bakeries are always busy, and the customers are going to multiply tenfold now that it’s spring and summer’s just around the corner.
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” I reassure him, trying to peek into the pot to see if it’s something I can sample.
“Don’t you have to get ready for work? Shoo!” He doesn’t like being bothered before the final product, throwing random stuff into the pot without measuring. I have no idea how the result is always so good when he makes it up as he goes along.
“Yes,” I say begrudgingly, crossing into the family room. “But there better be a slice with my name on it when I get back!”
He laughs, but I know he’ll save me a slice even if he decides he doesn’t like the recipe. In the family room, Mom sits on the couch, her laptop on the coffee table in front of her. Kevin is curled up beside her, sleeping the morning away.
“Hey, honey. How was last night? I didn’t hear you get in,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I plop down beside her on the leather couch, and Kevin ambles onto my lap. She’s only fifteen pounds, so her fluffy weight is comforting. The windows are open, letting in the fresh early morning breeze and making the couch slightly cooler than normal.
“All right, I guess.” I pet Kevin’s brown-and-white coat to avoid Mom’s gaze. It was not all right. It was terrible: I embarrassed myself in front of everyone, and I met a jerk whose name I don’t even know.
Mom lowers her laptop screen to focus on me. “What happened?”
I am not admitting to my mother that a hot jerk almost threw me off a cliff. “Nothing. It was a usual night out.”
She presses her lips together. “Just you, Emi, and Kalani?”
“And Emmett and Daphne.”
“Hmm.” She studies me. “They’ve been bringing their partners out an awful lot.”
Squirming under her glare, I study the ends of my hair. I hate when she goes all analytical on me. One comment makes me spill my guts even though there are some things you just shouldn’t tell your mother. “I’m just happy they’re still inviting me out on their couples’ nights.”