Chapter 7
When I pull up to Hayes’s house, the party is already in full swing.
A caravan of Ubers winds through the electronic gate, and cars line the circular driveway, spilling out onto the lawn.
Hip-hop pulses from the backyard like a second heartbeat, the air thick with excitement and the promise of bad decisions.
I park in a secluded spot near the vineyards, so I won’t get blocked in. I want a clean escape route.
My plan is to find Hayes as quickly as possible, tell him about the letters I found in my mom’s things, get his advice, and then get the hell out of there. I know he’ll be busy—he always is at these parties—but if I can just steal a few minutes, I’ll feel better. I always do after talking to him.
I step out of the car and follow the long drive toward the front door. A familiar silhouette fills the entryway. Hayes’s football buddy Dylan lounges on the front porch, blocking the door.
He’s dressed in a button-down shirt, ripped jeans, and designer sneakers, the unofficial uniform of every cocky campus fuckboy.
Draped across his lap is Amber’s friend Tiffany, giggling at whatever he just said.
Tiffany’s model-tall and stunning, with legs that go on for miles.
She and my sister are practically conjoined, which means if Tiffany’s here, Amber’s not far behind.
For a split second, I consider turning around and driving straight back home.
But I need Hayes.
Just seeing his face, hearing his voice—it’s the only thing that can quiet the anxious buzzing in my chest.
So instead of fleeing, I grit my teeth, smooth down the black velvet corset top I threw on over my baggy jeans and keep going. Thankfully, Tiffany chooses that exact moment to head inside, probably in search of a drink. Or my sister.
Perfect.
If I can get to Hayes without being spotted by Amber or her friends, this night might actually be survivable.
“Well… hey there, gorgeous,” Dylan slurs as I approach. He hooks a finger through my belt loop and yanks, pulling me too close. His breath is hot and sour against my cheek. “Where you headed?”
“Hands off, Masterson.” I twist out of his grasp. “I gotta go.”
I try to sidestep him, but he swings an arm out and plants it against the doorframe, trapping me in place. He takes a drag from his blunt, then exhales in my direction. The sharp, skunky smell of marijuana hits me full in the face.
“What’s the rush? Hang for a minute. Have some fun.” He extends the joint toward me like it’s a peace offering. “Here—take a hit. Uh… Alison, right?”
“It’s Alysander.”
Dylan has never gotten my name right, despite meeting me at least half a dozen times.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Where is he? Inside the house or out by the pool?”
Dylan runs his fingers down the doorframe, eyes glassy with whatever mix of alcohol and drugs is pumping through his system.
“Who?”
“Hayes,” I bite out.
“Oh, that’s right. Now I remember.” He snaps his fingers like he’s just solved some complicated puzzle. “You’re Hayes’s little friend. So… you here all alone tonight?”
He traps a loose strand of my hair between his fingers, twirling it slowly with a slimy little wink. I hold in a groan. Dear God. Talking to him is a complete waste of time.
“Never mind. I’ll just find him myself.”
I try to walk around the guy again, but he won’t budge.
“You know the price of admission, right?” He gives me a sleazy grin. “Door tax is a kiss. House rules, babe.”
“Not a chance.”
I shift my weight, channeling every karate and boxing class I’ve ever taken, then bring my knee up sharply into the inside of his thigh. Not enough to do real damage. Just enough to make him yelp and instinctively step back.
“Ow—what the hell, Alison? Watch it!”
While he’s off balance, I duck under his arm, pivot, and slip past him through the doorway before he can recover.
“See ya, babe!” I call out sweetly, blowing him a kiss as I go.
Inside the house, the party’s already in full swing.
The living room is packed, vibrating with energy and chaos.
Music blasts from expensive speakers, so loud one of the oversized photos of Hayes’s father posing with his beloved racehorses hangs crooked on the wall.
A keg’s been shoved up against the leather couches, and Tony and some of Hayes’s other teammates are taking turns doing keg stands, beer spraying across the hardwood floor.
Surrounding them is a circle of pretty girls with Instagram-ready smiles, cheering them on like it’s a sporting event.
On the other side of the room, the basketball team plays beer pong on top of the custom-designed pool table. I wince as a cup tips over, beer spilling dangerously close to the stainless-steel cable pockets. Hayes’s father would have a coronary if he saw this.
