Page 46 of The Sun
Both my brows raised. “Uh. . .” I opened one of her dresser drawers and rummaged for a T-shirt.
“It’s totally official. Jenny’s nose butt even asked me what was going on, and I gladly told her you were madly in love. How does everyone else know you two are a thing except you?”
“Because we haven’t talked about it.” I snagged one of those retro, baseball tees with a white body and navy blue, quarter-length sleeves and slipped it on.
Daisy shoved a pair of cut-off shorts at me. “You don’t talk about these things, Sunny. They just happen.”
They just happen?
I get the just happening thing with Daisy and Ben, they were all hands and mouths and passing notes between classes. Brandon and I were just. . .something.
Sure, I liked him. I was attracted to him. And when he kissed me, it wasn’t awkward because it was gross. It was awkward because there was no spark, no breathless moment. No tongue.
I buttoned the shorts and tugged the hem of the shirt down before smoothing my hand over the well-worn fabric. Daisy stepped behind me, pulling on some white lace ensemble over her tight shirt and hip huggers. She glanced at our reflection. “We’ve arrived, Sunny. We’ve arrived.”
Funny thing was, I was never trying to arrive anywhere.
“I’m not doing it!”I was near a full-blown panic attack as I glanced at the well-lit window of Pickle’s Pit Stop from Daisy’s car.
“Really? You’re way hotter than I am.” She flipped her visor down and glanced in the vanity mirror, fluffing her hair.
“And I’m also the sheriff’s daughter!” I tossed my hands up in a total what-the-hell gesture. “No!”
Rolling her eyes, she threw open her door. “Fine.”
The door slammed closed, and I plastered my hands over my eyes.
Daisy was seriously losing it. Total preacher’s kid. When I pulled my hands away, she was trotting up to the counter with a case—a case—of Natty Lite. Although I had to give it to her, she swayed her hips like she was on a runway, her gaze dead set on the poor guy behind the register.
She tossed the beer on the counter. There was a moment where neither of them moved. All I envisioned was the guy asking for her ID and her running back out to the car and us peeling off, but after a short stare down, she smiled and flicked her hair over her shoulder, and the guy grabbed his little scan wand and rang her up.
She had a victorious smile when she Peg-Bundy walked out. Squealing, she tossed the case in the back seat. “I’m telling you, arrived, Sunny.”
Thomas Radcliffe’shouse stood right in front of us. Tall and white and quintessentially Southern with its wrap-around porch and sloping tin roof. Every light in the house was on, the windows filled with silhouettes of people dancing.
Daisy pointed toward an area that resembled a car dealership lot—Robertsdale High and a few Lockhart High decals hanging from the rear views. “And can you tell me why we parked on the street?”
“In case we need a quick getaway,” I said.
“Wow. What kinda plans do you have for tonight?”
With a half roll of my eyes, I stepped onto the porch. Unintelligible rap lyrics blasted from inside, and we both stared at the door. Every party I had been to had party-goers meandering around outside. The door was usually open or at the very least ajar, so there was never the question of whether you knock or not.
“Do we ring the bell?” I asked.
Daisy held the beer to her chest and shrugged.
Just when I went to press the doorbell, the door swung open and two very drunk Lockhart guys stumbled out, laughing and sloshing beer everywhere. We took the opportunity to dart inside, and my hand immediately went to my nose to block out the smell of alcohol that seemed to envelop us.
The thump of bass rattled the frame of the laughably stereotypical cross stitch—Home is where the heart is—tacked over the doorway to the living room. Frilly curtains hung from the windows. Commemorative NASCAR plates decorated the walls. And teenagers slammed back beers and vodka-laced punch like it was an Olympic sport.
“Wow,” Daisy mumbled. “This is not what I expected bad boy Thomas Radcliffe’s house to look like. There’s cross-stitch.”
“Me either.”
“I expected more. Flare?”
“I expected something that didn’t look like my grandma’s house.”
