The Leader's Girl

2. Mistakes

The air hung heavy with those three words, each one reverberating through the room as if carrying a clandestine message. Silence ensued, creating an atmosphere pregnant with curiosity.

Jones—who in the universe was this enigmatic figure?

The guy who seemingly turned my brother into James Bond on wheels, seducing him with the allure of the Honda's horsepower. Witnessing Mason, the proclaimed invincible driver, react with such vehemence was a rarity. The Jones character now stood as a living riddle, a puzzle I ached to solve.

With intrigue pushing me, I tiptoed toward the door, anticipating someone to unravel the mystery. Yet, my covert mission faced an unexpected hurdle. Marianne, our housekeeper, materialized behind me with the stealth of a secret agent. "Ms. Alice?"

Her sudden appearance jolted me. I fumbled the glass of orange juice I was still holding, and it cascaded to the wooden floor, shattering into a cacophony of shards. The echoes reverberated, and my hand landed on my chest, attempting to pacify the erratic heartbeat. As the living room door swung open, Mason scrutinized my demeanor. "What are you doing?"

A sheepish grin contorted my face, and I shuffled awkwardly. "I was just bringing you some orange juice."

For someone adept at keeping her relationship hidden for over a year, my lying skills proved laughable. Mason's deadpan expression heightened my embarrassment, and I relented. "Fine, I was listening, but can you blame me? You turned into the ghost of Paul Walker on crack in the car, and I wasn't getting any answers."

"Ali, go upstairs."

"But who's Jones?" I pressed, scanning Mason's eyes for clues, yet they remained cryptic.

"Believe me, Ali, you don't want to know," Ricky chimed in, holding the door open for me to peer into the room.

The quintet—Ricky, Jacob, Mason, Sam, and Niall—formed a tight-knit group in the room. They were inseparable, each member sharing a peculiar bond. Niall, the odd one out in stature, hadn't exactly drawn the long straw at birth—literally, he wasn't even half a head taller than me. The perpetual victim of height-based banter.

"And she never will," Jacob muttered from a distant corner.

"Okay, Avengers," I snorted, "I don't plan on befriending the guy. I was just wondering who it was that got Mason's Batman briefs all twisted up."

Mason's jaw figuratively hit the floor, accompanied by sniggers from the guys and a retaliatory glare from him.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I not have mentioned that you're still a massive fan of your childhood hero?"

Even Ricky chuckled but covered his face in mock shame. In return, I was met with a door to the face from Mason, signaling my cue to exit.

Sighing, I glanced at the mess around my feet and my now orange-stained shoes. As I began to pick up glass shards, Marianne scolded me in Russian, slapping my hands away. She ushered me upstairs as she diligently cleaned the glass into a pan, mop in hand.

"Thank you," I mumbled, even though it went unacknowledged, and ascended the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

Entering my bedroom, the dark purple walls enveloped me, exuding familiarity and comfort. Marianne's impeccable cleaning left the room immaculate, the scent of freshly washed sheets hanging in the air. I flopped onto the new silk sheets, sprawling across the bed's expanse, staring absentmindedly at the white ceiling adorned with a central collage of photos.

As the photos unfolded my shared history with Maddy, a wave of melancholy surged through me. From the first day of middle school when we clung to each other, avoiding socializing like the plague, to last summer's ill-fated trip to her grandparent's beach house, where dodgy seafood landed us both with food poisoning. The memories, painted vividly in each photograph, captured moments like the winter ball where Maddy surprised me with a stunning green dress I'd admired for weeks, convinced my body couldn't pull it off.