Page 37 of Play Fake
When we get to the house, Wren unlocks the door.
“You can take her up. I’ll get some water and bring it up there.” Wren directs, clearly much more sober than her friends had been.
“Et tu, Brutus?” I hear Mac screech at her friend’s back as she walks away, and I haul her up the stairs.
Once inside her room, the wooden floors creak under my boots and the smell of her surrounds me practically knocking the wind out of my lungs as I finally ease her to the floor in front of me.
She immediately glares at me and uses her hands to straighten her skirt and hair out, trying to attain some semblance of order to her appearance again. A task that’s fruitless because she looks like a mess from the way I handled her—hair askew, face flushed, clothes wrinkled and pulled out of position. I want to back her up against the bed and kiss her until she moans for more, but I know, Iknow, I can’t cross the line with her.
“Thanks for nothing,” she grouches.
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
That much I can be sure of.
I’m sure I won’t be receiving a thank you note or anything, but I know she’ll be very glad when she wakes up with a hangover secure in the knowledge, she didn’t do anything stupid.
“I doubt we’ll be speaking in the morning.”
I feel the kick of her words in my gut. I know it’s probably true. She’ll probably never speak to me again after tonight, whether it’s because she’s angry I stopped her or embarrassed because she tried.
“Mac, I… I like you, all right. And I don’t want you to do things you’ll regret. I’d hate myself for that.”
She purses her lips together like I’ve just said something utterly stupid and contemptible.
“I don’t need your excuses, Waylon. You were super clear earlier. The only thing you can do for me is forget we ever talked at all.”
“Everything okay?” Wren asks sheepishly from behind me as she enters the room carrying a glass and pitcher of water.
“Perfect. Thanks so much,” she smiles at Wren, taking the glass and water.
“Yep. Got some Tylenol and a hangover powder packet too.” Wren waves the little packet before she pours it into the glass and crumples up the remaining paper.
“You are the best. Do you mind taking the trash out with you?” Mac levels a hard look at me, and it slices through me as intended.
Wren casts me a pitiful look as she walks toward the door, and I follow her out of it wondering if my better angels have just led me to make a decision I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
THIRTEEN
Mackenzie
By Thursday,I have almost—almost—achieved the ability to close my eyes without immediately replaying every embarrassing moment of the previous weekend. Olivia has learned of and long since dismissed the Liam kissing incident saying it doesn’t bother her at all, and while I’m sure she’s not remotely angry with me, I still have a hard time believing she’s got no ill will toward Liam. But that’s for her to figure out, and for me to supply cookies and margaritas while she does.
And perhaps most luckily, I haven’t heard a single peep from Waylon. Not a text. Not a run in on campus. Not a stop by, even when Liam came over earlier in the week to patch things up with Olivia.
I’d been waiting all week for him to burst out from some dark corner to taunt me mercilessly over my ridiculous suggestion that the two of us hookup. I’d given him the ultimate humiliating ammunition, and I could only hope he was too drunk to remember, too busy to care, or had just enough mercy in his black heart to pretend to not remember. I’d take any of them if we happened to run into one another again, which I would do anything to avoid.
And that started by not being at tonight’s movie night.
“And if another fight breaks out?” Wren grumps about my leaving to meet Ally tonight for drinks.
“They’ve all cooled off, I think. And I’m sure you can handle it. Besides, you guys are having it outside tonight, right? So, nothing should get broken.”
Olivia had decided that Liam and the hockey player could and would get along, so tonight she was bringing him along for the fun of it. I questioned the wisdom of trying it so soon after the two of them tried to rearrange each other’s faces, but she insisted everything was “cool”.
“Yes. See, look, you’re going to miss s’mores and outdoor movie night. It might be the last of the season!”
Occasionally, we made a makeshift movie screen in the backyard with a sheet and a projector. A fire pit, blankets, air mattresses and s’mores made for a perfect backyard fall movie theater where we could watch classics likeNightmare on Elm StreetandEdward Scissorhands. I was a little sad to be missing it, but not enough to risk seeing Waylon.
