30. Hendrix
Hendrix
N ot many things are worse than a rainy Monday hangover, but spending the entirety of it with Archer overloaded on Red Bulls sure does make the cut.
“Say it with me...” He waves his hand over our heads. “Yacht party by Crescent Point Beach.”
An isolated beach off the east bank of the Hudson?
What the fuck can go wrong?
“It’s the end of October, you nut job.”
“So what? It was like seventy-eight degrees yesterday.”
Another reason to hate global warming.
I hike my backpack over my shoulder. “Can’t swim.”
“Did I say we’d be diving into the water?”
Jesus.
What I’d give for this drink to actually give his ass some wings.
“I’m pretty spent from this weekend. You know…when you dragged me and Carlo to your cousin’s house party?”
Archer holds open the doors to the back of the school, where I can endure the rest of this torture with a cigarette pressed to my lips. Poor Carlo behind me, though, looks exhausted enough to contemplate leaving me to fend off the bad guys myself.
Or at least put out a hit on Archer.
The sound of pouring rain engulfs us the second we’re out of the building, leaving Carlo very little time to flip open the umbrella as we run to the nearest shelter.
An opened umbrella table.
“Since when are you such a damn drag, Montgomery?” Archer asks, water dripping from his hair onto his forehead as he sits crisscross on top of it.
“Since when are you such a damn party animal, Beaumont?”
Don’t get me wrong, Archer always loves a good time, but lately? All he wants to do is go to parties, and now it seems he’s moved on to throwing some of his own.
It’s almost like he’s afraid to slow down.
Or maybe stop and think.
Especially about me, since I much prefer the night life to take place in the actual streets of the city. Not some glorified frat houses he swears are better than clubs.
“Signorina…” Carlo points to the surface next to Archer, his Italian full of concern as he warns me it’s wet.
Every day this guy becomes more and more freaking adorable.
“My ass is already drenched and way too fat to drown, buddy,” I tell him with a hop onto the table.
Carlo’s in full “trying to interpret English mode” as he steps a few feet back under his umbrella to give us space.
Archer hugs his knees to his chest. “I just wanna make the best out of senior year, that’s all.”
Pulling the half soaked Newport from behind my ear, I bring it to my lips and spark the end of it. “I think it’s been pretty awesome already, all things considered.”
New drama.
New marriages.
New enemies.
New dangers.
Both visible and invisible.
The list goes on until the end of time.
“Yeah…you’re right.”
Through a smile and a pull I shoot out, “Duh.”
I’m seconds from a victory pat on the back when Archer responds, “But we’re still taking out my family yacht this weekend.”
Of course we are.
Movement coming from the parking lot steals my attention, and when I look over I find Theory and Annalie rushing to the entrance door huddled under Saint’s Letterman jacket—with Saint in nothing but a soaked white tee following behind them.
There’s a tightness in my lungs, but it’s not from the smoke I’m holding inside.
They’re filled with anger, what-if’s, and undeniable longing for the guy I haven’t been able to muster more than an “excuse me” to since the first of school.
No usual Hendrix raging.
Secret vendettas. Axes to grind.
Not even tit to seek out tat.
Just me and this girl I don’t recognize, carrying around pain neither of us know what to do with.
It took days for Saint to carve out a version of what my heart looks and feels like with him in it, only to smash both to pieces.
It’s as tragic as it is heartbreaking for what we could’ve been.
I’m watching Theory whisper something to Annalie as Archer moves in on my ear too. “I’m surprised they aren’t—”
“Give it a second…fewer brain cells take bitches longer to think.”
Archer chuckles, and like clockwork the two of them shift gears from the door to a table not far away.
Pathetic. Pathetic.
Almost as much as Saint’s need to help his little sister and her fake ass bestie climb on top of it.
Last I remembered, they both have working arms and legs.
One equipped with knees that work plenty of overtime.
“Should we go?” Archer questions when I’m hit with two lipsticked smirks.
I blow out a puff of smoke. “Nah, let ’em get soaked for nothing.”
Fighting the urge to return Saint’s fleeting glances from the chair he’s straddling, I center my thoughts around the stick between my fingers and Archer’s hushed voice.
“Still not a word, huh?”
“Nope.” I suck in a drag.
“Just proves you’re better off without him.”
For someone as smart as Archer, the guy sure can be dense.
“How could I ever be without him, dude? Seriously. His dad married my mom.”
Archer’s wince is nothing short of apologetic. “Good point. But at least you don’t have to worry about coming out to them as a…step-couple?”
The idea of Saint being my boyfriend-slash-stepbrother sounds as cringe out loud as it does in my head.
