The Matchmaker Page 19

  "Emma, are you-" he stopped talking when he saw Darien lounging against the wall, and his face, for a split second, was as suspicious as I had ever seen it. But then it cleared, and all was well again. "McGavern, you coming with us?"

  "I had to make sure Emma wouldn't chicken out," Darien replied, greeting Allan with a quick, almost brusque, handshake. I shook my head to clear any lingering memories, and looked at the boys. They were a handsome bunch, my escorts; even in the old days I wouldn't have been ashamed to walk into a party with them, and I used to be pretty picky.

  Allan was dressed, of course, like the stereotypical athlete in jeans and a nice T-shirt that showed off his extremely impressive biceps, his brown hair lying wherever it happened to fall, but Darien outshone him like the sun over the moon. It couldn't have hurt that I had always preferred my guys long and lanky rather than overly built, but even Rhi would have agreed with me here. He was freaking gorgeous, I realized (not for the first time) as I admired him with purely aesthetic pleasure. I could see how he broke hearts, in his dark jeans and navy button down shirt that I guessed would match his eyes in some lights worn untucked, with his carefully spiked dirty blonde hair held out of brilliant eyes. Add to that his brooding, bad boy air and dangerously magnetic smirk- but it was purely aesthetic pleasure. That's all.

  Suddenly excited, I threw my head back and laughed out loud in delight, the boy's surprised expressions only making me laugh harder. While the boys were still recovering from the bombshell of my sudden merriment, I grabbed their wrists and dragged them forward towards the door. I was glad to note that I was as steady on my heels as I had ever been. Like riding a bike, I suppose.

  "Well come on!" I urged, still laughing as I herded the boys outside, "What are we waiting for?"

  o0O0o0O0o

  Two hours later, and my merriment had ceased. It was hard, harder than I had expected. It was a mistake to come, to even consider coming, and I had known that- but Darien, damn him, had somehow connived me into forgetting that, had set afire the rebellious spark that had lain dormant for a year or two, and I couldn't help but go along.

  I leaned against the bar, clutching the edge firmly. It was a lifeline, of sorts. Maybe if I held onto it, I wouldn't succumb to the siren song of the music that was still making my body move in time to it. I had already fended off a few trays of beer and a couple drunken advances, but the music was by far the hardest to resist.

  "What're you doing, just sitting here?" Darien demanded, calmly disentangling himself from some girl's clasping arms and striding over. I raised my eyebrows at him as he grabbed a beer from behind the counter.

  "I think the operative question is, what are you doing?" I countered, eyeing the girl who stumbled off with thinly veiled contempt. At least I had never been someone like her- she was probably too drunk to remember.

  He shrugged dismissively and drew a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. Then, with a glance at me, he replaced them. "Sorry," he muttered awkwardly. I waved an indifferent hand. He could figure out how appreciative I actually was that he had considered me.

  "So, who was she?" I queried. At his questioning look, I nodded to the girl he had just sent away, who was now dancing alone on the edge of the dance floor. Kind of pitiful, really.

  "Oh, her." He took a sip of his drink. "I dunno. Ashley, maybe? Dana?" It didn't seem to concern him overmuch. At least I had known the names of all the guys I met at parties. Mostly. Usually. Darien must have noticed the revulsion on my face, because he remarked, "Does it bother you?"

  "Well, it certainly doesn't make me feel good," I retorted irritably. Being back here reminded me uncomfortably of whom I used to be. Had I ever been as callous as him? Sadly enough, the answer was clear.

  "Come on, Emma," he was more relaxed here than I had ever seen him, willing to cajole, if not plead. Must be something about being on his home ground. "Loosen up. Have a drink or two. Have some fun."

  "I am having fun," I insisted, gripping the bar harder. His constant taunting that hadn't let up since we got here (and before) had been beating on my hard won defenses, and added to that the temptations so plentiful and easy in front of me…. I shouldn't have come.

