Inhaling slowly to steady myself, I meet my mother’s eyes. “It’s fine, Mom. The guy who hosted the party is nice, okay? If it makes you feel better, I’ll take Jordan with me.” I have no intention of bothering Jordan at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday, but my mom doesn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” She narrows her eyes. “Be careful. And stay in touch.”

“I will.”

My car is a Toyota Prius, a handful of years old. Dad refused to buy me anything too flashy or expensive because I’m a terrible driver. The Prius is my fifth car, and it already has a number of bumps and dings and scrapes. I’ve named most of them—Mailbox Crush, Post Problem, Fence-That-Shouldn’t-Have-Been-There, Rainy-Day-Run-In, Acci-Dent.

I know roughly where the party house is, since it’s so close to Nick’s home. In a weird way, Nick and Gatsby are kind of neighbors despite the vast differences in their wealth, separately only by forested acreage and a rocky spur of the mountain.

I’m halfway to Gatsby’s when my phone chimes. I’m so tempted to check it while driving, but for someone like me who can barely navigate mountain roads with my full attention intact, looking at a text would be disastrous. There’s a gas station ahead—the one Nick stopped at the other day—so I turn in there and park.

The message is from Nick. Sorry I didn’t text you. Weird stuff happened last night. Come over.

So he’s okay—or at least, he’s alive. I text back, On my way.

Some of the tension drains from me as I lean back in my seat. I don’t have to panic-drive over there—I can take a moment to breathe.

Movement by the door of the gas station catches my eye. It’s Myrtle, with her cloud of squiggly blond hair and her bubble-gum pink lips. She’s leaning against the brick wall, and beside her stands a slender dark-haired man with cheekbones like knives. The sight of him stalls my pulse.

Tom’s biceps bulge as he reaches up to light his cigarette. He flicks the lighter shut and slides it into the pocket of his deliciously snug jeans. My heart aches again at the beauty of him, at the memory of my hips pressed to his—the scent of pineapple and bergamot swirling in my nostrils. His lips on mine—mint and the faint aftertaste of cigarette smoke. His fingers, laden with rings, dancing on the steering wheel to the music pounding from the speakers of his truck. Wind slapping my clothes as I rode behind him on his motorcycle.

And I remember him easing into me from behind, one hand planted on my spine, the way he liked it. “Say you belong to me,” he’d pant, hips rocking against my rear, sending swirls of pleasure through my belly. Close, so close—

“I belong to you,” I’d gasp. “Only to you.”

“Mine,” he’d groan. Sometimes he would smack my ass until it was red and sore, even though he knew I didn’t like spanking. It made me feel weak and childish, made my own climax recede. I usually ended up frustrated and unsatisfied. But Tom said spanking me made him come harder, so I didn’t protest much, because I loved him.

I loved him, and he broke me.

My car is half-tucked behind a big tractor-trailer, so Tom and Myrtle haven’t noticed me. There’s no one else parked on this side of the gas station, no one to witness the argument they’re having. Either they’re already back together, or Tom’s trying to persuade her to come back—or he never actually broke up with her to begin with.

Myrtle steps forward, planting her hands on her hips. Her glossy white teeth are bared and snapping; her enormous candy-colored hoop earrings swing wildly with every sentence. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I recognize the hard lines of Tom’s shoulders, the tension in his stance. He’s approaching his limit, the place where he loses control. I used to be able to talk him down from those violent moments; I’d shift into my low, persuasive tones, as musical as I could make them, and I’d lure him away from that peak. It gave me a kind of thrill, knowing I could tame the beast, knowing he needed me. I had some romantic notion that my love empowered him to be a better person.

Absently I massage my own fingers, still sore from when he ground my knuckles together the other night.

Even when we were a couple, my powers of persuasion didn’t always work. He hurt me several times, in small ways—twisting a pinch of my skin, squeezing my hand too hard, hustling me along a little too roughly. Maybe it was only a matter of time before it escalated.

Even as I think the words, Tom’s free hand flashes. I hear the pop of his palm against Myrtle’s cheek all the way inside my car, despite the windows being closed.

Then he looks around to see if anyone saw him hit her.

