The champagne burned in Emily’s stomach. “Um, I had a boyfriend after him—Isaac. But it didn’t work out.” A pang of sadness overcame her, and she lowered her eyes.
Chloe shifted her weight. “Do you wish it had?”
Grace began to fuss, and Emily stroked her soft, downy head. That was a loaded question. “Yes and no, I guess.” The next words out of her mouth surprised her. “He wasn’t the love of my life, though. Ali was. Well, the girl I knew as Ali in seventh grade was.”
Chloe’s mouth dropped open. “You and Ali were . . . together?”
Emily took a deep breath. “Not exactly. I had a huge crush on her. I was devastated when she disappeared. I had this fantasy she was totally fine, and I dreamed about her coming back all the time. And then . . . she did.”
The whole story spilled out of her, right up until Real Ali kissed her. “But it was all an act,” Emily whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
“Oh my God.” There were tears in Chloe’s eyes, too. “I’m so, so sorry.”
For some reason, Chloe’s sympathy opened a floodgate inside Emily. And the more Emily’s shoulders shook, the more she wasn’t entirely sure she was crying just because of Ali. Maybe it was because of Jamaica, too. When Tabitha and Emily danced, everything had suddenly felt right, just like the moment when Real Ali kissed her. But then, something on Tabitha’s wrist caught Emily’s eye. It was a bracelet made of faded blue string.
Emily stopped dead on the dance floor and stared at it. It looked exactly like the bracelet Ali had made for Emily, Spencer, and the others the summer after they’d accidentally blinded Jenna Cavanaugh. Ali had ceremoniously passed around the bracelets, making the girls promise to wear them—and keep the Jenna Thing a secret—until the day they died.
Alarms blared in her head. She took a big step away from Tabitha. There was no way she could’ve gotten her hands on that bracelet. Unless . . .
Tabitha stopped, too. “What’s wrong?” She looked down and realized what Emily was staring at. A bemused smile drifted over her face, as if she knew precisely what made Emily so afraid.
Now, Grace began to cry. Emily gently lifted her out of her swing and cradled her in her arms. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice croaky with tears. Grace’s cries turned to muffled whimpers.
“You’re so good with her,” Chloe said. “It’s amazing.”
Those few, kind words tore painfully through Emily. She looked up, suddenly unable to hold something inside any longer. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered. “I had a baby this summer.”
Chloe’s hand froze half-extended to her mouth. “What?”
“I got pregnant from my last boyfriend, Isaac. And . . . I had a baby girl,” Emily repeated, glancing at Grace. The words felt so surreal coming out of her mouth. She hadn’t planned on telling anyone, ever. “That’s why I didn’t swim this fall—I wasn’t up to it, afterward. It’s why I’m scrambling for a scholarship now.”
Chloe ran a hand through her hair. “Wow,” she whispered. “Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”
“The baby’s fine. As for me . . .” Emily shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Chloe’s eyes darted back and forth. “What did your parents think?”
“My parents don’t know. I spent the summer in Philly, basically in hiding. My older sister knew, but she hated me for it.”
“Did you have anyone to rely on?” Chloe asked, grabbing Emily’s shoulder. “A counselor, a doctor, someone you could talk to?”
“Not really.” Emily shut her eyes, her chest tight. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, actually. I’m sorry to burden you with this.”
Chloe pulled Emily to her, careful not to squish Grace. “I’m so glad you told me. And I won’t say anything, I swear. You can say anything to me, okay? I promise.”
“Thanks.” Emily’s eyes filled with tears again. She buried her head in Chloe’s soft hair, which smelled like Nexxus hair spray and a variety of styling gels. Grace snuggled between them, silent and content. It felt so good to hug someone. To tell someone. Even more than a BFF necklace or a champagne toast, this felt like the most meaningful friendship ritual of all.
Bang.
Emily opened her eyes with a start. Her mouth felt sticky and swollen.
She was on an unfamiliar couch. Out the windows, she saw the big, distinctive pine trees that lined the center island of the street Ali and Spencer lived on. The room smelled strongly of vanilla soap. She sat up, disoriented.
Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. A cabinet opened and closed. The floorboards creaked, and a figure stepped into the living room and sat down next to Emily. The vanilla odor seemed to multiply. It was Ali. Her Ali. Emily was sure of it.
Wordlessly, Ali leaned over Emily, almost like she was going to tickle her like she sometimes did in the middle of the night. A split second later, a pair of lips touched hers. Emily kissed back, fireworks exploding in her stomach.
But Ali’s chin felt scratchy, not smooth. Emily opened her eyes, waking up for real.
It was a man’s face pressing up against hers, not Ali’s. He smelled like cigars, alcohol, and, most prominently, vanilla pudding. His weight was more than double that of Ali’s, pressing down on her stomach and flattening her boobs.
Emily jerked away and squealed. The figure backed off, then snapped on a light. The golden bulb showed off Mr. Roland’s salt-and-pepper hair. Of course Emily wasn’t at the DiLaurentises’—she was still at Chloe’s; they’d been babysitting.