  "No you aren't. You haven't moved in an hour," he retorted with irrefutable logic. Although I could have fun staying in the same place. Sort of. Actually, even when I was reading or something, I had to be fidgeting or something. But that was beside the point. He leaned against he wall and took another sip, all his body language declaring how much cooler he was than everyone else here. "Lighten up. Go dance. Find a," he hesitated for a barely perceptible second, "guy somewhere. Let your hair down."

  Something in me snapped. His relentless teasing had done its work- he had gotten to me.

  "Fine." I snatched the beer out of his hand and drained it. I would need the comfort, and distance. "You want me to have fun? I will." I didn't know about the almost mad gleam in my eyes, but something about it worried Darien.

  "But that was my-Emma, are you okay?" he stuttered as I handed him back his drink, gave him my best innocent grin, and began to move away. I ignored his calling after me and plunged easily into the crowd, grabbing another beer from a passing tray.

  It was the work of but a moment to borrow Candy's makeup bag (well, filch, but she would find it again and probably wouldn't even notice) and fight my way to the bathroom. Once there, and after I had kicked the making out couple out, I rolled my skirt up a few inches (only a few, I didn't want to be a complete slut) and quickly applied a bit of makeup (some eyeliner and lip gloss. Again, I didn't want to look like a whore). I stashed the over shirt in a corner and finally, reluctantly, removed the necklace and folded it into the shirt. The earrings I left on.

  I stood in front of the mirror and studied myself. I still looked like me, but it was an elder version of the old me. This was a me that only Rhi, out of everyone I now knew, would recognize. I tried out my come-hither smile. It came, limping a little, but with no less power. I was ready.

  I sighed, gathered my courage, plucked the hair stick out of my hair as a final afterthought, and stepped out of the bathroom. The music immediately engulfed me, and for the first time since the accident, I abandoned myself to it.

  Until Darien quite literally pulled me out of it, yanking me away from a very nice boy a few hours (it was past midnight, wasn't it? I had a vague recollection of champagne being popped and some guy trying to kiss me and missing) and quite a few drinks later. I let him drag me away from the dance floor, panting and grinning.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded. I giggled a little; he had said that before! But it was different this time, the inflection maybe? He was mad now… Uh-oh, someone was in trouble!

  Miraculously, I remembered to be angry. "I'm having fun," I spat, "Isn't that what you wanted?" He gave me a look I think he copied off my own skeptical ones. It was funny on him…

  "Only if you really are," he told me. I grabbed for the beer he was holding, but he caught my wrist. Hey… I was supposed to be faster than him. "You don't want that," he informed me, peering into my eyes, "How many drinks did you have?"

  "Enough," I said unconcernedly. He had a cigarette in his mouth- he had probably lit up as soon as I left. Suddenly, I really, really craved one. I like, needed one. Right now. My free hand grabbed it.

  "You really don't want that." He took it back and snuffed it, dropping it into a nearby sink. I pouted charmingly, but he didn't let go of my wrists. He looked really tall from here, 'cause I had to be really close for him to hold both my wrists.

  "Yes I do," I protested, not caring that I sounded like a petulant brat. I liked being a kid. It was fun. But I was still a kid, right? 16 wasn't that old… or was it? How old was Darien? He was tall; he was probably older than me- did that make sense?

  "Trust me," he said, shaking my wrists to drive in his point. It was kinda fun- I like, shook all over and rattled a bit. Sorta like a ride at an amusement park, except without the spinniness. "You don't."

  La
ter, I would wonder why I did it. Maybe my tolerance had gone down, and I really was a lot drunker than I had thought. Or maybe I was just caught up in my old wild, wanton self and she possessed me to do it. Or maybe it was just part and parcel of that wild, half-remembered night that released all the rebellion I had been hiding since that fatal night.

  But why ever I did it, it took a second to seep through my alcohol soaked brain what was happening, and even then I didn't believe it. It was impossible- but true.

  I was kissing Darien McGavern, and for some reason never known to me, he was kissing back.

  * * *

  Darien

  * * *

  I would have expected Emma's kiss (not that I was expecting a kiss from Emma, in any way, shape, or form) to be restrained, innocent, maybe awkward, definitely unskilled. That was what it should have been, after all. It wasn't. It was warm and passionate and skilled enough that my body responded before I could stop it, returning the kiss with equal ardor. Then (sadly, a part of me would always think) or, more to the point, was she actually Emma, or some bad clone?