I can’t believe Hayes’s parents are still gone. Especially Kora. She’s always back from Greece by the time school starts.
I’m not allowed to call her Mrs. Vassilios—just Kora.
She’s one of those effortlessly elegant, impossibly cool moms. A stunning, statuesque blonde, all sharp cheekbones and long, flowing limbs.
Kora is like a supermodel who stepped off the runway and into real life.
Her flawless skin looks ageless, like she could be 21 or 51, and she’s always draped in the latest European fashions.
Yet, somehow, on top of all that beauty and wealth, she’s also kind and unbelievably generous. The sort of person who remembers your favorite tea and stocks it in her cupboard just for you.
Hayes’s mother has always been a steady presence in my life, like a second mother.
When we were little, her chauffeur, Niccolò, would drive us all around town in her gleaming silver Rolls-Royce.
Just Hayes, me, and Kora. She went everywhere with us.
School carpool. Junior high dances. Karate classes.
She was the first to notice me lingering near Mr. Vassilios’s horses, watching with silent longing whenever Hayes and I played outside near the paddocks. Without asking, she somehow knew what I secretly wanted and convinced her husband to let me ride Steopethe, their oldest, gentlest gelding.
From that very first time, I was hooked. I’ve been riding ever since.
Kora also single-handedly saved my eighth-grade graduation.
Our families were supposed to attend the ceremony together, but everything fell apart when Mom showed up at Hayes’s house in a tie-dyed caftan with neon tassels and wooden clogs.
My mother has never blended in with the designer-clad moms of Laguna Hills—not like Kora, who wears crisp pantsuits to PTA meetings and tasteful cocktail dresses to school galas.
Mom’s tastes have always been more eccentric.
Colored scarves. Long flowing skirts from bohemian thrift shops. Crochet clothing.
I’d been mortified.
I ran upstairs and hid in Hayes’s closet, refusing to come out. These days, I try my best not to care what people think. But back then? I wanted to disappear.
Kora swooped in and worked her magic, convincing my mom to borrow one of her chic silk dresses and a pair of Chanel ballet flats, somehow without offending Mom or getting me grounded.
Kora would’ve made a terrifyingly effective diplomat.
She knows how to bend a situation to her will without anyone realizing she’s the one pulling the strings.
My mother ended up loving the dress so much, Kora let her keep it. It’s still hanging in her closet, reserved for special occasions.
A blast of cool air drags me back to the present as I step outside the sliding glass doors.
Having no luck finding Hayes inside, I make my way toward the backyard.
LED lights in the Olympic-sized infinity pool pulse and shift colors in sync with the bass thumping from the outdoor speakers.
The whole place is lit up with tiki torches and small clusters of fire pits are scattered across the lawn, their flames flickering against the night sky.
I pause for a moment, letting my eyes sweep over the space.
Hayes’s place has one of the best views in all of Laguna Hills.
Rolling green hills on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other.
If I squint hard enough, I can just make out where the dark sky meets the even darker sea.
It’s the kind of view that usually feels magical, but right now, it just feels like a distraction.
People I vaguely recognize from classes and Hayes’s apartment complex hover around more kegs and the greasy pizza boxes piled high on the outdoor tables. I notice, with disgust, that all the pizzas are topped with revolting olives—Hayes’s favorite. Because of course they are.
Unfortunately, none of the people stuffing their faces or the half-naked guys splashing around in the water are Hayes.
And he’s not in the pool house either.
I bite back an annoyed grumble and retrace my steps, heading back inside. If he’s not dominating at the pool table or flashing his abs in the hot tub, he must be in the kitchen, playing bartender. That’s his other go-to move at parties.
On my way to the kitchen, I spot my sister.
It’s exactly as I’d feared it would be. She’s holding court on the main staircase.
Her back is turned, but I’d know that mane of platinum-blonde hair anywhere, fluttering down her back as she tosses her head, laughing along with her friend Brooke.
They’re dressed almost identically—tiny, bright-colored skirts and low-cut tops.
And standing right between them, like he belongs there, is Hayes.
My stomach dips.
Amber leans in, one manicured hand resting on his shoulder as she whispers something into his ear. Her body language is unmistakable. Smiling, flirty, far too close. She’s clearly set her sights back on my best friend. And she’ll get him too.
Amber always gets what she wants.
But that doesn’t mean I have to stand around and watch it happen.