We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,11

I’m proud of myself for proving I’m not a total Goody Two Shoes at least once before I put high school in my rearview. And Ryan, this giant golden-retriever-of-a-boy lingering by my side, seems proud of me, too. He’s told me so twice already, his consonants running together like water.

“Hell yeah, Valentine! That’s how it’s done!” His broad shoulder nudges mine. “Thought you said you didn’t drink?”

“I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I look up at him. His face is a bit out of focus, like a photograph snapped at the wrong shutter speed. In fact, it’s not just his face. The entire room is looking more like a double-exposure with every passing moment. I regret skipping dinner as the beer swirls inside my empty stomach.

“You want to play again?”

“Definitely not.” I shake my head vigorously. The move makes the room spin even more than before. I grab the edge of the countertop to steady myself.

“Hey, you okay? You look a little…” Ryan’s hand, warm and solid, lands on my shoulder. He squeezes gently through the fabric of my sweater, which suddenly feels too hot against my skin. I’m flushed and woozy, as though all the blood in my veins has rushed straight to my head.

“I’m fine,” I say. Slur. “I think I just need a little fresh air.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, that’s okay…”

But my weak protest is quickly brushed aside. Ryan’s arm is already around my shoulders, steering me toward the patio doors, over the threshold, into the night.

Outside, it’s quiet. Music drifts from the open windows, but otherwise there’s only the low hum of voices from the jacuzzi tub, where a handful of people are bubbling like lobsters in a pot. The surface of the pool gleams, a black mirror, as we pass by, stepping over discarded beer cans, cigarette butts, and plastic cups.

What a mess. I would not want to be Lee Park tomorrow morning. (Or, more accurately, the Park family maid. No one in this socioeconomic bracket does their own menial labor.)

It’s dark at the edge of the property, where the manicured lawn meets the unforgiving Atlantic. An outcropping of boulders rebuffs the ocean’s persistent advances. Ryan steers me toward one with a flat top.

“Here,” he says softly. “Sit with me for a bit.”

Sitting feels good. Stable. With solid rock beneath me and solid muscle at my side, the earth rights on its axis just enough for things stop spinning. Behind us, the party rages on, but we are far-removed from it out here in the darkness, where there are no bright lights or pounding bass beats — just a starry sky and the faint crashing of waves against the rocky beach. Breathing deeply, I time my inhales to each sea swell: in through my nose, out through my mouth. Steadying myself against the alcohol undulating in my system.

“Feel better?” Ryan asks after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I swallow hard. “You don’t have to stay with me. If you’d rather go back…”

“Nah.” His shoulder brushes mine. “Could use a little air myself, to be honest. If Chris beats me at pong again I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I definitely didn’t help you on that front.”

“You did just fine.”

“Right. Tell that to Sienna, Queen of Beer Pong,” I blurt in a mocking tone I’d never normally use around anyone except Archer. Apparently, my verbal filter has been rendered null-and-void by beer.

Ryan laughs. “Don’t let Sienna make you feel bad. She’s just…” When he trails off, I glance over at him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, staring out at the water. “She’s gotten used to being the center of attention around here. She can be a little territorial — especially when it comes to girls she’s threatened by.”

“Me? A threat? In what world?”

“You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you Valentine?”

I blink slowly at him. His face is still a bit blurry. “To be entirely forthright… at the moment, I’m not seeing anything all that clearly, Ryan.”

A quick grin spreads across his face. “Hey. You’re funny! I never knew you were funny. You’re always so shy.”

“I am not shy!”

“Not tonight.” He laughs again. “But usually you keep to yourself, if you even bother coming to our parties — which isn’t often.”

“It’s not like I really fit in here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I chew my lip, regretting that I ever opened my mouth. This conversation is heading somewhere I’m not certain I want to go. “I’m not like the rest of you.”

“You half-alien or something?”

“I don’t