But the complete opposite when we were together.
In fact, every time, including the ugly times, felt like an involuntary movement. Like when traveling from one place to another unsure of how you got there—but still knowing it’s where you belong.
Point proven when I realize my eyes drifted to a soaking wet Saint. Who, apart from the shirt glued to his muscles and usual stoic features, has an underlying sadness etching the curves of his face. One I’ve only seen after he pulled me off his bed, and I had to convince him he didn’t hurt me.
Quite the poetic turn of events now that he actually did.
In spite of my anger toward Saint, I allow myself a moment to succumb to the weakness and take him in, shock punching the wind out of me as the corner of his lips hitch slightly. Not in a callous way, but in a “I’ve been hoping you see me too” kinda way.
As if we haven’t spent every Sunday in silence around a dinner table with our parents. We still share every single class. Friends. Secrets we’ll take to the grave.
God, this boy is maddening.
But I miss him so damn much.
Theory’s over dramatic laugh forces me to blink away thoughts of Saint, returning my mind and my heart to the body on the table.
“Nice to have you back…” Archer chuckles, plucking the cigarette close to burning a hole in my skirt out of my hand.
“Sorry…” I tell him as he puts it out in a drop of water between us.
“No need to apologize, Hen. I get it. You care about the asshole.”
“No. I care about the good guy hiding behind the asshole.”
“Or maybe the good guy was never there to begin with.”
“He’s there, trust me.”
His presence comes and goes like the air in my lungs.
A bout of silence falls around us when the rain suddenly lets up, and once again I find my attention journeying to the far end table.
Theory climbs off it, Annalie right behind, running her finger up Saint’s arm as he stands.
Dumb handsy bitch.
And what makes it even worse is Saint not flicking her off like the dirty little flea she is. Instead he turns away from me to yank on Annalie’s hair, making her wince as he mutters something in her ear. Good or bad, I’m not sure, but whatever it is, she’s grinning at me when he lets her go.
The audacity is beat down worthy for sure, but what the bitch mouths next seals the timeline of her wretched existence.
“He’ll never want a fat, ugly bitch like you.”
“So, whaddya think?” I pop out of a Macy’s dressing room stall, twirling for Carlo in the fifteenth outfit I’ve tried on for Archer’s yacht party Saturday.
Yes, at first I was reluctant, but after Saint and Annalie lit a torch in my belly three hours ago, I decided to say a wholesome “fuck you” to both by not allowing myself to stoop to their level.
Call it the high road…or river.
At least for now.
“ Molto bella, signorina .” Carlo nods, ignoring the middle aged dressing room assistant telling him to leave. “I think -eh this is the one.”
“Really?” I run both hands down the black off-the-shoulder dress, then lift a foot to examine the saddle tan boots.
The same knee high chunky heelers Theory and I were supposed to buy together.
Oopsies.
He tilts his head to make a suggestion in Italian.
“A necklace? Really?”
Carlo chef kisses the air, making me laugh.
“Well, then I guess we’ll go looking for one, then.”
“Great idea,” the assistant cuts in with a sarcastic smile. “Maybe he should start now.”
“Fuck off, lady.” I say as I return to the dressing room. “Doubt you get paid enough to catch a beating.”
Her threat to call security is the only reason I instruct Carlo to head back outside the room, along with the sound of someone changing in the stall next to mine.
It takes me multiple onceovers, squished faces, and contemplations to seek the opinion of a stranger before stripping off the dress, and would’ve so caved to the last one if the chick wasn’t huffing dramatically over whatever she tried on.
After all is said and done your girl’s a struggle-bussin’ mess with dresses, boots, and bag in hand, dealing with a handle to a door deciding to get stuck.
I twist. Then twist some more. Until the door flies open, and I stumble forward, along with everything I’m holding onto, including my open bag.
Karma must be a minimum wage Macy’s employee.
“Fucking aye…” I curse and drop onto my haunches, collecting my entire life off the floor.
“Here, let me help.” Huffy chick appears out of the stall, with blonde hair, dangling a Louie and gown.
I take note of a subtle accent.
European maybe?
“Thanks,” I tell her when she lowers in front of me, then again when she hands me my wallet.
“No worries. Happens to me all the time.”
“What’s your name?”
“Leerie,” she states, picking up my school I.D. and looking it over. “Hendrix Montgomery.”
“In all my glory.”
Leerie grins, doing the honors of placing the I.D. in my bag. “Hendrix…that is quite the unique name.”
“So many people say.”
“After the musician, I assume?”
“Grandfather loved him.”