Not this story. Not this night.
In this story, the wrong story, she lay atop a grungy bedspread, a hard and creaky mattress, in a slimy motel room, groping in the darkness and ignoring the moans and thuds seeping through the paper-thin walls.
In this story, Prince Charming was a drunken clod who passed out and left her alone.
Beth lay very still, listening to his even breathing and trying to forget the night, though it hadn’t yet ended. The hours stretched ahead of her, a desert of time. So much for her perfect night; so much for her fairy tale.
This is not the way it was supposed to be, Beth thought, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep. This is not the way it was supposed to be.
This is not the way it was supposed to be, Harper thought, scuffing her weary feet against the pavement. She’d left Miranda’s house elated, the alcohol and pot and laughter fusing into the perfect painkiller.
But over the long walk home, strappy heels in hand, her mood had changed.
When she reached her house, she took a few steps up the stone walkway to the front door, then stopped. Her parents, as always, thought she was sleeping at Miranda’s, so it’s not like they were waiting up. There was no reason to go inside-not yet. She veered around the house and found her way into the backyard. She clambered up to the flat top of her rock-their rock-and shivered in the chilly night breeze.
Somehow, everything had gone wrong.
It was her senior year. It was the night of the party. Her party. She wasn’t supposed to spend the night rolling joints with Miranda-she was supposed to be with Adam, happy, in love. Not bitter, not alone.
It was only a few weeks into the school year, and everything, everything was wrong.
And there was no way in hell that she was going to take it anymore.
She was Harper Grace. Alone and pathetic, jealous and bitter were not her style. Tears were not her style, she reminded herself. She angrily wiped them away, then sat up and pulled out her cell phone. Typed in a familiar number, then began composing her text message.
She hesitated for a moment, hand hovering over the keys, thinking about the night she’d just spent with Miranda, the loyal friend who stayed with her through everything, who always rescued her, who always got her through.
She thought about a promise she’d made, a promise that she’d meant.
And then she thought about Adam-about Adam and Kaia, the embrace she still saw every time she closed her eyes. About Adam and Beth, who were probably together right now, hand in hand, body on body, flesh against flesh.
There are some things more important than friendship, Harper decided. Some things more important than promises.
And, hoping she was right, she hit send.
Kane was likely busy right now, she knew, but sometime tomorrow he’d wake up, slough off his hangover, and read her message: If offer is still open-I’m in.
about the author
Robin Wasserman enjoys writing about high school-but wakes up every day grateful that she doesn’t have to relive it. She recently abandoned the beaches and boulevards of Los Angeles for the chilly embrace of the East Coast, as all that sun and fun gave her too little to complain about. She now lives and writes in New York City, which she claims to love for its vibrant culture and intellectual life. In reality, she doesn’t make it to museums nearly enough, and actually just loves the city for its pizza, its shopping, and the fact that at three a.m. you can always get anything you need-and you can get it delivered.
