Sara Shepard - Toxic

“You’re a movie star?” Harrison asked, shaking Hanna’s hand.

“Not exactly.” Hanna’s gaze flickered to Aria. “Do you know if Mike’s coming tonight?”

Aria shook her head regretfully. She’d known that Mike was taking the train home to see Hanna, but then her dad had told her he’d changed his mind and was hanging out with some lacrosse buddies tonight. She didn’t want to pry, but by the look on Hanna’s face, she wondered if they’d had some sort of fight.

“Whatever it is, it will blow over. I know how Mike feels about you,” she said quietly. Hanna just looked away, seeming unconvinced.

They settled into their seats, Harrison sitting to Aria’s left. The crowd in the dining room was thick; almost every table was filled. “A lot of people from school are here,” she murmured. There were James Freed and Lanie Iler, laughing over a plate of ravioli. Kirsten Cullen and Scott Chin were in line for the caricature artist. Then she saw Mason Byers, looking sporty in a shirt and tie, and a bunch of other kids from the lacrosse team flop down at a table near the emergency exit at the left.

“Not because they want to support troubled youth,” Hanna said sourly. “It’s probably because they can sneak free cocktails.” Then her face paled at something across the room.

Aria tried to follow her gaze, but Hanna leapt up and stood in her way. “Um, we should mingle. Introduce Harrison around, don’t you think?”

Aria frowned. Hanna’s voice was so squeaky all of a sudden. She craned her neck around her friend’s skinny frame and stared at the lacrosse table. Then she saw what Hanna was trying to block. Noel was sitting at the lacrosse table, too. With Scarlett.

You’re not supposed to be here! Aria wanted to scream. Hadn’t Noel told her he was busy tonight? Then again, busy could have meant “I already have a date.”

She peeked at Scarlett. The little blonde was wearing a black dress that fit her lean frame perfectly, and her hair was twisted into a complicated updo. Noel leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Scarlett tilted her head back and laughed, touching Noel’s hand.

Then Noel glanced up. His gaze found Aria instantly, and his eyes narrowed. His lips parted. He didn’t drop Scarlett’s hand. Aria turned quickly to Harrison, who was leafing through the program that described the Rosewood Rallies charity. She grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing it hard, then slid even closer to him and pretended to hang on every word of the story he was telling Hanna about the private high school he’d attended in Montgomery County.

After a decent amount of time, she peeked at the lacrosse table again; to her frustration, Noel’s attention was on Scarlett and the pasta she’d gotten from the buffet. All of a sudden, Aria felt overheated. There was no way she could take another moment in this room. She shot up and fumbled into the hall. “I have to . . . ,” she mumbled to Harrison and Hanna, but then darted toward the door without finishing her sentence.

There was no line for the women’s room, and the little dressing area at the front was empty, too. Aria flung herself on the paisley-printed couch and rubbed her temples hard. Don’t be mad about stupid Scarlett , she told herself sternly. But it was beyond painful to see Noel with someone else. Someone so different. Someone so much prettier.

The door whooshed open, and Aria lifted her head. At first, she thought she was seeing things.

Noel was standing in the doorway.

He gaped at her, arms at his sides. He looked out of breath, his cheeks flushed.

Aria shot up from the couch. “You can’t be in here!”

Before Aria knew what was happening, Noel had stepped forward and taken her by the shoulders, pressing his lips to hers. Aria shut her eyes, the familiar sensation washing over her as she kissed him back.

Then she pushed him away, her eyes wide. “What are you doing ?” she snapped.

Noel was too out of breath to answer. He kept staring at her lips.

“We’re over ,” Aria added. “You said so yourself. And what about that girl?”

Noel looked tormented. “I don’t know what I want,” he blurted, and darted for the door. Then, with a swoosh, he was gone.

Aria sank back onto the couch, her pulse hammering in her throat. She could still taste Noel’s lips on hers. Her whole body felt invigorated and flushed. Part of her wanted to run after him, but another part of her held back. Noel was probably already with Scarlett, regretting their kiss. And somehow, that made her feel even worse.

The door swished open again, and Aria half rose, hoping it was Noel . . . and hating herself for hoping. But Spencer walked in, dressed in a twenties-style, fringed black dress, looking down into her oversize envelope clutch. She stopped when she saw Aria, and her expression turned to worry. “Are you okay?”

Aria blinked. There was no way she could explain what had happened. “Where have you been?” she asked instead.

Spencer squirted some lotion on her palms. “I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out who Dominick is. I called about fifty private investigators to see if they’d help, but they actually need a full name before they can do anything. I even called the bullying organization who made that video to see if they got everyone’s names from the audience. But no one’s gotten back to me yet.”

“That sucks,” Aria said faintly. But her mind was still on Noel. He’d followed her in here and kissed her. Had he been thinking about her all this time? Or had seeing her across the room, in a dress she’d worn once on a date with him, brought back memories and longings?

“Aria?”

She snapped back to attention. Spencer pointed at Aria’s purse. “Your phone’s ringing.”

The screen was lit up; she’d been so lost in her thoughts she’d completely tuned it out. A 212 number was on the screen. Aria swallowed hard, then answered.

“Aria Montgomery?” came an unfamiliar voice. “My name is Frank Brenner. I’m calling from the New York Post .”

Aria ran her hand over the top of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not really in the position to do an interview right now.”

“Oh, I’m not calling for an interview, per se.” There was a smarmy tone to Mr. Brenner’s gravelly voice. “I’m calling for a quote from you about the stunt Mr. John Carruthers is claiming you pulled.”

Aria blinked. For a moment, she forgot who Mr. Carruthers was. Then she remembered: the Ali portrait . “I’m sorry?” she said. “What stunt?”

“He’s saying he didn’t buy your painting.” Mr. Brenner sounded amused.

“What?”

“He was in Africa when that painting sold. Apparently, someone posing as his assistant bought it. But it wasn’t his real assistant.”

Aria paced around the little room. “But I was paid. Presumably from Carruthers’s account.”

“Nope. Carruthers checked his books. There’s no transaction for it. He claims that someone else paid for it and just used his name. He said he’d never buy a portrait like that—I believe his exact words were ‘garish and disturbing.’”

Aria’s stomach twisted. “He said that?”

“Indeed he did!”

It bothered Aria how gleeful the reporter sounded. She struggled to put all the pieces together, her mind still confused over everything that had happened with Noel, and now this. What was going on? “But . . . why would someone else pay all that money for that painting and claim that Mr. Carruthers had bought it?” she asked slowly. “Why didn’t they give their own name?”

Mr. Brenner’s laugh was sharp and a little nasty. “I was hoping you could tell me , Aria. Is it true you placed the call and the order yourself, posing as Mr. Carruthers’s assistant? And you paid for it out of a private account?”