Badly.
And when it happened, his face, more than anything, looked surprised—stark white with shock . . . because there was suddenly a hole in his chest where his heart had just been.
When Kennedy turns her back and slams the door in my face—I feel the exact same way.
8
The present, in the pub
“I went to your room that morning. She answered the door in your jersey—said you were in the shower. She offered to let me wait, but she warned me that you two were back together. That I’d look really desperate just showing up at your room like that.” Kennedy swallows hard and breathes deep. Like the memory alone is causing her actual pain.
“She never told me—”
“No, she wouldn’t have, would she?” Kennedy looks into my eyes, smiling bitterly. “I was going to wait. I thought I at least deserved to hear it from you.” Her voice strangles at the end, her eyes shinier than they should be. “But then Cashmere asked me what I had really expected. She said you were a hero and I was a zero and nothing was going to change that. Did I really think you would leave someone like her for someone like me?” She licks her lips slowly.
“I was still reeling from the night before. From the excitement, the total fucking joy over what we’d done. But when she put it like that . . . I believed her. So I left. William stopped me in the quad on the way back to the dorm. He asked me out . . . and I said yes.”
I can’t speak; I’m too busy reliving those moments, seeing them now from her side. And realizing all the things I didn’t do, all the things I never said.
“I liked you,” I whisper to the table. Then I look at her. “I liked you so much.”
I still do. Behind those contact lenses, under makeup and designer clothes, she’s still her. I can still taste her, feel her on my fingertips, so smooth and slick. Fearless in the way she wanted me, clutched me close like she’d never wanted to let go.
Her forehead crinkles with confusion. “But you did get back together with Cashmere. You didn’t speak to me that whole year until—”
Kennedy obviously still doesn’t understand jack shit about men. Or boys—because back then, I was definitely a boy.
“You told me our hookup meant nothing to you. That I was nothing and you were dating William. When I got pissed about it, you told me you hated me.” I wipe a hand down my face. “I got back together with Cashmere because you didn’t want me and she did. She was a substitute. I didn’t want to look like a loser. And I didn’t speak to you because it was too fucking hard.”
“We were friends—”
“Not to me.” I shake my head, capturing her gaze and holding it tight. “Not after that night. I didn’t want your friendship, Kennedy—I wanted you. And if I couldn’t have you—I had to pretend you didn’t exist. Because then I could tell myself I wasn’t missing out on everything I knew I was.”
But I’d still thought about her. I’d dreamed about her.
And I missed her—all the time.
She gazes at the table, lost in her thoughts. Then she looks up, wetting her lips—seeming like she’s decided something.
“So that’s why you did it,” she says softly. “You wanted to get back at me, and hurt me. Congratulations—you succeeded.”
Something in her tone puts me on alert, and I lean in closer. “What exactly do you think I did?”
Her mouth is hard. “You set me up. You humiliated me. You . . . broke me that night, Brent.”
I double-check. “The night of the senior dance?”
“Yes.”
This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting fourteen years to know.
I tell her, “Pretend that you’re a witness on the stand. Start from the beginning and tell me about the dance. Make me understand.”
Kennedy scrapes her lip with her teeth. “In April, I started getting instant messages when I was online. From you. They said ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I miss you.’ You talked about how you wanted to be with me, but you couldn’t break up with Cashmere right then. You said it was a family thing—something about a business deal between your fathers.”
She takes a drink of her beer, then goes on.
“I didn’t believe it was you, at first. I thought it was a prank. But the messages kept coming, and they sounded so much like you. So as a test, I asked you about our first kiss. Where it was.”
She pauses and I hold my breath.
“You said the roof, on New Year’s Eve, when we were nine. And that’s when I knew it was you. I was so excited. For so long, I’d wanted . . .
“Anyway, the week before the dance, you sent me an IM saying you wanted to see me. You wanted to dance just one dance with me. You asked me to meet you by the lake behind the auditorium. Vicki didn’t like it, but I was too far gone to care. I called Claire and asked her to come help me with my makeup and a dress. She was so happy—like a fairy godmother.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I feel sick. Because I know how this story ends.
“My dress was white—it was lovely, and it made me feel lovely too. My hair was down, curled and shinier than I ever remember it being.”
She looks at my face with the saddest smile.
“And I wore contact lenses, for the first time in my life.”
My hands fist on the table; my throat so dry I can barely swallow.
“I waited by the lake—I could hear the music from the auditorium. I heard a sound, like a footstep, and I called your name. But no one answered.”