Isaac looked over again, his face crumpling. “Hey,” he said softly. He turned onto a road that led to a row of office buildings, pulled into a dark, empty parking lot, and shifted into park. “It’s okay.” He stroked Emily’s arm.
They sat there for a while, saying nothing. The only sound was the Volvo’s rattling heater. After a while, Emily wiped her eyes, leaned forward, and kissed him, so happy he was here. He kissed her back, and they paused, looking longingly at each other. Emily dove back in, kissing more hungrily. Suddenly, all her problems blew away, like ashes in a breeze.
The car’s windows fogged up. Wordlessly, Isaac picked up the bottom hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt and pulled it over his head. His chest was smooth and muscular, and he had a small, shiny scar on the inside of his right arm. Emily reached out and touched it. “What’s that from?”
“Falling off a BMX ramp in second grade,” he answered.
He tilted his head and nudged toward Emily’s long-sleeved T-shirt. She lifted her arms. Isaac pulled it off. Though the heat was on full blast, Emily’s arms were still covered in goose bumps. She looked down, embarrassed at the navy sports bra she’d dug out of her drawer that morning. It was printed with moons, stars, and planets. If only she’d put on something a little more feminine and sexy—but then, it wasn’t as if she’d planned on taking her clothes off.
Isaac pointed at her belly button. “You have an outie.”
Emily covered it up. “Everyone makes fun of it.” Mostly, she meant Ali, who had caught a peek at Emily’s belly button once when they were changing at the Rosewood Country Club. “I thought only chubby boys had belly buttons like those,” she’d teased. Emily had worn one-piece bathing suits ever since.
Isaac pried her hands away. “I think it’s great.” His fingers grazed the bottom edge of the bra, sliding his hand inside. Emily’s heart pounded. Isaac leaned into her, kissing her neck. His bare skin touched hers. He tugged at her sports bra, urging her to pull it off. Emily yanked it over her head, and a goofy smile appeared on Isaac’s face. Emily giggled, amused at how serious they were being. Yet, she didn’t feel self-conscious. This felt…right.
They embraced tightly, pressing their warm bodies together. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Isaac murmured.
“I think so,” Emily said into his shoulder. “I’m sorry my life seems so crazy.”
“Don’t apologize.” Isaac caressed her hair with his hands. “Like I said, I’d help you through anything. I…love you.”
Emily leaned back, agape. Isaac had such a sincere and vulnerable look on his face, and Emily wondered if she was the first person he’d ever said he loved. She felt so grateful to have him in her life. He was the only person who made her feel even remotely safe.
“I love you too,” she decided.
They embraced again, tighter this time. But after a few blissful seconds, Jason’s twisted, furious face swam into Emily’s mind. She squeezed her eyes tight, and her stomach swirled with dread.
Calm down, said a little voice inside her. There was probably a logical explanation for Jason’s outburst. Everyone was devastated by Ali’s death and Ian’s disappearance, and it wasn’t unusual for someone—especially a family member—to go a little crazy out of grief.
But a second voice prodded at her, too. That’s not the whole story, the voice said, and you know it.
4
THAT BOY IS MINE
Later that night, Hanna Marin sat at a gleaming white café table at the Pinkberry at the King James Mall. Her soon-to-be stepsister Kate Randall, Naomi Zeigler, and Riley Wolfe surrounded her, little cups of frozen yogurt in front of each of them. A snappy Japanese pop song thudded out of the speakers, and a line of girls from St. Augustus Prep stood at the counter, musing over the choices.
“Don’t you think Pinkberry is a much better hangout than Rive Gauche?” Hanna said, referring to the French-style bistro at the other end of the mall. She gestured out the door, into the mall atrium. “We’re right across from Armani Exchange and Cartier. We can ogle hot guys and gorgeous diamonds without getting up.”
She dipped her spoon into her cup of Pinkberry and shoved an enormous bite in her mouth, letting out a little mmm to emphasize how good an idea she thought this was. Then she fed a little bite to Dot, her miniature Doberman, whom she’d brought along in her brand-new Juicy Couture doggie carrier. The Pinkberry workers kept shooting daggers in Hanna’s direction. Some lame rule said that dogs weren’t allowed in here, but surely they meant dirty dogs, like labs and Saint Bernards and hideous little shih tzus. Dot was the cleanest dog in Rosewood. Hanna gave him weekly bubble baths in lavender-scented dog shampoo imported from Paris.
Riley twirled a piece of coppery hair around her fingers. “But you can’t sneak wine here like you can at Rive Gauche.”
“Yes, but you can’t bring dogs to Rive Gauche,” Hanna said, cupping Dot’s little face in her hands. She gave him another tiny bite of Pinkberry.
Naomi took a bite of yogurt and immediately reapplied a coat of Guerlain KissKiss lipstick. “And the lighting in here is so…unflattering.” She peered into the round mirrors that lined Pinkberry’s walls. “I feel like my pores are magnified.”
Hanna slammed her Pinkberry cup on the table, making the little plastic spoon jump. “Okay, I didn’t want to resort to this, but before we broke up, Lucas told me that Rive Gauche has rats in the kitchen. Do you really want to hang out somewhere with a rodent problem? There could be rat poop in your frites.”