  "What do you think you're doing?" I hissed, trying not to draw attention. To her, not to me- it was common enough to see me making out with some girl at a party, but she would never forgive me if I drew attention to the fact that 'some girl' had been her.

  "What do you think?" Yes, that was definitely a purr. I didn't think Emma was capable of purring. If she was a cat (and that was possible, given how much she loved Carl) she was a feral mountain cat, not a capricious lap cat. This was too weird; maybe she was right and I shouldn't have brought her.

  "You have to go home," I announced, propelling her none to gently towards the door. She was not going to have another chance to humiliate herself. Her mood shifted with the drop of a pin.

  She clutched at my arm in panic. Even drunk, her grip was strong enough to hurt and force me to stop.

  "NO!" she exclaimed, planting her feet and refusing to go any further. Heads turned to look at us. I let out a huff of annoyance and yanked her into a corner, away from people. "Darien, I can't go home, not like this!" she gushed frantically, gazing up at me with huge eyes framed with interminably long lashes, "Mom can't see me- I swore- if she sees- Darien, I can't!"

  I groaned. We were really lucky she couldn't, or didn't, wield her eyes with such deadly force when she was sober, because if she did, the entire male race would be at her beck and call.

  "Fine," I agreed reluctantly. But then I hardened my resolve. It probably helped that her eyes lessened their intensity. "But you aren't staying down here. Brock has rooms upstairs where you can sleep it off." That, she submitted to with a submissiveness that only proved something was wrong.

  I dragged her over to where I had last seen Brock. It was pretty impressive, actually; drunk as she was, she never even stumbled. She hadn't been kidding about those heels.

  "Hey, Brock," I muttered, speaking as quietly as I could while still being heard over the music. "Do you have a room she could lie down in?" I gestured to Emma. He shot me a look, half smug and half shocked. He knew very well what I usually meant when I requested a room.

  "Not like that!" I clarified immediately. How could he even think that? Actually, I was surprised he was being that logical. "She's really drunk."

  "How do you know? She doesn't look it." He was right. She might not have looked like Emma, dressed as she was just shy of a slut, but she looked sober enough as she waited impatiently for me, swaying slightly to the music as if she couldn't resist it or stop herself from dancing.

  "Trust me, she's not herself," I assured him. There was no way an Emma in her right mind would have kissed me.

  "Well, I can see that," he chuckled a little lewdly, running his eyes appreciatively over Emma's altered outfit. I glared; he grinned like I had just proved a point. "Alright, man. Just put her in the room you usually stay in. No one's allowed up there, it should be empty." As a matter of convenience, I knew all the codes to get into various locked parts of Brock's house.

  I nodded my thanks and pushed Emma upstairs. No one gave us a second glance or looked to see who my girl was this time, thank god. When we got to the room, I shoved her onto the bed.

  "There. Now sleep it off."

  She bounced back up onto her feet, pacing the room with quick steps that almost seemed a dance. With her, somehow, everything did. "But I'm not tired!" she protested, an obstinate child at odds with her rather... mature outfit.

  "Maybe not," I explained patiently, crossing my arms firmly, "But you've drunk far too much." I kept my post at the threshold. I'd like to see her try to get past me.

  "Too much?" she giggled, more like a kid than my groupies. I still cringed. She didn't notice, and that more than anything told me that she was not sober. "I've been drinking more than that since forever!"

  "What do you mean?" I asked before I could stop myself. I felt bad, asking about her secrets when she was so obviously drunk. But she wasn't saying anything I probably wouldn't eventually find out anyway, and its not like I was asking any of the questions I really wanted to ask- like who was Dan, and how on earth had she learned how to look the way she did now. From a purely objective stance even I could admit that she looked hot. "You don't go to parties."

  "Not anymore," and now she was as languidly sophisticated as any debutante that I had ever met, "Not since high school started. But all through 8th grade… damn, I must have gone to a party every night!"

