Page 217 of Wild Card 13

“There he is!” he shouted, holding one arm up like I had returned from war instead of driven fifteen minutes from my parents’ house. “Fargo’s problem!”

I pointed at him. “Your speaker sounds like a dying lawn mower.”

Mase came down the deck steps behind him, calm as ever in jeans and an old Northbend hockey T-shirt, a bottle of water in one hand. “You came.”

“You threatened kidnapping.”

“That was only motivational.”

“It was a crime.”

“Gray area.”

I let Simon throw an arm around my neck and drag me toward the deck. People called my name from every direction. Teammates. Classmates. Girls from our grade who had hugged Lucy after graduation even though I was pretty sure Lucy had only spoken to them twice. Guys I had played with since mites. Everyone bright and loud and sweaty from summer and freedom.

For a while, I let it carry me.

I argued with Simon about the speaker. Lost to Mase at darts because he had the focus of a man who enjoyed making his friends suffer quietly. Ate two hot dogs I did not need. Took a plastic cup of lemonade from Claire, who informed me I looked emotionally constipated and then walked away before I could defend myself.

I checked my phone too many times.

No new messages from Lucy. She was with her mom. That was good. It was supposed to be good.

Near nine, my cousin Samantha found me by the sliding door. She was technically my second cousin, but the Burns family used cousin as a general category for anyone who appeared at holidays and knew which aunt made the bad potato salad. Samantha was a year younger than me, all long dark hair and sarcastic eyebrows, wearing a denim jacket despite the heat because she was always cold. She had come with one of her friends from school and hadalready spent twenty minutes making fun of Simon’s punch from a safe distance.

“You look tragic,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe beside me.

“Thank you.”

“Not in a hot way.”

“I assumed.”

Her mouth curved, but it faded quickly. Her eyes moved over the deck lights, then toward the living room where the music was louder and bodies kept passing in front of the lamps.

“You good?” I asked.

Samantha got migraines that could take her out for a day if she did not catch them early. I knew that because she had once vomited into Mom’s hydrangeas during a Fourth of July barbecue while every adult in the family argued over whether she needed crackers, darkness, ice, or prayer.

I straightened. “Do you have your meds?”

“In my bag.”

“Where’s your bag?”

She waved vaguely toward the hallway. “Guest room, I think.”

“Samantha.”

“What? I didn’t know Simon was going to create a nightclub for people with poor judgment.”

Across the room, Simon shouted, “This playlist is art!”

Samantha winced.

The smile slipped off my face.

CHAPTER 27