“He probably just went off with someone.”

“But he would have texted me.”

“Really?” Jordan lifts her eyebrows. “He reports every romantic tryst to his cousin?”

“No, but—”

“It’s fine. One of Gatsby’s staff will call him a car when he’s ready to go. Just text him that we’re leaving, okay?”

My head is throbbing hard, and surges of nausea keep welling in my gut. I don’t have the energy to argue with her. After texting Nick, I climb into Jordan’s car and roll the window down, dragging in deep lungfuls of cool night air, beating back the sickness.

“You okay?” Jordan asks.

“Headache.”

“But you had fun, right?”

“I did, until—”

“Yeah, sorry I got called away. I met Gatsby, though! He’s hot and well spoken. And he told me things—god, Daisy, I can hardly believe it—but I can’t tell you. He made me promise not to say a word to anyone. But it’s life-changing, Daisy, honestly.”

“Don’t trust him,” I say wearily. “We don’t know anything about him.”

“But he explained everything, and it makes so much sense. I really want to tell you. But I can’t. I promised not to. Not yet…”

“Jordan.” I can barely manage the word without gagging. “If you don’t want me to throw up in your car, please let’s just be quiet for a while. And drive slowly, for goodness’ sake.”

5

When I wake up, the memories of the party are a hazy nightmare. Gatsby’s face in the sweeping light of the dance hall. The unconscious girls being dragged along the second floor. The absence of Nick.

I fumble for my phone, but there are no messages from my cousin. And that scares me, with a jittery wretchedness that propels me right out of bed and into the first tank top and pair of shorts I can find. I scrape earrings off my dresser without even bothering to check if they match. I’m entering the kitchen before I realize that it’s Saturday—the day my parents usually have brunch together before splitting up to do chores or hobbies.

My dad is flipping French toast on a griddle while Mom sips coffee and reads him memes and headlines from her Twitter feed. Her auburn hair is a match for my aunt Sarah’s, but where Nick’s mom has a wild mane, my mom’s crisp bob is glassy smooth, even on a Saturday.

“You got in late last night,” she says to me, with a half-smile. “But you don’t seem hung over.”

“I didn’t drink much.”

“That’s my girl.” My dad shakes the spatula at me so vigorously his glasses bounce on his nose. “That’s what I like to hear. My daughter, being smart.”

“Dad, I’m twenty-two. I can drink, and I do. I just…had other stuff on my mind last night.”

My parents exchange a glance I know all too well. They’re worried about me, which is why my mom prompted Nick to stage his little “reconnection intervention”—and now Nick is missing, and it feels like my fault.

“Join us for brunch?” Dad asks.

“Look, I’d love to, but I really need to find Nick.”

“Didn’t he go with you to the party?” My mother frowns.

“Yeah, we picked him up, but he didn’t leave with us. We couldn’t find him. I think he left with this guy…” My voice trails off as my mother rises, her dark eyes snapping.

“Daisy Faye Finnegan. Are you telling me you left your cousin at some stranger’s house?”

“He’s an adult, okay? And he was with someone,” I protest. “We checked everywhere. Jordan and I both looked, and we texted—”

“I’ll call your aunt Sarah and see if he showed up at home.” She has her phone to her ear before I can say anything else.

Dad flips a couple slices of warm French toast onto a plate. “Eat up, sweetie.” But he doesn’t smile.

Their disappointment is a weight, bowing my shoulders. It’s always like this with them—proud of me one second, pissed the next. I’m always getting close to their ideal, but never quite reaching it. I know they wish I’d had a higher GPA in college and graduated cum laude. That designation always looked and sounded kind of dirty to me, and I never really cared about it. All I cared about was getting through college so I could marry Tom, maybe travel the world with him—backpack through Europe and crap like that.

Tom was my whole plan. I should have known better. I mean, who makes her plans around a guy? Who calls herself a feminist and still does that shit? But I did, almost without realizing it.

I know my parents want me to have a plan for my life, now that college is checked off the list. But is it so wrong to just enjoy my summer without thinking about the next step? The whole cycle of “school, college, career, death” doesn’t really do it for me. I’d rather meet interesting people, and travel, and try new things. But having the freedom and money to do all that is a privilege in itself, one I’ll lose in a few months when my parents push me out of the nest. Might as well enjoy myself now.

I chew my French toast slowly, savoring the slide of melted butter and syrup over my tongue.

“Sarah says they haven’t seen Nick.” Mom sets her phone down.

So much for savoring my breakfast. “Okay. I’ll head back to the party house to look for him.”

“Your dad will drive you.” Mom gives Dad a pointed stare.

“I’m not going to crash on the way over there,” I protest. “It’s not that far.”

I stuff another bite of French toast into my mouth, set my dishes in the sink, and walk into the foyer to grab my bag. It’s a soft, slouchy thing with a distressed texture, so scrapes and snags don’t matter as much. I have, like, three dozen purses, but this one’s my favorite because it’s tough and it can hold everything, like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag.

Mom comes into the foyer as I’m opening the front door. “I’m not comfortable with you going to a strange house alone.”

I stare at her. “Mom. I’ve been on my own for a few years now. I think I can handle this.”

“But you haven’t really been on your own, have you?” She puckers her lips, glancing away. “You had Tom looking out for you.”

“Right.” My tone is dry as bones. “He did such a great job of that.”

I know it’s not fair, treating her like this. She only knows about the cheating, not all the other controlling, messed-up stuff Tom did. How could she know, when I avoid the topic every time she brings it up? But I can’t talk to her, I can’t, because I guess I’m still angry at her for letting me date him, for not seeing the signs and warning me. Wasn’t she supposed to protect me from guys like him? And now I’m damaged inside, and I can’t manage to heal, and I’m fucking pissed about it.

Obviously Mom and Dad aren’t mind readers. Tom fooled them into believing he loved me as much as I loved him. They never realized how toxic he was. The closest my dad came to that awareness was my senior year of high school. Dad stopped me in our front doorway one afternoon right before I left with Tom, and he said, “That kid reminds me of someone I knew back in school.”

“Okay,” I replied, shrugging.

“I didn’t like the guy,” my dad said. “He couldn’t see past his own reflection, if you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” I said, and then I left with Tom.

Maybe I should have listened more closely to what Dad was trying to tell me. Might have saved me some heartbreak. Either way, it’s not fair to put the blame on my mother. I was the one so deeply immersed in the relationship that I couldn’t see how Tom had changed, and what he was doing to me.