3Shay
“Oh gosh, I’m so nervous,” Tracey spat out as we stood on Landon’s front porch the day of his party.
Me.
On Landon’s porch.
For a second, I thought about retreating. I considered turning on the heels of my sneakers and waiting for the next party at someone else’s house the following week. I hadn’t been able to shake this weird feeling in my gut since I decided to attend the party. I also couldn’t stop thinking about his breakdown the day of the funeral. Just standing on his front porch took me back to that day in late October.
The intimate moment of our momentary slip in hatred was so vibrant in my mind, I swore it felt as if it had just happened the day before. I saw Landon’s deep-blue eyes swimming in the sea of his sadness, I felt his body tremble against my touch, and I felt his pain, so raw and unfiltered. He’d been the complete opposite of how Landon presented himself to the public. He always seemed so unbothered by the world, as if he was in it but not a part of it. He was cocky, cool, calm, and collected, as if nothing and nobody could or would ever bother him. That night, as I sat on his bed with my arms wrapped around him, I saw his heart, and it bled just like everyone else’s did.
It might’ve even bled a little bit more than most people’s.
“How do my boobs look?” Tracey asked, snapping me from my thoughts.
Tracey hadn’t stopped talking about the party or Reggie since the day she found out there was going to be a party the two of them could attend together. Tracey was convinced she did her best flirting at house parties. She preferred low lighting, loud music, and tequila.
Tequila mostly.
I laughed. “If I were Reggie, I’d definitely steal a few glances.”
Tracey combed her hair behind her ears. “OK. OK. He’s just a guy. It’s not like he’s the hottest person to ever exist. There’s no need to put this much pressure on the situation, but then again, if I don’t put pressure on it, then maybe he’ll think I don’t like him, and well, that’s the opposite of the idea I want to give him, and, and, and—”
“Tracey,” I cut in. “Just be yourself. If that’s not enough, screw Reggie. There are other guys in this world.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Guys are throwing themselves at you daily, Shay. Not everyone was born freaking flawless.”
I didn’t respond to her comment, because Tracey always said stuff like that, and it always left me feeling weird. I was blessed with my mother’s genetics. Mima called it our Martínez gift. Dad always joked that Mom had me all on her own, and there were only drops of him in me.“That’s definitely my earlobe,”he’d comment.“And no lie, that’s my left ring finger.”
I had Mom’s deep-brown eyes and her full lips. My hair was curly and charcoal black, and my body had the same curves as my mother’s.
Tracey and I walked into the party, and I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I’d done it. I’d crossed the entrance into Satan’s den and lived to tell the story.
A comfort washed over me as I looked around the room and noticed every person was someone I’d call my friend. Thatmade it easier. I could be myself and feel fine knowing my people were around.
“Look, there he is!” Tracey whisper-shouted, nudging me in the arm. She nodded her head toward the fireplace, where Reggie was hanging out with a few of the guys from the football team. He had a beer in his hand and was laughing, probably using that Southern accent of his that made half of the student body lose their damn minds.
“Let’s go say hi,” I offered, and Tracey tensed up. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Trace, come on. It’s not like he bites.”
“Ihopehe bites,” she replied.
As we approached the group, the manly conversation stopped, and the guys looked our way. Tracey stood still, seemingly nervous and feeling out of place. She was drowning in her own self-doubts, and like the good friend I was, I was determined to get her to shore.
“Hey, Reggie, you any good at beer pong?” I asked.
“Only the best,” he said cockily, and I swore I saw my friend swoon just from those three words. While he wasn’t my cup of tea, I had to shake it off in honor of Tracey.
“Well, Trace here is a reigning champion herself. She’s never lost a game.”
Reggie turned to Tracey and cocked an eyebrow. Jesus, even his brows were cocky. “Is that so?”
“Well, er, yeah, I guess. I’ve never lost a game?” Tracey stammered, making it sound like a question. My poor, nervous butterfly. If only she would spread her wings, she’d remember she could fly.
“It’s true. You guys should team up and get a tournament going. It could be fun,” I suggested.
Reggie shrugged. “Yeah, that could be fun. Let’s go grab a drink and get a game going. Your name’s Tracey, yeah?”
Her cheeks turned redder than an apple. “Yes, Tracey with anE, not that it matters, because theEis silent when you say it, but my mom thought—”