Page 32 of Icing Hearts

His other laugh is true and melodic. Deep. Uncontainable. It shows all his teeth—even the back ones because he tosses his head back. It shakes not only his shoulders but his whole body.

On the bench, while laughing true, his eyes had this tortured sparkle to them. Twin sad stars that know they’re burning out but wants to enjoy every moment of their final glow.

I’m wearing jeans tonight, a fluttery white, long-sleeved crop top, and shacket . My curls were falling, so I French braided my hair and tied a ribbon at the end. Vince tugs the tail of my braid. It’s cute.

We briefly greet Tory, and he gives me a withering look. I don’t know what to do with that, especially since we were getting along just fine during the game and after on the bus but I brush it off. Vince peels off to hang out with the hockey guys.

Jack finds me by the snack table, and we chat for a while with the lunch table girls. We take a few photos together and do a “Shot Ski” of tequila.

Tory’s parties are notorious for the “Shot Ski”—an old wooden ski with half a dozen divots whittled down the center for shot glasses. A couple guys spend the whole of every party marching around yelling “Shot Ski.” If they stop in front of you and your friends, everyone has to take a simultaneous shot from the glasses. Tonight, Henry Mavis is one of the “Shot Ski” boys.

He sidles up and gives me a one-armed hug. This week in French we were partnered on the classwork. He made an effort and didn’t say anything terribly annoying. When he’s alone and not trying to impress his friends, he’s semi-okay.

“Be my pong partner?” he asks.

“Sure, Henri,” I agree, using my best French accent.

Henry grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen and I survey the space for what feels like the millionth party. Tory’s house is a bit over-the-top. Everything is grand, ornate, gold, and mahogany. It reeks of new money. Not that I’d know, personally.

We chat about French for a minute while waiting for opponents to materialize. Henry’s definitely feeling the booze. He tells me how difficult our last test was three times in as many minutes and he reaches for my hand, interlacing our fingers while we talk. I don’t like Henry romantically. Not at all. But the alcohol makes it hard to care and my figurative laces are loosening.

“Let’s play,” Tory growls from behind me. I turn to see him glaring at Henry and my hand, still connected.

“Nice,” Henry shouts a bit louder than necessary, directly next to my ear. I elbow him in the ribs, and he groans before pinching the back of my arm. I shove him off. Tory seems less than entertained, keeping a murderous expression directed toward us both.

“Who’s your partner, hot stuff?” I ask Tory, alcohol-fueled mischief in my eyes.

He doesn’t even pretend to crack a smile.

The party has grown loud, and the DJ is officially set up. Neon lights dart about the living room and the main lights are off. Dozens of people dance in a veritable mob.

Tory sighs, looks around, spots a victim. Without a word, he snaps his fingers and crooks his finger toward himself. Seconds later some senior girl materializes, all smiles.

“Partner?” Tory asks. She nods eagerly and says something low and sultry that I don’t care to hear.

Tory holds up the ping-pong ball and his partner smooches out her lips to blow on it. She’s staring at him, but he looks at me, eyes full of punishment.

So that’s going it’s going to be, I guess.

Tory’s first throw taps along two cups and plops into a third. All three get removed from play and they’re officially destroying us fifteen seconds into the game. Is there anything he does badly?

I shuck my shacket and drape it over a chair, along with my bag. Henry cusses when he sees my top and grabs my hand to spin me around, letting out a low whistle. Tory isn’t so amused. I’m half-convinced he’s going to leap over the table and strangle Henry. I like it.

We both shoot and make it. We’re one cup behind them. Tory sinks his next and his partner misses. She pouts. When Tory angles his head down to give her a pep talk, she looks up at him with doe eyes and flutters her lashes. I groan out loud.

“Let’s get on with the game,” I tell them, letting my jealousy get the better of me.

Tory glances over, feigning innocence. “Which one?”

The double entendre is not lost on me. I suck in my cheeks and raise a brow in challenge. “The one you’re about to lose,” I shoot back as I throw my ping-pong ball across the table.

Of course I miss, but Henry’s goes into one of the back cups. He hollers, picks me up and spins me in a circle. One of his hands lingers on my waist when he puts me down but I’m finding it hard to care. When Tory’s eyes dwell on the spot where Henry’s body meets mine, I know I’m winning the game that truly matters.

The senior makes her next toss and wraps her arms around Tory’s neck to celebrate. She’s steady on her feet, so I surmise that she’s completely lucid when she plants a long kiss on his lips. My mouth drops.

Initially, Tory recoils. Though he doesn’t break contact, he sees me glaring from the corner of his eye and changes his reaction completely.

Self-control is a gift of mine. Usually. Right now, I feel it crumbling faster than my resolve to stay away from the one man who has the power to ruin me. I should pretend I don’t care. But the jealousy spreads across my face before I have time to wrangle it. And Tory sees.

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