Smug happiness overshadows any guilt I have when my mom asks me how my day went, and I respond with a simple, “Okay.”
To be honest, after a bit of processing she would have been okay with a confession of losing my virginity—one of those mother-daughter moments showcased on cheesy TV shows. Although, she probably would have been a little horrified I’d done it in the backseat of my car. I’m not. That little Honda represents my freedom. My autonomy. Now it signifies something more.
I’m just not ready to share it with anyone yet—other than Ozzy.
I pause when I get to my room, realizing that’s not totally true. There’s one person I would have wanted to share it with. Rose. A strange wave of grief rolls over me. It’s weird, because even if she was alive I wouldn’t have told her. She didn’t tell me about Finn—thank god.
It’s still bittersweet, and even after three years of not speaking and four weeks since she went missing, she’s right there on my mind after a major milestone. It’s a dull ache in my belly, not dissimilar to the one I felt having Ozzy inside of me. Painful one minute, a sense of loss the next.
I shower, washing off the sweat and sex, then get ready for the game. The whole afternoon had been strange, from my finding that plaque, to confronting Brice Waller, to losing my virginity in the back seat of my Honda. Not one of those things was planned.
Something does bother me. Ozzy has been forthright and honest with me this whole time—amazing—but he mentioned SugarBabies and I’d lied, or at the very least withheld the truth. After what we’d shared, it didn’t seem right. I’d kept the account a secret on purpose, knowing the guys wouldn’t approve, but after today? It needs to stop. The little game I’m playing with BD is going nowhere. If I’m right that Rose was sleeping with Coach Chandler, and if my gut is right that her death may have been foul play? Some dude she was hooking up with in the city has nothing to do with it.
Unfortunately, just like with Jacqueline Cates, I’m pretty sure whoever hurt Rose was from Thistle Cove—not outside.
I open the drawer, pull out the iPod, and open the app. I don’t look at his last message to me, just type out one of my own.
Eden: I wanted to send you a message to let you know that I’m ceasing communication. Like they say, it’s not you—it’s me. Talking to you has been nice, but an arrangement like this really just isn’t me. The truth is one of my friends told me about SugarBabies and I got curious. Thanks for the encouraging words and support. Hope things are well—
I pause over the ending and quickly type the name he’d given me; Princess.
I unplug the device so the battery will die down, shutting the risk of temptation and the drawer behind me.
Unlike every other game, halftime at homecoming week isn’t a mad dash to the bathroom and concession stand (or for me and Ozzy, the chance to bump and grind under the bleachers.) We’re up by fifteen points, mostly because Coach Chandler scheduled an easy win for the game, which means people aren’t glued to the seats. Obviously, the main attraction of the game is the halftime program, which this year is anything but traditional.
True to their word, there is no court or escorts. The floats line the far side of the track. They look pretty good—I suspect the seniors are a shoo-in for first place. As soon as the buzzer announces the end of the first half, I feel the churn of nerves in my stomach. Rose’s presence is still felt in the stadium. Pale pink ribbons are still tied to the cheerleaders' megaphones and the fence posts. As the players run off the field, one goes to the side. Number 14. Finn. He’s still tied to this mess.
“Poor bastard,” Ozzy mutters. “Having to play the heartbroken boyfriend.”
Few people know the truth about their breakup. It’s easier on everyone, him, her family, the social hierarchy of the school to keep things in place.
Juliette also stands nearby—the look on her face unreadable. I know she thought she’d be on the field in a different capacity tonight. Everything about all of this is unfair. We’re all being held captive by a ghost.
When Mr. Waller crosses the field, I turn to Ozzy and say, “I don’t want to be here.”
His eyes drag from the spectacle. “What? You want to leave?”
It strikes me then that it’s an option. I nod. “Please. Yes. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I don’t have to ask him again. He grabs my hand and leads us down the stadium stairs. He pushes through the crowd, mostly the visiting team, taking a chance to grab a snack. We’re walking through the exit when I hear Brice Waller’s voice booming across the stands. Just outside the gate a bright light mounted to the top of a van captures my attention.
Channel 8 News.
Janice Hill leans against the metal.
On a whim, I pull my hand from Ozzy’s and walk over.
“Ms. Hill?” She looks up, a little panicked, like I’ve just interrupted her break. “I’m a big fan,” I tell her, and her expression relaxes. A little.
“Thank you. It’s always nice to hear.”
“I’m sure you’re here to report on the halftime program—I’ve seen all your coverage of the Rose Waller case.” I glance at Ozzy. “I have some information that you may be interested in.”
“I can stop you there. I’m under strict instruction to report on the halftime program and that’s it. Any and all speculation about Rose’s death is off limits. The evidence points to a suicide. That’s where we’re leaving it.”
“I’m not here to talk about Rose Waller.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Then what?”