  Some of disbelief must have shown on my face, because her mood shifted yet again. Normally her moods changed with all the deadly speed of a fencer going from parry to attack, but now they had all the fickle changeability of a tornado wind.

  "I was." all vaguely disgusted amusement, " I was pretty, witty, didn't need to work in school, bored out of my mind, and Mom was always working. What more did I need?"

  "So… you wanted to grow up too fast?" I attempted. She laughed and shook back her hair. It rippled all the way down to the end of her back, just teasing the edge of her skirt.

  "Among other reasons, but what preteen doesn't? And you're not the only one who feels the need to rebel against a father who's never there." Her eyes were suddenly very, very green and very, very piercing. I changed the subject quickly. How was it that even drunk, she hit far too near the mark for comfort?

  "But 8th grade? That's a little young," I observed as monotonically as I could. She probably would keep talking anyway. This way I would only learn one of her secrets instead of a lot. And anyway, its not like I was going to tell Emma about the kiss or anything she said here. With any luck, she wouldn't remember any of it.

  "Oh yes, I was such a little slut!" she trilled mockingly, though there was a clear undertone of regret, or maybe even pain. That trill was all bravado. I heard the same note in my voice far too much when defending myself to Emma. "I was a precocious child, with my older boyfriends and party life. How'd you think I got addicted to cigarettes?"

  "But you aren't now," I countered. I wished I hadn't let her talk. I felt like I was watching something private, like a Catholic confession. Even if she would tell me eventually, me hearing that pain was blasphemous. It wasn't right. Emma, even if not as indomitable as she liked to appear, was too strong to be like this. Or at least, to be seen like this.

  "I don't know about that," Now angry, she gestured sharply down the curves her immodest outfit revealed. I refused to let my eyes follow her hand. "I'm still the same person, evidently." Trust her to use big words when drunk.

  "No you aren't. You're only here because I- because people forced you to come," I contradicted her forcefully, resisting the urge to shake her. I didn't want to get hat close to her again, just in case. One kiss could be explained away. Two… would be more difficult. "This isn't you, Emma. Not anymore. You stopped being like this, you aren't. How-Why?" For some reason, I was desperate. I needed to know. The say wisdom is found at the bottom of a bottle, maybe she would have some for me.

  "I decided I didn't like who I was; Mom g
ot a new job with Jack; I switched schools; some other shit went down," she was quiet now, sitting on the bed as still as I had ever seen her. She put a hand to one ear, as if checking that the earrings were still there. "Nothing to help you, sorry."

  I didn't ask how she knew why I had asked; I figured I didn't want to know. Not even Brock, who I had been friends with since he moved here in 3rd grade, could read my mind like she could.

  "Go to sleep," I ordered abruptly, still hovering by the door, "It'll make you feel better."

  She obeyed and kicked off her shoes, flopping down onto the bed. "I know." And there was the Emma I knew, finally back. I didn't like the person she had left behind. "I'll be ready to go home by the time Allan is."

  "Probably before," I agreed, willing to banter now that she was reverting back to her usual self.

  "Almost certainly," she curled up into a ball, ending the conversation. Lying there, without the almost tragic world-weariness in her eyes and voice, she looked very little and very young.

  I refused to allow myself more than that one glance. She wasn't Troy, who I had no qualms about watching sleep, just to assure myself that he was there. As soon as she decided to sleep, I left the room, closing the door gently behind me as I returned to the party downstairs. Hopefully, I would be able to find someone there who would make me forget that Emma tasted of lemonade.

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Emma

  * * *

  We never talked about that night. Darien must have thought I didn't remember it, and except for an oblique comment about how he was glad I was back to normal, he didn't mention anything that happened New Year's Eve, neither the kiss nor the confidences that followed. And while that annoyed me (it was my right to know what I did, after all) I couldn't exactly reprimand him without letting him know I knew. That kiss, that whole messed up night, was best condemned to the depths of my mind that were as hidden as a needle in a haystack and dwelt upon just as often. I had been less drunk than he had surmised, but probably more drunk than I had estimated, just enough to know what I was doing and not care. Well, not care at the moment.