Frost - Marianna Baer

Celeste didn’t say anything. I was about to apologize when

she starting making a strange noise. It took a second, but then I

realized what it was. It was laughter. She was practically

convulsing.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said once she’d calmed down. “I had

no idea you could be so funny.”

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Was she being serious?

“I shouldn’t have said that,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said. “It was funny. Real y. I’ll tell David. He’ll think

so, too.”

I knew perfectly well David wouldn’t think it was funny. And I

had a feeling Celeste knew he wouldn’t think it was funny, too.

“Look, just forget it. It wasn’t funny. Anyway, do whatever

you want. I’m going back inside. It’s freezing out here.”

I tugged open the door just as David was coming out.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Did you find her?”

“Yeah. She’s okay.” Seeing David made me feel bad for what

I’d said to Celeste, the tasteless joke. I prayed that she’d forget

and wouldn’t repeat it to him. “She’s down by the water, with,

uh, Whip.”

“Whip? What the hell is he doing here?”

“I guess she called him,” I said.

“You just left her out there with him?” David started to brush

by me. The door closed behind him.

“David.” I gripped him by the forearm. “She’s fine. They’re

just sitting there.”

“Are the bruises not enough proof for you that this is a really

bad idea?” he said.

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“Isn’t telling her not to do something the worst approach?” I

said. “The more you tell her not to be with Whip, the more she’ll

push it with him. Right?”

“That’s your assessment?” David said. “Reverse psychology.

Very tricky.”

I took my hand off his arm. “Don’t be such a jerk. I’m just

trying to help. If you want to know the truth, I don’t really feel like

being in the middle of this sibling drama. But I don’t want to see

you getting all upset at each other, either, especially when you

might just be being overly protective.”

David looked out toward a bell clanging in the fog on the

water.

“She likes to do the unexpected,” I said. “It’s too obvious for

her to date some artistic, emo guy.”

“I don’t need you to tell me about my sister,” David said.

“Then why do you ask me about her all the time?” I pushed

by him and opened the bar door, my eyes burning. Before going

inside, I said one last thing in his direction. “Do what you want.

Go down there and beat him up. That should help things.”

“So you think I should just do nothing?” he said. He sounded

not mad, but genuinely upset.

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“David,” I said. “You know that Celeste survived three years

at Barcroft without you. I think the best thing you can do is to

leave her alone and concentrate on your own life.”

He stared out at the low clang-clang-clang of the bell. The

neon sign cast a soft, red glow on his face.

“What happened to all of that energy?” I said. “The energy

that was going to go toward something other than worrying

about her?”

“The energy?” he said, looking back at me.

“Yeah. In the car, remember? Where’d it go?” I tilted my

head. “If you find it, I’ll be inside.”

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Chapter 23

WE ALL STUMBLED INTO the Parker-Whites’ town house

sometime after two a.m. Celeste disappeared up the elevator

immediately, alone. Whip had gone back to Manhattan.

“Hungry, hungry, hungry,” Abby said. “How can I be so

hungry?”

We moved en masse to the kitchen. Usually, I’d have been

psyched to raid the pantry, but my stomach was too tied up to eat

much. After our little . . . conversation outside the bar, David

hadn’t gone to find Celeste and Whip; he’d come inside right after

me, and had sat close and apologized and touched me in the ways

that are socially acceptable in public—hand on knee, arm across

shoulders, foot on foot. It had all been suggestive of more to

come, and now here I was, confronted with a whole night in front

of us, and nothing stopping us from spending it together.

Eventually, Viv and Cameron went upstairs.

“Want to watch a movie?” Abby said.

“Nah,” I said. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

David stood up and stretched his arms over his head,

showing his stomach. “Me too.”

“Your loss,” Abby said.

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Should I follow David to his room? I wanted to just as badly

as I didn’t want to. We padded up the stairs next to each other.

When he turned off to go to his room on the third floor, I

hesitated a minute.

“So,” I said. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it is New York. Right? City that never

sleeps?” He raised his eyebrows in an expectant look. An

adorable, expectant look.

“I’ll be right down,” I said, sounding more sure than I felt.

I was sure about one thing, though. I wasn’t going to his

bedroom wearing his mother’s dress.

I stopped in the bathroom first, and Celeste was asleep—or

pretending to be asleep—by the time I went in the bedroom to

change. As I slipped into my tank and boxers (Would he expect

lingerie?) the words I’d tried to banish from my mind nagged at

me: he’ll hurt you; he’ll hurt you. By the time I tiptoed down the

carpeted stairs, the Indian food and beer and those stupid words

churned in my stomach.

David had left the door to his room ajar. He lay on the bed—

a full size—propped up against pillows, reading. He only had a

small table lamp on, so the room was mercifully dark. I was

embarrassed not to be wearing a bra, and I knew I looked tired

and not especially pretty. And I should have showered. He was

probably expecting a clean girl in a nightie.

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Walking toward the bed was like walking into a final exam I

hadn’t studied for. Not a final, I told myself. A mini-quiz. Because

it’s not like we were going to go all the way or anything. He

wouldn’t assume that. Right? I wasn’t planning on waiting until

marriage, but I wasn’t planning on doing it tonight either.

“Hey.” I perched on the opposite side from where he lay.

“Hey.” David put the book on the bedside table. He was

wearing striped boxers and a white T-shirt.

I placed my hands on the bedspread to wipe off some of the

clamminess.

“Why don’t you sit up here?” He patted the pillows next to

him.

I slid over. I could feel a deep seismic rumbling in my body.

Shaking on the molecular level. I’d never been in a bed with a guy

before. Not like this, at least.

I swallowed to try and get some wetness in my mouth. “I’m

kind of . . . kind of nervous,” I said, figuring he’d notice anyway.

“That’s okay,” he said. “So am I.”

“You are?”

“Sure.”

But I knew he wasn’t, at least, not nervous like I was. So

nervous that all I could think about was being at home, safe in my

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room, or better yet, safe in a deep, dark closet. I started thinking

of what excuse I could possibly make—cramps, my period,

demonic possession—to get out of there. I swallowed again.

He reached over and gently took off my glasses, placed them

on the table. He brushed the hair away from my face. I moistened

my dry lips. I could feel my pulse throbbing even in my palms.

Then David’s lips were on mine. Soft, sweet, fuller than they