fingers. Having saved myself a shitload of money on the car repair costs, I spring for the good treats that are greasy and smell like bacon. It does the trick and Hades inches closer, snagging a treat from my outstretched hand before bolting back. I toss a few treats further away for Abby, who is still the most timid. Her pregnant belly is so round that she waddles a bit already.
It’s quiet out here with the cats. Tranquil. Briefly, I wish that I’d taken that pack of cigarettes from Sebastian. Georgia’s been weird all day—withdrawn and uncharacteristically somber. I’m not looking forward to going back to the room. I don’t know her well enough to pry, and I know her a little too well to ignore it.
But the sun is rapidly sinking behind the horizon, so I secure the bag of treats in my backpack and push myself to my feet. The cats seem sad to see me—or at least the food—go.
Usually, I dread when Georgia has company. She has a lot of friends and they’re not just the casual acquaintance type of people. They’re around all the time and they can be a little intense. This particular group of Preston kids is just a little too tight-knit and I can’t help but feel like an awkward outsider when they all get together. Especially when it’s the entire strictly-female half of the group cornering me about slapping the shit out of their buddy.
That had sure been something. Annoying, sort of infuriating, a little intimidating. But they’d all been pretty understanding when I explained the situation. It didn’t matter. They still defended him—they always would. Mostly I was just baffled and a little jealous. How does a guy like Sebastian inspire that kind of loyalty?
So yeah, I get a little twitchy when Georgia has people over, but when I sneak into the room and see Emory and Aubrey, I just feel relieved.
I keep the door cracked at first, watching, listening, trying to get a read on the vibe. They’re all in her bed—weird, but okay—Emory on one side of Georgia and Aubrey on the other, sort of like… cuddling.
See? A little too close to be normal.
The tip of Georgia’s nose is glowing red, as is the ridge of her eyes, clear evidence that she’s been crying. But she’s smiling now at something Emory said, smacking his shoulder with a loose hand.
“You do not!”
Emory argues, “Do too!”
Georgia rolls her eyes. “If you do, then you put it out there yourself. Because you’re a freak.”
Aubrey says, “Hell yeah, he is,” and high-fives Emory over Georgia.
“I doubt anyone’s even seen it,” Georgia adds. “No one wants to see your sex tape, Em.”
He feigns insult. “How dare you, everyone wants to see my sex tape. It’s very artistic, you know. I could probably make money on the internet.”
“You’re right.” Georgia hums. “I’d pay to not see it.”
Aubrey throws her head back, laughing, and Georgia laughs along. I feel some of the tension draining from my shoulders, knowing she’s being taken care of with these people. I’d like to be the kind of friend who could do this—the person who comforts and makes someone laugh—but I’m not.
I’m the kind of friend who gets surprised with a violence intervention.
As I linger, wondering if I should enter or leave, the laughter dies down and everything grows quiet.
Emory’s voice is low and soft, but still has this threatening edge that makes me stiffen. “Tell us who recorded it, G.”
But Georgia doesn’t answer—not for a long, tense beat. When she does, it’s only to say, “It’s been almost three years. It doesn’t matter.” She repeats, “It doesn’t matter,” like she’s willing herself to believe it.
It doesn’t feel right, eavesdropping on this strange, sad, angry moment. They all pull apart when I open the door.
“Oh, hey, Sugar!” Aubrey greets when I enter, dumping my bag on my bed. “We’re taking this poor creature to the Nerd later. She’s having a rough day and we’re in full-on ‘fuck calories’ mode. Want to join?”
It’s not even awkward and stilted, like she’s asking just to be polite.
But before I can decide, I notice a box on the foot of my bed. “What’s this?” I ask, frowning down at it.
“Oh, I dunno,” Georgia replies, messily pulling her hair up. “It was just by the door when I got here.”
The box is plain cardboard and about the size of a brick. My name is printed on the top, but there’s no address. It’s not technically mail.