Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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December 20th- Fourteen Years Ago
I can't believe I'm throwing a party without parental supervision. A real party—kids everywhere, music, food, and thanks to Greyson's teammates, a keg and more vodka than I've ever seen in one place. As long as no evidence is left behind, I might just survive this. If my parents ever find out, my life is over.
They're at Duke with Adelaide this weekend, and Greyson's parents are away for their anniversary. Jo's folks live in the next neighborhood, so unless things get rowdy and a nosy neighbor calls, we're golden.
Greyson's birthday is December twentieth, forever overshadowed by Christmas. Ever since we met, I've made it my mission to celebrate him properly: a wiffle ball set when he swore he'd go pro, his first surfboard, a Tamagotchi so he'd stop stealing mine, a Nintendo DS. Everyone else forgets, but not me. December twentieth is the best day of the year—because that's when the love of my life was born.
I tried to keep the guest list small. Close friends only. But word spreads, and now it's a rager. Red Solo cups of vodka-Pepsi line every surface. Pizza crusts sag on paper plates. The front door slams on repeat as more kids stream in, tossing me quick hellos before vanishing into the chaos. Music shakes the cream-colored walls from the basement up.
"We should play a game," someone calls as I make my way downstairs and sink onto the couch beside Greyson. He slides his arm behind me and kisses my temple.
"McKinnie. Birthday boy. You pick."
"Uh, okay. How about never have I—"
"How about Seven Minutes in Heaven?" Ripley Payne interrupts, strutting through the crowd like she owns it. "Or is that too juvenile for you, Greyson?"
He shifts, tugging at the collar of his white button-down, eyes flicking nervously to me. I've never even been to a party like this, let alone hosted one, so I don't know what's considered cool. But if he spins that bottle and it lands on me? I might finally get the kiss I've been dreaming about since I was ten. So I shrug, play it cool, and sip from his vodka-laced Pepsi.
"I guess we could play."
"Alright, then." She turns, ass practically in his face, and bends low, tossing him a wicked glance over her shoulder. "Let's have some fun."
She snatches the nearest bottle, drains what's left into her cup, and plunks it onto the table before whistling for attention.
"Rules are simple, boys and girl," she says, hands on her narrow hips. "Everyone spins once. Whoever it lands on, you head into the closet together. Seven minutes. Do whatever you want."
"I—I thought it was just kissing." Jo leans forward, voice cracking with panic. "You're only supposed to kiss, right?"
"If you're a prude." Ripley laughs, sharp and mean, then flicks her gaze to her entourage of wannabe witches. "We play a little different. That okay with you, Josette? Or would you rather break out Candyland?"