My first impulse is to hunker down so he doesn’t notice me, so his anger doesn’t refocus in my direction.

But I can’t hide. That’s not who I am. Or at least, it’s not who I want to be.

I lunge out of the car and slam the door behind me as hard as I can. And I stare Tom down across the stretch of oil-stained pavement.

Myrtle is sobbing, clutching her face. I know he’ll apologize to her in a few minutes—buy her a treat or a gift to make up for what he did. “You push my buttons, girl,” he’ll tell her. “You know exactly what to say to make me mad. It’s a sign, you knowing me so well. A sign that we’re meant to be together.”

I should walk straight up to them and offer to call the police. I should offer to stand by her while she holds him accountable.

But I’ve pushed my courage to the max, and Nick is waiting for me. So I glare at Tom to let him know that I witnessed the slap.

A long moment passes, his eyes locked with mine, the ugly truth hanging in the air between us. Then he turns, without saying a word, and goes inside.

I take a few steps toward Myrtle. “Are you all right?”

“Fuck off,” she snaps, and she pushes through the door into the gas station.

Sure. Fine. I can totally fuck off.

My fingers, my legs—hell, my entire insides are still trembling as I get in the car and drive away. I’m still shaking when I reach Nick’s house. The Prius almost careens into the mailbox, but I manage to avoid it and park crookedly in the driveway.

Aunt Sarah is mowing the lawn in a cutoff T-shirt, her strong, tanned arms bared to the sun. She shuts down the mower and waves. “Nick’s out back.”

“Thanks.” I skirt the house and head to the backyard.

As I walk, I breathe, and I refocus. I did what I could at that gas station—I faced Tom, maybe stopped him from doing worse to Myrtle. That was enough, for now. Tom and Myrtle aren’t my immediate problem. I need to make sure Nick is really okay.

Their pool is small, and the concrete around it is spiderwebbed with thin cracks. The blue tile is faded and chipped. But what does it really matter? The water is the main thing. Nick is sprawled face down on an inflatable pool mat, trailing his fingers through the pool’s limpid surface. His freckled back looks as if someone sprinkled him generously with cinnamon.

He turns his face toward me and grins, his sparkling blue eyes a match for the pool. I hope that cute face of his didn’t get him into real trouble last night.

I kick off my sandals and swing my feet into the water. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

“What happened to you last night?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I danced with someone named Cody. Super hot. Said he went to USC. We danced a long time, and then we got drinks, and then we danced some more, until we weren’t dancing so much as—” He clears his throat. “Grinding. It was… He was… Well, we found a place to make out, and had another drink…and I don’t remember anything else after that.”

“Oh my god.” My stomach wrenches. “Did he…hurt you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sore anywhere. There’s no sign of anything, and trust me, I checked. Thoroughly. The only weird thing was a couple marks on my inner thigh. Two little dents, like I slept on something pointy. Which is possible. Anyway, when I woke up this morning, I was in one of the bedrooms in Gatsby’s house. Second floor. The staff brought me this amazing breakfast—bacon, eggs, a yogurt parfait, fresh-squeezed orange juice, toast, the works. They barely talked to me except to tell me to eat up and drink a lot of liquids. When I was done, they called me a car and gave me a gift bag full of stuff—good stuff, like fancy cologne, Haus samplers, lotion and Summer Fridays lip balm and macarons.”

“Did you see him? The Gatsby guy?” My heart quivers when I say his name—stupid freaking heart.

“Nope. Saw a few other party guests, though. A handful of girls, a couple more guys. They all seemed fine. They were squealing about the goodies in their gift bags. One woman said her dress got ripped the night before, and when she woke up, there was a new one hanging over the chair in her room. Similar style, her size and everything.”

“Wow. So he’s, like, super generous.”

Nick slides off the pool mat without answering and swims underwater until he can tweak my foot. He resurfaces, water glittering in his auburn curls. “Either that, or he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t want trouble. With anyone.”

I shiver. “Foreboding much?”

“Just keepin’ it real.” He plunges back into the water and does a lap before returning to me. “One more thing—there was another invitation from Gatsby in my bag.”

“What? Why didn’t you mention that earlier?” I kick water into his face.