“Everybody loves good music. Come on, what do you say? Lil music video, you and me? Hey, maybe the guy who hosted the party last night would let us use his recording studio.”
“He has a recording studio? Like, at his house?”
“Yeah, girl! Top-notch equipment, too. I’ll introduce you, and you can ask him. Bet he can’t say no to the Daisy Finnegan charm.”
Heat crawls into my cheeks. I want to ask if this guy is hot, but that would sound a lot shallower than I want to be. And I don’t like it when people constantly mention my “charm.” Makes me uneasy for some reason.
“Maybe we can do one song,” I say. “But I’m not rapping.”
“Oh, hell no.” Jordan splays her fingers over her heart. “That would be a disaster.”
“Agreed.”
The rest of the day is a swirl of glimmering heat and limpid water, the hot slats of the pool chairs at Jordan’s house, and the crisp pop of soda on my tongue. By the end of it I’m deliciously tired, sunbaked down to my bones. I think I might actually be able to fall asleep at a reasonable hour tonight.
Nick drops me off in my driveway and I meander toward the front door, flicking through messages on my phone, its glow coating my fingers.
My parents texted they’d be home late—some dinner thing with colleagues, or friends, or both. Lately, with them, every social occasion seems to shift into a networking opportunity, a chance to climb even higher on the ladder of luxury.
Haven’t we climbed high enough? I mean, they were able to pay for my college outright, and they live in this amazing neighborhood. But I guess people never stop striving for more. Unless, of course, you’re me, and you have zero ambition or motivation.
When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me to “check my privilege.” He’d say it constantly, whenever I complained or acted a little too proud of my achievements. At the time we had far less than we do now, yet he’d point out all the ways I was better off than others, all the opportunities I’d been given that others hadn’t. He’d explain how our whiteness itself was an advantage. He’d tell me that sometimes we have to actively step back and put others forward, to reject that unjust privilege, even if doing so hurts our chances of reaching our own goals.
He used to say all of that, years ago. But he hasn’t told me to “check my privilege” in a very long time.
I’m nearly to the front door when a dark shape emerges from behind a tall cedar bush. I yelp, and the figure claps a hand over my mouth. The faint scent of pineapple and bergamot wafts to my nostrils—Creed Aventus cologne, with base notes of stale cigarette smoke.
Tom.
Adrenaline spikes in my veins, and I wrench away from him. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were staying in Durham.”
“The job fell through, so I came back. I’m living with my parents until I get a place.” His voice is rough with emotion. “Listen, can we talk? About us?”
Several years’ worth of memories are knotted between us, their aching pull irresistible. Lunch on campus, sitting on a low stone wall, sharing bites of his sandwich. Autumn wind dashing leaves around us as he leaned in, laughing, to kiss my cold-reddened cheeks. Both of us curled up on his bed, laptops open, doing homework. His hand playing through my hair.
When he’s close to me like this, brushing my upper arms with his knuckles, bending his dark head toward mine, I can almost believe that Myrtle never existed.
I tilt my face up to his, and he cups my chin, his thumb grazing my lips.
“I came to tell you I’m sorry, Daisy,” he says. “I broke it off with Myrtle a few days ago. She was a mistake—a terrible mistake. I–I was out of my head. I didn’t understand what I was giving up.”
For a minute I indulge in his beauty—crisp cheekbones, sharp jawline. A body sculpted by years of soccer and track. A line from an old song, a favorite of my mom’s, drifts into my head. Something about a pretty boy with an ugly heart.
I have other memories, too. His eyes lingering too long on other girls as they walked by. His voice, insisting I eat a few bites of his lunch instead of getting my own because I was “putting on college weight.” When we did homework together, I’d end up finishing his assignments for him.
I want to be touched, I do. But not by him. Never again.
I pull away and step back.
“You still have the fob I gave you, the one that opens the community gate,” I say. “I’m going to need that back.”
“Daisy.”
“Where is it?” I extend my palm. “Hand it over.”
“Daisy!” He grips my hand with such ferocity that I cringe back, alarmed. With a twisting tug he yanks me closer, his rings grinding against the bones of my fingers. “I’m trying to apologize here. Don’t be a brat about this.”
I smell it then, the whisper of whiskey on his breath. “You need to go.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t. I came here to get you back. I’m not leaving until you take me back, Daisy.”
“Then you’ll be camping on the lawn, I guess. Enjoy yourself.” I try to jerk free, but his hand is like a vise.
“I miss your body, Daisy,” he purrs, one hand sliding along my waist, over my stomach. “I miss how you made me feel. I need you.”
I need power in this moment. My “charm,” or something stronger.
Inhaling slowly, I sink into softer, darker tones—my persuasive voice. “Thomas Reagan Buchanan. Let go of me and leave.”
His jaw flexes, and his blue eyes burn into mine. But then his fingers relax and he steps away.
That’s a first. Tom doesn’t usually back off for anyone. Maybe he has changed. Or maybe he’s got some other agenda here that I don’t fully understand.
Tom is still looking at me the way he always does, like he’s sucking all the beauty and joy from me into himself, swallowing it down.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“You shouldn’t.”
