Chapter 10
TEN
The next time I rehearse with Wes, I want to avoid a breakdown at all costs, so over the next few days, every moment I’m not in class is spent practicing my speech.
I practice standing up, I practice sitting down, I practice with my eyes closed, I practice in the mirror.
I recite until I know every sentence, word, and syllable by heart and every pause, breath, and punctuation is second nature.
I record myself and play it back, analyzing every um and like. Dissecting every fidget and tic.
It’s hard to stomach, though, because there they are, the physical manifestation of my nerves on the screen.
I sway too much. I play with my sleeves.
I tug at my hair. I pick at my nails. I’m a beacon of anxiety, an exhibition of unease.
Even the way I blink seems apprehensive, too quickly and too many times in succession.
Is this what people see? Is this what Wes sees?
I practice again and again, those questions at the back of my mind a driving force. It needs to be as close to perfect as I can make it before I throw in the curveball of an audience. Things might still go to shit, but maybe my hard work will make it easier. Maybe...
During Tuesday’s class, Markham announces the order of the speeches, telling us that presentations will be spread over the course of three sessions.
By some miracle, Wes and I are both on the third day, which means I have two weeks to get my shit together. Two weeks until my turn. It’s not nearly enough time—two years wouldn’t be enough—and the cheese danish Wes brought me this morning turns acidic in my stomach.
That afternoon, I practice late into the evening, tuning out everyone and everything.
I consider what Wes said about coming up with a “pre-game” routine—something to calm my nerves and put me in the right headspace—but know that nothing I do is going to make speech day any easier.
Nothing except practice, practice, and more practice.
“Wes,” I prompt before Thursday’s class. He glances up from his phone, a look of surprise on his face at my direct use of his name. This would make the second time I’ve said it aloud, and when the dimples make an appearance this early in the morning, I can tell he’s more than pleased.
“What’s up, Ives?” he asks, though I begin to rethink this entire plan as soon as those glittery eyes focus in on me. My heart leaps. Heat rushes to my face. My stomach dips. One look from Wes has the same effect as a shot of caffeine to my system.
Suddenly self-conscious, I fight the urge to break eye contact, pressing my shaky hands beneath my thighs.
It’s Wes, I think. Just Wes. And for some reason, that calms me.
“I-I’m ready to rehearse again, I think,” I stumble, wincing a bit as my pulse skyrockets.
I drop my eyes down to his sweatshirt before working my way back up to his face.
It’s too much sometimes, the strong jawline, the full mouth, the dark hair curling gently over his forehead and around his ears.
I wonder how soft it would feel against my fingertips and then scold myself for wondering.
“You’re sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, a little bit teasing.
I could never be ready for you, I think.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” is what I say instead, and Markham begins today’s lecture.
Wes leans toward me, lowering his voice. “You’re gonna nail it this time, I can already tell.”
“We’ll see,” I murmur.
“How’s Saturday?”
His offer surprises me. Why he’d want to waste two weekends in a row running speeches with his freshman classmate, I have no idea. Doesn’t he have better things to do? Still, I agree. “Saturday’s good.”
“This time will be different. You’ll see.”
I wish I had his confidence.
Walking back from class, it’s difficult to think straight, and I almost miss my phone vibrating in the pocket of my coat. I pull it out and frown at the unknown caller. There’s no spam alert, though, so I answer just in case.
“Hello?” I say quietly into the phone.
“Hi, is this Ivy?” The voice is deep and unfamiliar.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Oh, hey!” the guy responds, relief evident in his tone. “This is Kaden, Wes’s housemate. I tracked down your number, hope you don’t mind.”
I pause my steps for a moment, blinking in confusion. I have zero clue why Wes’s housemate would need my number, and my stomach churns uneasily. “Oh. Um. How can I help you?” I ask and immediately cringe at the formality of it.
“I don’t know if he told you, but Wes’s birthday is on Sunday, and the reason we called is because we’re throwing him a surprise party—"
“Because we’re the best housemates ever!” cuts in another voice, this one more muffled.
“That was Ben,” Kaden says. “He’s here, too.”
“I’m here, too!” calls Ben, and then the line rustles. “Let me talk to her.”
“Dude, no. Go away.” The line rustles again, and then Kaden’s voice returns, clearer than before. “We called to extend an invitation. The party’s Saturday night. Invite only, by the way. We don’t want it to get out of hand, as these things tend to do.”
