Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
FLETCHER
Christine leaves not long after whatever conversation she had with my mother outside.
“Mom, you don’t have to clean,” I sigh as she starts collecting the pots off the stove. I step in and take them before she can reach the sink, because the only thing that’ll stop her is if I do it immediately. “What did you say to Chris?”
Mom frowns and shakes her head like I’ve said something ridiculous. “Nothing. Anyway, why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone? Especially someone that pretty?”
“We’re just friends, Mom.”
She scoffs and slides onto a barstool as I coat everything in soap. “I did not raise you to be afraid of commitment.”
“I—I am not afraid of commitment.”
She squints at me. “Then why are you playing games with her?”
I throw my hands up and laugh. “I’m not playing games!”
“You’re also not her friend, so tell me the truth.”
I cover my face with my hands and groan.
“What? You think you’re going to find someone better?” she continues.
“Mom.”
“One girl isn’t enough for you? Is that it? Because I know I raised you better than that .”
“It’s not me ,” I snap, then grimace. Shouldn’t have said that.
Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. “ She doesn’t want to make things official?”
I sigh and focus on rinsing the dishes. “It’s complicated. Please, Mom, for once in your life, stay out of this.”
She’s silent for a long time, which can only mean she’s analyzing me—my expression, my body language, my aura , which she insists she can see. I try to give nothing away, but it’s useless against whatever superpowers she’s got.
“So you two are dating,” she finally says.
I flick the faucet off and I rub my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids. “No, Mom. I told you. We’re just friends.”
She scoffs. “I could’ve lit a cigarette in the air around you two.”
I squint a single eye open. “You don’t smoke, and that’s not even an expression.”
“I know, I just made it up. It’s called being creative.”
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes again.
“She’s important to you.”
“I’m not talking about this anymore,” I mutter.
“Well, let me tell you this, Fletcher Conway, if that girl can’t see what she has right in front of her, then she?—”
“ Don’t finish that sentence.”
She hums. “You’re protective of her.” She sounds pleased.
I’m never getting out of here alive.
I drop my hands and meet her eyes. “Mom, you are welcome in my life. You know that. But this? I need you to stay out of it. I’m not kidding around.”
She stares at me, hard. The way that used to make me squirm as a kid. But now, I stare right back.
And finally, finally , she raises her palms in a placating gesture. “Fine.”
Other than Chris taking Casey to and from camp, I don’t see her much for the rest of the week. And from what I hear, she spends basically every waking hour with Gracie as they finalize everything for the party the following weekend.
I show up thirty minutes after Chris said it would start in a pathetic attempt to mask my eagerness. When I first pull up, all I can do is stare. I never doubted her for a second, but oh my God . I don’t know why I was expecting some kind of small get-together, but every sidewalk leading up to the house for several blocks is packed.
Carson offered her place for the venue to help Gracie’s budget, and it’s clear every saved penny got put to good use. Despite being a well-known place for a party around here, I don’t think I’ve been to Carson’s more than once or twice. It’s not difficult to pick out though.
It’s the only house on the block that looks like it time traveled to October in the middle of July.
Lights from the lawn drench the outside in neon purple and red, and boards are haphazardly nailed over the windows as if it’s condemned. Fog from a dry ice machine seeps out of the front door, and screams intermittently pierce the air from somewhere inside.
I asked Christine to spare me the details so I could be surprised. I’d been picturing something posh and fancy—something more fitting for a Brooks. Definitely not a haunted house. I guess she did say the movie had zombies.
As I draw closer, I notice a news crew stationed in the opposite lawn. A man I don’t recognize in an expensive-looking suit nods along to whatever the reporter is telling him as the camera crew sets up.
A line winds down the sidewalk, waiting to get through the front door. Judging by the strobe lights and music pouring out from the backyard, the main party is back there once you make it through the house.
Perfect timing, apparently, because Christine chooses that moment to slip out the gate. My grin when I see her is immediate. She’s in a gray floor-length dress that’s absolutely ripped to shreds and covered in fake blood. Her hair is twice the size it usually is and looks like she just jumped out of an airplane.
I jog across the street as she turns for the side door to the garage.
“Wish you would’ve given me a heads-up on the dress code,” I say.
Her eyes crinkle around her smile. “You made it.”
God , that smile threatens to knock the wind out of me.
She shamelessly looks me up and down before turning for the door. “And you look great. Costumes are just for the actors in the house.”
