8. Valentine
Ella’s house is giant. Not in the way August thinks mine is—a remodeled middle-class home with an open floor plan and updated appliances—hers is a legit mansion. The kind of place where you gulp when you see it and worry about breaking something even when you’re sitting still on the couch.
We share a wide-eyed glance as we walk down the long driveway made of stone squares, outlined by a lattice of grass. I bet someone’s sole employment is making sure the thin lines of driveway grass are trimmed to perfection, not to mention the potted trees that are shaped like bubbles and have more precise haircuts than I do.
August and I walk around the looped end of the driveway to the front door, which is currently cracked open. We slip inside and follow the sound of voices and music to an enormous circular living room with teens sprawled on oversized couches. The far wall is made entirely of glass, overlooking the back deck and giant pool.
“Damn,” is all he says, and I couldn’t agree more. Neither of us has ever been in a house like this; we don’t even know anyone who knows anyone who has a house like this. It’s packed with Ella’s friends, all busy socializing or eating.
“Pretty nice, huh?” Justin says, walking up behind us, taking a swig out of a glass soda bottle.
“Just about the size of my family’s guesthouse, maybe a little smaller,” I say.
He laughs at my absurd joke. “In that case, remind me to hit you up for our next party.”
“Done. Just call my assistant.” I’ve always found this type of thing easy, sliding into conversations and making people feel at ease.
Justin smiles. “Come on. I’ll give you guys a quick tour.”
I don’t need to look at August to know what he’s going to say next.
“Bathroom?” August asks, and there is an almost indiscernible tightness in his voice, something no one but me would notice. Justin, Kyle. Kyle, Justin. We haven’t discussed it, but we both know the other knows, the same way I imagine twins have an instinct when the other is in trouble.
Justin points to two different restroom options.
“Thanks, man,” August says and he’s off, shoulders back and head high with another paint-splattered T-shirt on, once again transformed into Holden.
“Good,” Justin says, assessing me as August disappears around a corner. “You wore your bathing suit.” He looks briefly at my chest and then smiles like he approves.
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Too bad you didn’t wear your tact.”
For a second his eyes widen. Then he laughs. “You’re funny.”
“I know.” And you’re gross, I think.