Unravelling

“Of course.” Nick laughs. “I’ll have you home before eleven.”

“Let me pack up here,” I say. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

After Kevin and Nick leave, I look at Alex. He jams his books back into his backpack. “Maybe you should trade those crappy vintage T-shirts and ripped jeans for short skirts and tank tops. You can start hanging out with Brooke, too.”

“You’re the one who ruined tonight with a lame excuse. I wanted to do something else, and you came up with a movie that only has a plot in the first thirty minutes?”

“It’s got great visual effects,” Alex says as he goes back to shoving his stuff into his backpack, and I grab the couple of books I do want to take home with me.

“Wait,” I say, reaching out to grab Alex’s shoulder. “Did you call my Great Gatsby T-shirt crappy? I fucking love this shirt.”

“Fine. Abandon me so I have to hang out with my mother,” Alex says, but he’s smiling again. Which is all I really needed to see.

t twelve forty-five I give up on Nick.

An hour and forty-five minutes is my threshold—and of course he’s so drunk he can’t stand up without leaning on me for support. I try to take his keys but give up on those after he bellows at me that he’s “just fine to drive, woman.”

I get yelled at enough by my mother—someone I’m obligated to love. I don’t need it from some shithead who slams two beers and then lets his friends pressure him into doing five shots of tequila in the span of an hour.

Plus, what the hell am I going to do with his keys anyway? Unlike 18 percent of my graduating class, I’m planning to not have a DUI on my record when I graduate. And since my license is already suspended because of the stupid seizure, driving really isn’t an option anyway.

I should have left a half hour ago when Cecily’s sister picked her up and offered me a ride, but I was still under the delusion that Nick would have an ounce of reliability. Now the problem, of course, is that Alex is asleep—not that his mom would let him out this late anyway—my mother lost her driving privileges ages ago, and Jared is too young. Both my dad’s cells have gone straight to voice mail for the past half hour. And no one else is sober or worth asking for a ride. I even glanced around for Reid Suitor, since he played baseball his freshman and sophomore years and I’ve seen him around this crowd before. Not that I’d really want a ride from him.

I suck it up, walk out to the front porch, and call Struz.

“J-baby!” he says with his usual enthusiasm, even though he’s whispering. “Whatever you need, it’s gotta be quick. We’re on something big tonight.”

“I’ve got a code twenty-one,” I say. My dad thought the whole FBI thing might hurt my social life when I was in junior high, so he and Struz came up with a bunch of numbered codes so I could call him from a friend’s house without people thinking I was some kind of snitch. He thought it’d be hard to explain to a bunch of teenagers that counterintelligence doesn’t really care about underage drinking.

Right this instant, though, I wouldn’t have stopped them from coming over here and busting up this party.

“Shit.” I hear rustling over the phone for a second. “Where are you?”

I give Struz the address, and he promises to send a junior agent or an analyst to come get me, then he’s got to run. I want to grill him about what they’re doing, but I know enough—and I respect them and their jobs enough—to let him go.

“You call for a ride?”

I turn to see Kevin in a wife beater, baggy jeans, and a sideways baseball hat. He looks ridiculous.

“What of it?”

Instead of spouting off some nonsense like I expect, he smiles and thrusts his hands into his pockets. “I’ll make Nick crash here if he doesn’t pass out.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” Though that’s hardly true.

“I’ve had a lot of practice at ganking his keys,” Kevin says, and collapses into a porch chair. “I’d offer you a ride home, but . . .” He holds up a mostly empty bottle of beer.

“It’s fine.”

Kevin nods, and we sit in silence as the minutes tick by.

The cul-de-sac is quiet—most of the other houses have their lights off already, and not a single car turns onto the street, despite all the vibes I’m sending out into the atmosphere, hoping for headlights to appear. A breeze picks up, rustling through my hair, and I pull my hoodie over my head and fold my arms across my chest.

“It’s cool that you came tonight,” Kevin says suddenly, and I wonder why he even cares. “I know my man Nick fucked up and you didn’t have a good time or anything, but it’s cool that you came.”

“I’ll probably opt to stay home next time.”

“I don’t blame you. Some nights I’d rather just stay home and read.”

I turn to face Kevin. Other than the idiotic hat, the dirty wife beater, and the jeans that are belted around his thighs, he looks perfectly serious. But I know what this is. An act, a play, because this is Kevin and he’s like that.

Before he realizes what I’m doing, I snap a picture of him— beer in hand—with my cell. “If you try to hit on me again, I’ll show this to Coach Stinson and he’ll have you running stadium steps until baseball starts this spring,” I say, because Nick once confessed their baseball coach was a stickler about drinking. And because I’m like that.

But Kevin doesn’t get pissed off or nervous. He just takes another sip of his beer. “Touché, Tenner. Touché.” A word I didn’t even think was in his vocabulary.

Apparently this month is full of surprises. No one is as dumb as I thought they were.

hen the headlights of a Chevy TrailBlazer round the corner, I turn and offer Kevin a slight nod before heading down the steps.

“I’ll make sure Nick doesn’t drive,” he says again. I look back in time to see him raise his beer bottle in a salute.

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve pretty much decided I don’t want Nick Matherson to be my responsibility—no matter how pretty he is or how many great late-night talks we had sitting on the beach. I just don’t have the time or the patience.

The TrailBlazer stops at the edge of the Hineses’ driveway, and even though I knew it wouldn’t be Struz, I’m still disappointed when I see a dark brown head and a scruffy layer of facial hair. He’s an agent I don’t know, and he’s on his cell, not paying any attention to me when I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

“—and now I’m stuck playing babysitter. This is ridiculous.” Nothing makes you feel uncomfortable quite like when you first meet someone who’s not just talking, but complaining, about you. “Yeah, well, next time we’re switching positions on this. I’m not playing this angle again.”