Page 129 of Even in the Dark

The cove is alive with energy. Flames from a massive bonfire lick the night sky, casting a warm glow over the crowd of teens scattered across the sand. Some huddle near the fire, others lounge on driftwood logs or dance to music blaring from a portable speaker.

"Laney! Maggie!" Liam jogs over, grinning. "You made it!"

Something about him looks different, and then it hits me—he’s wearing a shirt. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than board shorts. He still looks like a total surfer dude, though, in a faded Rip-Curl tee and too-long jeans.

Liam introduces us to his friends, and we chat for a while before drifting through the crowd, eventually linking up with Laney’s crew.

As the night wears on, I find myself relaxing. Her friends are warm and welcoming, cracking jokes and sharing stories—nothing like the snobs I’d assumed made up most of Sandy Haven. With the town’s reputation, I was worried I would be one of ten non-millionaire teens in the entire area.

A little while later, as we're just getting ready to make s'mores, huge whoops and cheers break out from the area near the base of the rickety stairs that lead down to the beach. I crane my neck in time to see a gorgeous blond guy in a backward ball cap sprinting down the bannister.

"SH Prep kids are here," Laney says, nodding toward the stairs.

"That's the private school, right?"

“Yeah." She takes a sip of her strawberry cooler. "Usually, there isn't a whole lot of mixing between SH Prep and Ocean Heights at parties and stuff. Except the first bonfire of the summer and the last one. And maybe a couple in between."

Just then, Blondie launches off the railing and executes a perfect backflip onto the sand, to even louder cheers from the crowd. For a guy his size, it’s shockingly graceful.

"I'm pretty sure Backflip Boy is Seb Murdoch," Laney tells me. "He’s been playing football at some fancy Maine boarding school for years, and now he's the talk of the town because he's back at SH Prep." She takes another long sip from her can. "The fact that he's probably gonna win the championship is apparently life altering."

"Well, I hope he does," I deadpan. "For the sake of his fragile self-esteem."

Laney snickers. “Yeah, poor dude”

Seb high-fives his friends, his arrival sending an electric ripple through the party. Even kids from our school seem to be drawn to him.

Laney crushes her can. “I think he’s besties with Xavier Rockwell—the guy who pissed you off the other day.”

Ah, hell. And my night was going so well.

I feign indifference. "You're not gonna have another hot flash and collapse if he shows up, are you?"

"Ha. Ha." Laney smacks me lightly.

"Just checking. Gotta know if I should brush up on my CPR skills."

"No promises." She grins. "Maybe just fan me with a large fern leaf if he comes this way."

"If Xavier Rockwell comes this way, I will be heading in the opposite direction." No way I’m letting that chiseled cheesehead ruin my night.

And I succeed—until almost midnight, when I head over to the coolers to grab another White Claw. I've had a couple more than I usually drink at parties, but I'm doing okay. I'm tipsy but not messy drunk. Ineverget messy drunk.

I reach in for a drink when a familiar voice jolts me back to reality.

Xavier Fucking Rockwell.

"Question," he drawls. "These lobster pants, are they a formal occasion kind of thing? Or for kicking around the house? Or more like doing yard work when—"

"I said rich people wear them, remember?" I cut him off, straightening and opening my drink. "So, clearly not for yard work."

"Got it. Just tea parties and croquet on the front lawn then."

"And those rare occasions when you deign to lower your social standards to rowdy beach bonfire gatherings." I glance down the length of his body, which is still perfection, unfortunately, and therefore still a harsh contrast to his obnoxious personality. Then I make a point of glaring distastefully at his faded black jeans as if they're offensive in some way, and finish my sentence, "But you obviously totally missed the mark on that one so… better luck next time."

I’m still pissed about my probation, and since we’re not at the Welsford, I don’t have to hold back.

"Just so I’m clear…" He props a hip against the rock and takes a pull from his beer. "I missed the mark wearing jeans to a bonfire, and you nailed it with"—he waves a lazy hand over my outfit—"whatever this is."

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