Page 1 of The Last Special Thing

CHAPTER ONE

“We did it!” a chorus of private high school graduates shouted, plastic red cups raised high in the air, liquor sloshing along the rims. They gathered in the guest house of someone’s mansion, tucked in the hills of San Diego. The parents who purchased the alcohol for the minors were no doubt sipping from their own coupe glasses in the main house. The tennis court that separated the two residences gave a nice illusion of privacy. These were the types of parties that parents felt secure in their decision to fuel teenage intoxication because they were safe in a house.

Safe was such a subjective word. Amelia had heard of parties that seemed safe until someone grabbed their keys and wrapped their car around a tree. Or until two classmates who couldn’t really consent got tangled in each other during the night, then couldn't articulate their choices in the morning. These were all stories exchanged in hushed voices during Monday morning homeroom. Amelia was never at those parties; she was focused on her future.

Whatever misguided intentions other parents had for providing alcohol to their darlings worked in Amelia’s favor. Her parents would never support teenage drinking, which left her experience at the mercy of someone else handing her something. Like the animal shelter fundraiser her parents dragged her to, where a young bartender slid her Long Island Iced Teas instead of unsweetened tea. Or when her ex-boyfriend snuck a joint into the movie theater, and they watched the animated film of the year.

Amelia wobbled toward the crystal bowl and ladle on the antique foyer table, which was becoming covered with light rings of condensation. Clearly, her peers didn’t know the value of the furniture. Or, equally as likely, they didn’t care.

She scooped another helping of the mysterious, peach-colored concoction. While she didn’t know what was in it, it worked to dull her senses. In particular, her taste buds. She raised the cup to her raspberry-painted lips. While she had to practically gag the first cup down, far too sugary for her taste, this one went down smooth.

She scanned the room of her peers. None of them would she have considered her friends. However, now that high school was over and her admission to UCLA was secured, she was determined to have a summer full of adventure, and an unsupervised graduation party was the place to start.

She was aware of her sheltered and privileged life. Her dad worked in finance, and her mom occupied her time teaching Pilates. Her older sister, Georgina, was studying abroad in Europe. As for Amelia, she had spent her entire life in dance, singing, and acting classes to prepare for the University of California, Los Angeles School of Theater, Film, and Television. First came L.A., and after would come an Oscar win. With college only a few months away, she could relax. Everything had gone according to plan.

Well, everything except for Weston.

She felt his eyes on the back of her head. The reek of pot tangled with his Dior cologne.

“You sure you need that?” he asked, his voice dripping with judgment.

Amelia twisted her mouth into a devilish smile as she turned around and met the eyes of her ex. He was her height, with blond hair meticulously styled and parted to the left. He wore an ironed navy-blue shirt, paired with straight-leg jeans that had been dry-cleaned. Amelia and Weston had come to the party together, but immediately separated.

“Need?” She swirled the peach liquid in her red cup. “No, definitely not.”

Through her fake eyelashes, she looked up at him with a sweet smile. He didn’t respond, and she took a large gulp to spite him.

His mouth was straight as his eyes washed over her. He was checking her out, or maybe evaluating her state of intoxication. She was never entirely sure of what he was thinking.

Amelia had carefully selected her outfit: wedge boots, black jeans, and a white blouse with lace trim. Her style was casual, but classy. The goal was always to resemble the display mannequins at Nordstrom.

Today, her dirty blonde hair had been curled, and her makeup had been professionally applied. The extra effort was a decision she would make again — photos from today would hang on the family wall for generations, after all. It was also the reason she was the last to slip into the graduation lineup, taking the final spot.

With hers and Weston’s last names as Cox and Collins, respectively, they should have stood next to each other as they had since elementary school. While it was better to be fashionably late than not look perfect, it wasn’t the only motivator in her decision. She had walked up to the line and seen Weston’s face, scanning the crowd of seniors, fingers tapping against his jeans. She wanted him to wait on her, to wonder where she was. To prove she was somebody he still thought about even after the breakup. When his eyes found her, he scowled, and a satisfied smile had snuck across her lips.

“You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.” He eyed her manicured hand that gripped her cup.

“Perhaps.” She shrugged. “What’s it to you?” Her words were sharp like his, but underneath the bite, she was curious how much he still cared.

He had broken up with her three months ago, but they continued to spend time together. Post breakup, he escorted her to prom. He matched his blue tie to her dress. They slow danced, politely mingled, and in the limo on the way home, they disassembled their carefully curated appearance as they fucked on the back seat.

Weston didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “I’m going to go smoke.” It was his vice of choice. A boring one to her. Weston was rigid most of the time, and smoking pot was how he took the edge off. For her, whenever she had indulged with him, she ended up rotting on whatever coach or bed they were in as time slipped by. She preferred to be outside, particularly at the beach, clinging to every moment.

“Enjoy.” She took another sip. “I have plenty of other people to celebrate the night with.” She smiled mischievously.

He let out a deep sigh. Good. She took pleasure in disappointing him. He was the one who decided they should break up before they went to college. She planned for them to be high school sweethearts, as her parents had been. They would do long-distance for a few years, then find a mutually agreed-upon big city to start their post-grad lives together. She would become a famous actress, and he would be the dependable spouse who supported them. At some point, there would be kids —two girls and a boy —and a vacation house on a deep blue lake.

He cut their plans short by fifty years, saying the distance between their schools was impractical. He had accepted admission to Cambridge, Massachusetts, across the country.

While Weston initiated the breakup without so much as a tear or a hint of struggle in the decision, he still lingered in her life. In response, Amelia swayed between acting as if they were still together and being so angry about his indifference that she pushed him to feel something. Maybe she couldn’t make him feel love or regret (she tried), but she worked to evoke the emotions that she could. She found little ways to make him feel jealous, angry, judgmental, or disappointed, as she did tonight. Weston wasn’t an emotional person; eliciting a reaction was her way to punish him for the breakup.

Amelia sipped, letting the alcohol burn down her throat and coil in her stomach as he walked down the hallway. As he opened a door to the left, a thin layer of smoke snaked out along with girls giggling.

She turned back to the drinking crowd. It would be her to make him jealous, not the other way around.

Amelia wandered around the party. Other graduates approached her and talked about their college plans. She barely paid attention. The more she drank, the less she could focus.

After another refill, Amelia was chatting with the wide receiver on the football team when she spotted Weston approaching from the corner of the room. She moved her hand up the footballer’s bicep, tilted her head back, and laughed. He eyed her with a curious slant to his smile, then spotted Weston.