my friend insists on puffing into his lungs. Between the nicotine, tar, formaldehyde, and arsenic, Easton willingly inhales a cocktail of poison on a daily basis. And as much as I get on his case about it, he just blows me off as quickly as he does the toxic smoke from his lips.
Sensing my accusing glare, Easton smugly blows a string of puffy gray rings in the air. I must admit the bastard looks like a dark James Dean when he does that sweet trick like its second nature to him. Always looking bored with the mundane, and unapologetically closed off to the world and its lectures, a person would think that nothing gets under Easton’s skin. Only the four of us know that’s a fucking lie.
“Are you going to stay in your car all day long or what?” he asks, his eyes up to the heavens, watching the smoke disappear into thin air.
I hate it that he’s capable of picking up on my hesitation without even looking at me. That’s another thing about Easton Price—he reads people like most do magazines. He doesn’t have to read the small print below each picture to know exactly what’s going on. A quick glance your way, and he can pinpoint all your flaws and imperfections. A trait I usually envy, but right now, it’s pissing me the hell off.
“Just need to send a text to my father,” I lie, picking up my phone from the side seat and tapping away on the screen as if the text I’m pretending to send was so damn fucking important.
“No, you don’t,” he quips back unceremoniously, taking another long haul of his cancer stick.
His tone is even and sure. And like with everything else Easton does, he takes his time enunciating each word. It’s almost as if the world decided to stop just to revolve around his inner clock, and everyone else would be wise to follow suit.
He’s always been the dark horse in our little band of brothers. Sure, he comes from money as we all do, but if you didn’t know his ripped-up jeans cost a few hundred, you’d think he bought them at a second-hand store. He probably would have—just to piss his stepfather off—if he wasn’t a vain fuck.
East might like the rebel aura he puts out into the world, but he likes to look good even more. Girls at Richfield aren’t known for fucking homeless-looking douches, but they will drop their panties in a hot minute when they realize you share the same surname with the bank their daddies deposit their weekly salaries in. Richard Price is Easton’s real-life version of Daddy Warbucks. A truth that East resents but doesn’t shy away from reaping the benefits of, either.
“Annie! That’s the ginger’s name!” I yell, slapping my forehead with the sudden realization.
“God, you’re such a weird freak. Get out of the car, Finn. Stop stalling.”
Instead of defending myself or sticking to my lie, I do as he demands and finally get out of the car. I keep my shades on because the blazing August sun is brutal on my light-blue eyes, even at this early hour. But mostly, I keep them because I can’t deal with Easton’s crap. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in this moment, I’m not comfortable in letting any fucker see how tormented mine is. Not even East.
I walk over and lean next to him against the hood, turning my back to the large estate behind us that, at one time, felt like a second home to me.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I say, instead of the warm greeting that a friend would expect to receive after so many months apart.
“Well, that answers the question of whether you missed me at all this summer,” he goads, knowing full well I’m not the kind of guy who goes all sentimental over anyone, even if the circumstances we’ve found ourselves in might call for it.
Easton lets out a soft laugh and nudges my shoulder with his, and it’s enough to placate my nerves a smidge.
“Fuck off, you dick. I texted, didn’t I? Not like we’re dating or anything.” I tease him, getting another low chuckle out of my best friend.
“Who are you kidding? Even if we were, you’d be too busy two-timing me with every short skirt Florida had to offer,” he retorts amusingly, letting out one last puffy ring above our heads, before stomping the cigarette butt with his foot.