I grab the door and hold it open for her. “So you’re telling me I missed you jumping out and scaring people in there?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make my return.” She gives me a slow wink over her shoulder before flipping on the garage lights, illuminating what she must have come in here for. Extra ice, drinks, and snacks are lined up along the wall.
“Are the movie people here yet?”
Her eyes go comically wide. “Yeah! Did you see that some news stations showed up to cover it? I thought it was just going to be Gracie’s friend, but a few of her costars and the producer are here. And I think a PR person—I don’t know. There were a lot of names all at once. I guess they saw this as an opportunity for some free publicity.”
Her words come out so fast they nearly trip over each other. She’s nervous , I realize. Something I don’t think I’ve ever seen from her before.
“Chris.” I soften my voice. “It looks amazing.”
She scoffs as she bends down for an ice bag. “You haven’t even been inside yet!”
I scoop up the bag before she can. “Then lead the way.”
“Oh no.” She tries to take the bag from me, but I back up a step. “You’re not taking the shortcut. You’re going through that house.”
I sigh and let her take the bag. I have a feeling she’ll start wrestling me for it if I don’t.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to miss the full experience.”
“You can skip the line though,” she says. “Security at the door has your name.”
“Oh, am I on the list ?”
“See you inside.” She offers a coy smile before disappearing through the door.
The line outside erupts in whispers as I cut to the front, but no one says anything to me. Maybe they think I’m part of the movie. I can’t help but feel bad about it. And if it didn’t look like it would take an hour, I’d just wait my turn. My impatience to see Christine—even if I’m offered only stolen glimpses tonight—wins out.
Okay, and my curiosity. If the screams piercing the air every few seconds are any indication, she did an amazing job in there. The laughter and music drifting from the backyard is quite the contrast.
I’d mostly been joking in the garage, but when I tell my name to the burly security guard—bouncer? Did she seriously hire a bouncer?—at the front, he literally pulls out a list before grunting and letting me pass.
The moment I step inside, he tugs the door shut behind me, casting me into near darkness. Fog drifts along the floor, illuminated by the green light strips on the baseboards. I inch down the hall, and it feels unusually narrow, only a few inches wider than the set of my shoulders. It can’t always be like this?—
Something touches the back of my neck, and I let out a startled noise and whip around just as the hand disappears through the wall on my right.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, then quicken my steps.
More hands shoot out on either side as I move, tugging at my clothes. Low, zombie-like groans echo from whoever the hands belong to.
When I turn into what I’m assuming used to be the living room, the lights shift to purple and the fog doubles. I can only see so much in the darkness, but the walls seem to be covered in tattered, blood-soaked wallpaper and ripped quarantine sighs. They’re streaked with handprints, as if people were desperately trying to escape.
On the other side of the room, the TV is on. It flickers on and off over and over, the sound of static filling the room.
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision nearly makes me jump out of my skin. A dark figure lingers in the corner—has it been there the entire time? It’s so close to the doorway to the kitchen that there’s no way to continue without passing it.
I wonder if Chris has cameras in here and she’s sitting somewhere laughing at me.
“I will give you five dollars to stay the hell away from me,” I say.
The figure slinks away from the wall and?—
—removes the hood of his cloak.
“Oh, hey, Fletch,” says Asher.
I let out a breathy laugh and cross the distance between us. “Didn’t know you got roped into this.”
“Oh, I volunteered,” he says with a grin.
Of course he did.
He slips his hood back on, letting it fall low enough to obscure his face. “Gotta stay in character. I’ll catch you later?”
I pat him on the back and brace myself as I round the corner to the kitchen, but no one jumps out at me. There’s a makeshift wall cutting down the middle, forcing you to snake through the laundry room before circling to the back door. Body parts are strewn throughout, dripping in fake blood. Red LED lights along the floor illuminate the way, but they’re dim. That along with the fog has me squinting trying to see more than a foot in front of myself.
God, I hate haunted houses. I tug on the collar of my shirt, my chest feeling tight. It’s fog, not smoke. You can breathe just fine .
But every time I blink, I can see the orange glow of the fire, feel the heat singeing the hairs in my nose, feel my lungs aching around each breath. A distorted laugh track echoes in the distance?—
Something wraps around me from behind, and I spin, my breaths shallow and my heart in my throat.
“Fletcher?”
I blink, and it takes several moments too long for my vision to focus on Christine.
Long enough for her to release her arms around my neck and take a step away from me.
The red lights cast strange shadows over her features. I must have drifted forward without realizing, because we’re in the laundry room now, a few steps away from the haunted house’s exit.
I let out a shaky breath and try to disguise it as a laugh. “You scared me.”
