Page 49 of Insincerely Yours
Jase’s only answer is a grin as he turns to grab a sheet of paper off a corner table. “You know Cold Shoulder?”
“I’m sorry?”
He hands over the paper, and I realize it’s a flyer for some sort of garage band. “They’re playing at a party in C.H.S. territory tonight, and I was wondering if you wanted to go.”
I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are up at my hairline.
When you have social anxiety like I do, you’ll find that parties really aren’t your forte. And being thrown into a roomguaranteed to be filled entirely with strangers? Yeah, that’s a special kind of hell. Meeting new people generally leaves me with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression and zero function of my vocal cords—not exactly who you’d call “good company.” I explain as much, but Jase doesn’t look convinced.
“You’ve never had any problem talking tome,” he points out. “And I promise not to leave your side.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d just be cramping your style. Besides, I won’t be able to get away tonight. Everyone is supposed to be home by five. Even if they think I’m just hanging out in my room, my dad will check on me at least once or twice.”
“What if you just ask if you can go out?” He bats his eyelashes in such theatrical fashion I can’t help but laugh. “Your dad told everybody you sprained your ankle two weeks ago. It should be well enough by now that people can expect you to bewalking.”
The thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. My only experiences with parties, outside of children’s birthdays when I was little, are the formal social events my family drags me to. Hell, I don’t even attend any of the football games or school dances. I’m awkward, and the other people with whom I’m on a semi-friendly basis are my equally awkward classmates who hole up in the library with me. We can barely bring ourselves to talk to one another, let alone the normal student body.
If it wasn’t for being overwhelmed by the sheer terror and annoyance I experienced during our first two meet-cutes, I don’t think I could have ever brought myself to talk to Jase.
Thankfully, he doesn’t press me on the matter for the time being, instead occupying himself with pulling up the movie menu forHoleson his laptop. The screen syncs with the television outside, and with a check at the clock, Jase confirms we have enough time to watch it, with forty-five minutes left to spare before Vanessa and Blythe are expected back at my house.
He directs me back downstairs, this time to the kitchen.
“Can’t have a proper screening without the essentials,” he confirms, grabbing two bags of popcorn and placing the first into the microwave.
As we wait, I take in my surroundings. Everything is white like the rest of the downstairs, from the countertops to the appliances. The only splash of color I see is caught from the corner of my eye, down the back hallway. Curiosity has the better of me, because I poke my head outside the kitchen, finding the entire wall lined with framed canvases. Unlike the cold monochrome artwork making up the rest of the house, vibrant watercolors instantly warm the hallway. Each painting is portraiture yet abstract. There’s something undeniably effervescent about them, from the bright pinks to even the muted blues. They convey bliss and sadness and longing, all pouring out from the subjects’ eyes.
“These are beautiful,” I say, hearing footsteps move up behind me. A “thank you” is returned, only it isn’t Jase who answers.
It’s not like I’ve done something wrong, but with the way I startle at the sound of the feminine voice, you would think I’ve been caught snooping through someone’s underwear drawer.
I whirl around to see Mrs. Rivers leaning against the door jamb separating the hallway from the kitchen. Anytime I’ve seen her—usually at the country club or attending school social events—she’s always dressed up like my stepmom, in what Blythe prefers to call “business casual attire.”
But Mrs. Rivers isn’t wearing her usual blouse, slacks, and pearl necklace. She’s in a worn pair of cotton leggings, flip-flops, and an oversized t-shirt that reads, “More Books To Get Than F*cks to Give.” Her typically sleek shoulder-length blonde locks are pulled up into a messy bun, and I can see a hint of dark brown roots at her hairline. Jase may take after hisfather regarding build and facial structure, but it’s clear who he inherited his hair and eyes from.
She introduces herself, moving in next to me to point at the painting I’d been admiring most. “This has always been my favorite. I did this the summer after I got my bachelor’s degree.”
Wait…
“Youpainted these?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but Jase’s mom has never been known for being anything other than your run-of-the-mill PTA mom-slash-housewife. If she’s this talented, why hasn’t she been featured in any of the art galleries downtown?
I broach the question as politely as I can when she confirms, but it’s Jase who provides answers, not sounding particularly pleased.
“Oh, you won’t be finding her workanywhereso long as Dad’s mistress is still lurking around.”
I balk, because…what?
Mrs. Rivers catches my expression and actually laughs. “Jason’s referring to Clark, his dad’s campaign manager.”
I’m slightly more relieved, but just as confused. “Didn’t he just get reelected to Congress this past fall? Why would he already need a campaign manager again?”
“You’re assuming he got rid of him,” Jase mutters.
Mrs. Rivers, or Carmen, as she insists, explains that Clark essentially works as both managerandpublicist, depending on what political ‘season’ it is. “‘And any little perceived wrongdoing now can hurt you in a big way come election time.’” She quotes this with a roll of her eyes, clearly having heard it more than once. “Clark wants Michael to have as squeaky-clean of a reputation as he can, and he believes my paintings could hurt that.”
“Why?” It’s not like her artwork is pornographic or something.
“It isn’t about the art itself,” says Jase. “It’s about who’sbuyingit, and special interests are always trying to gain favor with politicians.”