“Um…where is the party going to be?” I ask, struggling to collect my thoughts.
I had no idea Wes’s birthday was this coming weekend, but why would I?
I feel like an imposter, one who shouldn’t be invited to a secret senior birthday when I’ve (realistically) barely spent any time with Wes.
I’m sure these guys have known him for years.
Hell, I’m sure everyone on the list has known him for years, and I have no idea what prompted them to reach out to me.
“Our house. Have you been here before?”
“No,” I say carefully, and wait for them to rescind the invitation after my admission. Clearly, they think I’m more important than I am.
“I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks,” I say without thinking, and then I start to freak out.
What are you doing? You can’t go to that!
Shifting my phone, I unlock the door to the apartment, stepping inside as I add, slightly panicked, “But I’m just not sure I can come.”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to answer now,” Kaden assures. “Text me when you decide, and we’ll add you to the list.”
I’m surprised to find Quinn seated on the couch with her notebooks spread out on the coffee table and the TV on low in the background. She looks up from her studies and gives me a small smile and a wave. I wave back. “Okay. Um, thanks.”
“He talks about you a lot, by the way,” Kaden adds. I freeze halfway through the kitchen, trying to process the words he just said. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have known to invite you.” I stay silent, uncertain of how to respond. “Anyway…I hope we’ll see you this weekend. If not, don’t sweat it.”
“Sure. Thanks again. Bye.”
“Bye, Iv—” I accidentally hang up before he can finish and wince, staring apprehensively at the phone. A small part of me is expecting Kaden to call back and tell me to forget it. That it was a joke, a mix-up, a misunderstanding.
“What was that about?” Quinn asks, and I snap out of it, setting my phone on the counter.
I shift on my feet, debating what to tell her.
I haven’t seen her much since that night we watched The Fellowship of the Ring, but she knows more about Wes than anyone else.
It couldn’t hurt to loop her in, could it? Ask for a second opinion?
“Remember the guy I was texting?” I ask, deciding to go for it.
She straightens, her eyes lighting up at the potential for boy talk. “Mr. No-Name Senior? How could I forget?”
My cheeks grow warm at her suggestive tone, but I continue. “Well, his roommate just invited me to Mr. No-Name’s surprise party this weekend.”
“A secret invite? Are you going to go?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Well, what’s the hesitation?”
There are too many to speak aloud, so I list them off in my head.
I won’t know anyone. It’s an unfamiliar environment. I have nothing to wear. I don’t really drink. Plus, it’s probably all a mistake, anyway. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than Wes wondering why I’m crashing his party like some kind of obsessive stalker or obnoxious fan girl.
“I don’t love parties,” is what I tell Quinn. “And what if he doesn’t want me there?”
“Well, they wouldn’t have invited you if they thought he didn’t want you there, right? So just look at it that way.”
“I guess,” I say, hearing the skepticism in my own voice. “They said he talks about me a lot, but I couldn’t tell if they were genuine.”
Her brows raise. “Why would they say that if they didn’t mean it? If the guy talks about you to his roommates, then you have to go. I’ll go with you, if you want.”
I stare at her. “Wait, seriously?”
She nods. “Of course! But you have to ask them first. I don’t want to show up and get turned away. Seniors can be very protective of their private parties.”
Having a friend there would be nice…if that’s even what Quinn and I are to each other.
I’m so bad at judging these sorts of things, probably because I can’t recall the last time I actually made a friend.
I’d known Farah and Lizzie and Alexis since elementary school, when finding a bestie relied on sharing the pink crayon in art class or playing princesses at recess.
I study Quinn’s face, searching for a sign that she’s only offering out of pity. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
She smiles, and I deem it genuine. “Not in the slightest. Remy’s traveling with his band this weekend, so I was going to stay in and be boring anyway.”
“Okay,” I say, giving her a small smile back. “I’ll text him now.”
“Do it.”
Grabbing my phone, I type out a message to the most recent caller.
Me: Hi, it’s Ivy. Is it okay if I bring a friend?
Taking a deep breath, I press send. Kaden’s reply comes seconds later.
Kaden: Sure! Just one, though. We’re trying to keep numbers contained so things don’t get out of hand.
Me: Understood, thank you!
Kaden: Party starts at 9. Also, no gifts. Your presence will be gift enough. See you Saturday :)
He sends me a follow-up text with the address.