Nine #3
“Because it’s dark and cold, and you’re drunk. And besides, you don’t have a jac—”
It’s just now that I realize, drawing my eyes from the tip of her scuffed black boots to the rim of her turtleneck, exactly what—who—Darcy is dressed as. It’s pointless. I could super glue every nerve in my face, and still, the smile gripping the corners of my lips would triumph.
I reach out, tugging gently on the rim of her turtleneck with a taunting grin. “Kim Possible,” I point out. Her gaze darts to mine, arms tucked tight across her chest. “Was that for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Peyton. Cleo wanted to go as Shego, and I already had this in the closet.”
I nod, antagonistically. I believe her, but she doesn’t need to know that. Her strawberry brows furrow deeper, that cute freckle disappearing as the crease pops back up.
“It’s true,” she states defensively.
“Sure.”
Darcy steps closer, her tart cherry scent a cocktail with her vodka breath. “I wear this shirt all the time—”
“Haven’t noticed.”
“—and I bought these pants because of the pockets.” She turns to the side, gesturing down her leg to what looks like twenty of them. “I can fit all my stuff in these.”
I’m about to ask what “stuff” she’s referring to when she begins unsnapping every pocket, pulling out the most random items—phone, wallet, house key, a pack of Cheez-Itz, a pill bottle, an actual paperback book, socks, and a—
“Is that the puck I broke?” I ask, peering at the jagged piece of rubber amidst the pile of junk spread out on the bed. Darcy’s eyes widen, the proud grin on her face dropping.
“No,” she says, quickly reaching for it. But I swipe it up before she gets the chance, holding it up in my fairy lights to get a better look. I flash her a wolfish grin.
“Oh my god, it totally is!” I beam. She scowls, trying to snatch it out of my hand, but I hold it behind my back.
“I must have forgotten it was in there,” she says defensively, those strawberry eyebrows furrowing. “You left it on the floor.”
I flash her a skeptical look. “You weren’t wearing those pants that morning,” I point out. Darcy’s face flushes a shade of red that’s cute but almost concerning.
“You shouldn’t remember that,” she shoots. Then, she frantically snatches it from my hand, shovels the rest of her pile back into her pocket, and spins on her heel, reaching for the doorknob.
She’s not wrong. I shouldn’t remember that. But instead of sitting on it, I react. “Hold on a second, Ms. Possible.” I grab her sleeve—not her waist this time, just her sleeve—and pull her toward me. “Where are you going?”
She doesn’t turn back to look at me. She just keeps trudging forward, dragging me behind her like a horse and carriage.
“On a walk,” she mutters.
I shake my head, letting her go for just a second, then squeezing my way in front of her, sticking my arms out to block the exit. “You can’t just go on a walk by yourself.”
Darcy tilts her chin up, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Well?” she asks. “Are you coming then?”
For a moment, I think she’s teasing me. But she just stands there, perfectly still, eyes fixed on mine. I glance around, half-expecting some hidden camera to appear, but all I see is an otherwise empty room.
Turning back to her, I try to match her stare. “That’s not a good idea.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know, with the way you overexert yourself, you’re probably right. You’ll get a stress fracture or something.”
“That’s not why.”
“Then what is?”
An awkward laugh stumbles out of me. “I don’t know, Darcy. You’re kind of drunk. And you don’t like me, I don’t like you—”
“You don’t like me?”
I freeze. The words don’t hit me right away, but when they do, it’s like a skate to the shin. She’s staring at me with those expectant eyes, and heat pools over my cheeks. Fuck. That was a really asshole thing to say.
“I—umh—” I stammer. A nervous laugh slips out. “I mean … you—we—”
Shit.
Darcy’s still staring, and my stomach starts to sink, until my eye catches on the slight grin playing at the corner of her mouth.
That little brat. She’s totally fucking with me.
“Oh, fuck off, Coach,” I say, dragging out the title like a taunt. Darcy rolls her eyes, grabbing my wrist.
I’m definitely going to regret this.
But we have to mend fences somehow.
I tug my hoodie off the back of my bedroom door on the way out. It’s cold out, and I’m not about to let her go out there in just that little black turtleneck.
“Here,” I say, tossing it in her direction. “It’s cold.”
She catches it, face lighting up like I’ve handed her the sun.
Without hesitation, she pulls it over her head.
The hoodie’s a little tight, the sleeves a bit too short, and sure, I should probably grab one of Harlowe’s instead, but there’s something about seeing her in my hoodie, my number on her arm, that makes my chest do that unwarranted, unexplainable tightening thing again.
“Thanks,” she says casually, tugging the sleeves down.
I nod, clearing my throat. “‘Course.”
And without another word, we step out into the hall, the door clicking shut behind us.