Page 38 of Icing Hearts

“Hey, why didn’t you come looking for me outside?”

“Like, when you and Tory went out there?”

I nod.

“Seemed like you had things under control. You two are weird together.”

“Huh? What does that even mean?” I furrow my brows, shaking my head and feeling inexplicably offended. Maybe even a little self-conscious and nervous that Vince has figured something out that I don’t even want to admit to myself.

“It means I don’t understand your relationship. But nothing has changed in the last three years I’ve known the both of you, so it probably won’t change now.”

“That’s true,” I agree as Vince steps away and takes a red cup from some senior girl who’s handing out concoctions. He hands me that one and grabs another for himself. He’s right. Even if my dynamic with Tory has changed, our relationship will never truly evolve beyond what it is right now. It can’t.

“You wanna dance, Charity ?” Vince asks.

I recoil. Why would he call me that? Only Tory says that. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I shake my head, kicking back my drink and folding my arms across my chest. People are starting to clear out, and Henry ruined dancing for me tonight. “Not anymore.”

Seven games of Flip Cup later, I’m stumbling through the nearly abandoned party. My opponents filter out the front door, and Vince pulls me along to the living room couch.

“I’m drunk. Gonna crash here,” he mutters, falling onto the cushions with a bounce.

“Here?”

“Mm, like right here. I don’t feel like walking home. It’s too cold.”

Vince was my ride here. So I guess I won’t leave, either. Anyone who was sober already left. Poor planning on my part, but it’s nearly 2:00 a.m. Staying in one spot sounds good, actually. If I stop moving, maybe the room will stop spinning.

Suddenly, I feel hot and sweaty. The main house lights are on, and the DJ is long gone. Vince takes up the whole couch. There’s no room for me, so I grab a throw pillow and toss it onto the carpet.

My brain swims in a soupy mess as I lay down on the pillow, draping an arm over my eyes. It’s too bright, and the floor won’t stop moving like I’m in the middle of the ocean.

The light infiltrating my closed lids dims, and I open my eyes.

Tory. Is standing over me. Looking like an angel with a halo of light surrounding his head.

“Tor—” I whine.

He hushes me. “I got ya, Clara.”

One hand under my knees. One under my shoulders. And I almost retch when he hoists me up far too fast.

“Don’t puke.”

I close my eyes against his shoulder and focus on not getting sick all over him. “Don’t jostle me, you rakehell.”

His laughter jiggles me more, and I groan. Tory mutters an apology, and I feel my legs bob as he ascends the stairs. Everything quiets once he shuts us into his room.

My head finds its place on his pillow. I call out, “My contacts.”

But he’s there on the edge of the bed saying, “Already on it.”

Tory holds out a case with contact lens solution in each well. It takes me a few tries, but I manage to get them out and Tory secures the lid on each side. Wearing contact lenses to bed sucks. Wearing them to bed when you’re drunk…unthinkable.

He rolls me to my side and reaches for my braid, unweaving the plait, then rubs my scalp at the base. I groan. “My gosh, you’re an angel.”

“Not a rake?” he asks on a laugh.

“Not rakish in the least.”

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