She squints like she doesn’t believe me, and I smooth out whatever expression was on my face.
“So did I pay my dues or what?” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Am I allowed at the party now?”
A chorus of screams erupts at the front of the house as a new group steps inside, and that, thankfully, ushers Chris forward. I follow her to the back door, and the moment she opens it, the music floods inside.
The backyard is smaller than mine, but Chris put every inch to good use. The DJ is on the far side, and warm string lights and lanterns crisscross overhead. There are a few bar tables along the outskirts, as well as a long table full of food and drinks, but the main attraction is the dance floor in the center.
Once I’m out of that fog, I finally feel like I can breathe .
Chris shoots me a quick smile before heading off into the crowd, and I force my face not to show my disappointment. But of course she can’t hang around me all night. I’m sure she has a million things to juggle to keep things running smoothly, and I told her I could do this. That I could keep things under wraps when we’re in public. Staring at her ass as she traipses across the lawn probably doesn’t have me off to a great start.
“Hey, Fletch, you made it!” Liam claps me on the back with a wide grin. Gracie hangs off his arm, her smile warm but her eyes alert, as if scanning the party for disaster to strike at any minute.
“Congrats on the party, Gracie,” I say. “It looks amazing.”
Her eyes finally focus on my face, and her smile turns a little sheepish. “Thanks. It turned out even better than I could have hoped for. Christine is a miracle worker.”
One corner of my mouth kicks up despite myself. I clear my throat. “Where’s your friend—the guest of honor?”
“Oh, I think that’s me!” A tiny brunette appears on Gracie’s other side. She thrusts her hand out to shake. “I’m Martina. But everybody calls me Marti.”
I offer my hand, and she shakes it firmly. “Fletcher. Congrats on the movie.”
She beams so wide I can see every one of her teeth. “Thank you. I still can’t quite believe it.”
The side gate creaks open on my right, and two men slink through like they’re trying not to be seen. One is the man I saw talking with the reporters earlier. He says something to the other before disappearing into the crowd. The second man hesitates by the gate with so much tension in his body he’s practically vibrating. He’s younger than the first, his suit more expensive looking. His shoulders are thrown back and his head is held high, but there’s something off with his eyes. They flicker around restlessly, never focusing on one person or thing for more than a few seconds.
There’s a noticeable shift in the air the moment he steps into the yard, especially with the female population. Spines straighten, whispers are exchanged, and every eye in the room seems to find its way to him, but the second he makes eye contact, people hurriedly look away.
What in the hell …
“Marti. There you are.” Suit man pops in, wraps an arm around her shoulders, and starts angling her toward the gate like the rest of us aren’t there. “We’re going to start with a few shots by the drinks. I think laughing will be best. Make it look like you’re having a good time with him.” When he notices the second man didn’t follow, he flaps a hand impatiently until he joins us.
“Stephen!” Marti chastises. “Rude. I was talking to people.”
The man glances at us, the lift of his eyebrow distinctly unimpressed. “Apologies, but we have a little work to be done. I’ll bring her back. Jared, are you ready?”
The second man just stares at him.
“Right.” He hooks one arm through each of theirs and tugs them toward the food table.
Marti pushes her lower lip out and offers a mouthed Sorry over her shoulder.
“ So ,” Liam says, drawing the word out, his attention on his girlfriend. “Have you gotten his autograph yet?”
She swats him in the chest. “Enough.”
“He seems like he’d be perfectly down for a selfie,” he continues.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Jared Morgan,” Gracie says on a sigh, as if that explains everything.
He must be the costar. I follow the path they carve through the crowd—which isn’t difficult, since everyone gives them a wide berth. Odd. Don’t people usually swarm celebrities? Jared’s still glaring at Stephen—some PR person, I’d guess—as a photographer prepares to take a picture of him and Marti.
Things turn relatively uneventful after that. I spend a good amount of time looking for Christine but pretending I’m not. I catch glimpses—a flash of her hair, her profile, her laugh somewhere in the crowd. But she doesn’t stop moving all night, making sure everything is perfect.
And it is perfect . Not that I’ve been to many events like this, but I’ve never seen one run so smoothly. All the guests seem satisfied, and at some point, Gracie even relaxes enough to join in the fun.
She’d shrugged it off that day at the skatepark like this was some passing hobby for her. But Christine is damn good at this.
In the rare moment when I manage to catch her eye across the yard, I smile, hoping she can see in my eyes how proud I am of her. I can see her cheeks redden, even from here, and it’s the single best moment I have all night.