Code

CHAPTER 19

“TORY! GET DOWN here for dinner!”

Blargh.

I slipped the iPad into a drawer. No progress, though I’d scanned and uploaded the image. Shelton was combing the Internet for a match.

“Tory!” Kit’s voice had reached level two.

“Coming!”

Gathering my hair with chopsticks, I hurried downstairs. Whitney was there, of course. I hadn’t been informed she was dining with us. Of course.

Coop padded over and nuzzled my hand.

“Good boy.” I pointed to his corner. “Place.”

Coop yawned, then retreated to his doggie bed in the living room. Whitney eyed him, wary of a wolfdog sneak attack. Please.

Recently, I’d been working on Coop’s begging. Kit had put his foot down—no four-leggers tableside during meals. No exceptions.

Coop obeyed me most of the time. When it suited him.

I didn’t mind if Coop ruffled Whitney’s feathers—she was a self-important, dog-hating whiner. But it put Kit in a tight spot. Best not to make waves.

Another accommodation for the bimbo.

Kit had come home early that night, surprising us both. Grocery bag pressed to his chest, he’d announced he’d be grilling. Whitney had practically squealed with delight.

The menu was a given. Kit cooked a mean cheeseburger, and that’s about it.

I’d watched him hustle down to the communal grill, charcoal in tow. Mr. Devers had joined him with a trio of steaks, followed by Hi’s father with marinated chicken breasts.

The temperature was a pleasant seventy-five degrees, one of those perfect October nights in the Lowcountry. The men had shared a few beers, waiting for the meat to cook.

I was happy Kit could still relax with the neighbors. He was their boss now, but it hadn’t changed things back on Morris Island. They’d laughed and swapped stories, three dads hosting an impromptu barbeque, at ease in one another’s company.

Kit makes that happen. He doesn’t set himself apart, and they sense it.

“Dinner is served.” Kit set three plates on the dining room table.

Whitney oohed and aahed like a moron. I dug right in.

Kit cooked his burgers a true medium-rare. Pinker than Mom used to make, but I was coming around. Juice dribbled down my chin as I took large bites.

“Tory darling, have you made a decision?” Whitney sipped pinot grigio from a crystal-stemmed wineglass that she probably brought from home. “Who will be the lucky boys?”

“Do what now?”

“Your marshals, Tory.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “This is only the third time I’ve asked you about it. The ball is next Friday.”

Shoot. I’d managed to block that out.

In the last few days, I’d been to Loggerhead twice, accidentally detonated a bomb in Battery Park, stopped by Claybourne Manor, and watched Ben explode like an Indonesian volcano.

But Whitney wanted an update on my cotillion plans. FML.

“Still working on that.” Chomping ground beef. “Lots of factors in play. Don’t want to make a poor choice, right?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, champ.” Kit gave me a disapproving head shake. “Whitney needs those names ASAP. You know that.”

“What about that nice Taylor boy, from Mount Pleasant?” Whitney tapped her lip with a cherry red fingernail. “James? No, Jason! The lacrosse player with the blond hair.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “He’s cute.”

Gross.

Whitney discussing my friends was straight-up creepy.

Though he is cute. No denying that.

“I dunno, maybe.”

“Would you like me to speak to his mother?” Whitney leaned close. “If you’re uncomfortable inviting a boy, we could arrange for him to ask you.”

I wanted to punch her face.

He already offered, you dolt. Everything’s not as simple as you are.

“I can handle it.” Crunching the last of my pickle. “May I be excused? Big chem test tomorrow.”

Kit nodded. “Whitney needs an answer tomorrow night. No more delays. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Slapping my leg for Coop to follow, I scurried upstairs and flopped onto my bed. Fought off an anxiety attack. I’d been avoiding this decision since learning I’d have to make it.

Whom to invite? Upon which gallant young men should I bestow the honor of walking me across a ballroom three times?

Such a hot ticket. I don’t want to start a riot.

I decided to make a list. I like lists. They help me frame an issue. Plan a strategy. Sort the possible from impossible.

Grabbing paper and pen, I wrote Chance Claybourne. Immediately crossed it out.

Get real. My subconscious was an idiot.

First, Chance didn’t like me after what I’d done. Second, he knew too much about the Virals, and suspected more. And third, I wanted to avoid the spotlight, not do the Dougie on center stage. Chance was the worst possible person I could ask.

And yet, that’d be pretty badass, right?

Moving on, I recorded my default trio. Hi. Shelton. And Ben.

I circled the third name, then drew a question mark beside it.

Lately Ben had been a live wire. I loved hanging out, but the last thing I needed was a scene at my debutante ball. These days, the slightest blip seemed to set Ben off. Could he control his temper?

I wrote Jason’s name beneath Ben’s. Totally unfair, but Whitney’s approval was a huge strike against him. I racked my brain for other options, came up empty. Then I snorted at my own silliness.

What other options, exactly? This was always the complete list.

I knew the easy route—take the other Virals and hide in a corner all night. Whitney and Kit would be there, but they couldn’t force me to branch out. A few hours killing time with my friends, then a quick spin down the runway. Boom. Over.

So why was this difficult?

Because Jason is the perfect choice.

Jason had attended debutante balls. Knew the drill. My crew would have to conduct research on YouTube. Jason was popular on the cotillion scene. My guys weren’t even on the radar. Asking Jason would get Whitney off my back. Inviting only Morris Island boys might plummet her into a depression.

Jason would add credibility to the Tory Brennan Debutante Ball ticket. And he’d already asked me for the gig.

And he might be, you know, a real, actual date.

I sat up abruptly. Where had that thought come from?

My eyes returned to Ben’s circled name.

On one count I had no illusions: Ben would be hurt if I choose Jason over him. He’d never show it, but I knew Ben Blue well enough to be certain.

Back to square one.

Frustrated, I fired up my Mac. I needed help from Google. A few searches later, I’d made my decision.

My list contained four names.

According to the Internet, four was an acceptable number.

“Jason and Ben as marshals.” I jotted an M by each of their names. Older, they’d get the higher honor. “Mumbo and Jumbo as my stags.”

I wanted Hi and Shelton there. As always, safety in numbers. I scribbled a big S beside those two.

Running the choices through my head, they appeared sound. Whitney would be so happy that I’d chosen “a boy from a fine Southern family” that she’d accept the Virals filling out my entourage. Everybody wins, right?

So why was I still as tense as a banjo string?

I wish Mom were here.

Tears spilled before I knew it. Sobs threatened to follow. Somehow I managed to hold the grief at arm’s length.

It happened like that sometimes. The pain struck out of nowhere.

“Enough.” I backhanded moisture from my cheeks.

Mom would’ve hated the frivolity of a deb ball, but she’d have loved helping me pick my dates. We’d have laughed about it. Together.

I probed the space in my heart where her love used to reside. Found only a void. And nearly went down again.

I miss you, Mommy. Every day.

Coop was on me like a Velcro Snuggie. Planting paws on my knees, he catapulted into my lap, nearly toppling my chair.

“Easy!” I rolled to the floor and wrapped him in a bear hug. “You’ll kill us both.”

Coop rested his head on my chest. I closed my eyes and stroked his muzzle.

“Thanks, dog breath. I needed that.”