We Make Mayhem [boyxboy]

Chapter Fourteen

I read Noah's blog post several times at home that evening. It was so intriguing, reading the words he wanted the world to read. There was no veil of politeness or nicety; it was just Noah spewing his emotions, his rage, his disapproval. And, holy shit, he was right. Supposedly reputable journalists had lied through their teeth to make people think they were on the cutting edge, and Noah Lord had exposed them all.

On Saturday, in the hours preceding the party, I couldn't concentrate on homework so I mowed the lawn instead. I showered afterward, but not too thoroughly, to keep that fresh-cut-grass smell, and scrubbed some mousse into my hair so it was nice and messy. I got dressed in a close-fitting short-sleeved button-down shirt and black skinny jeans and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like the frontman for an indie band that was still a little too experimental to hit it big in the mainstream. I had no idea if that was a good look.

I understood now why it took Chloe so long to get ready anytime we went to parties. I had never really cared how I looked when I was with her. She would pick my outfits, and as long as she thought I looked good, that was fine. Now, trying to look good all on my own, I was thrown to the wolves. I could have scrolled through Instagram to check out some previous outfits she had put together for me, but that felt like cheating.

I didn't want to look like Chloe's Riley. I was trying to look hot for Noah Lord—I had to dress like Noah's Riley.

The concept of there being a Riley that belongs to Noah made me shiver.

"Mom, do I look hot?" I asked my mom as I stood in front of the living room fireplace.

She looked up from the crossword puzzle she was working on. "Um, why?"

"Let me rephrase: do I look like I belong at a party up in the British Properties?"

She scruntinized me over the rim of her big glass of white wine. "Don't wear the sneakers. Wear the dress shoes we got you for Auntie Clarice's wedding. Go put them on and you'll see."

She was right. The skinny jeans with my Converse sneakers looked basic, which was fine by usual standards, but my pointy black leather dress shoes definitely classed it up. Mom picked out a pair of my argyle socks so they'd show in the couple inches between the shoes and the hem of my jeans. I looked... like a character. Like someone you'd notice in a crowd. Which was perfect.

"This is a Look." The way she said it, you could hear the capitalization. "Whose party is it? Why isn't Chloe dressing you?"

I didn't feel like having that conversation, so I demured: "I can dress myself, you know."

"Well, sort of. But really, whose party? You can't go if you don't tell me."

"Noah Lord's."

Her eyebrows jumped up under her bangs. "Does Chloe know you're going?"

"Um... no."

"I see. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," I lied. Sort of. Was that even a lie?

"Okay. Well, you know the drill. Home by midnight. Phone for a ride if you aren't sober. Be smart. All that."

I agreed to all the conditions, grabbed my keys, and headed out to my car, but I paused as I was about to turn the key in the ignition. Be smart. That was her euphemism for "use a condom"—decided on in the early days of Chloe and I so she could do her motherly duty without completely mortifying me. It sounded like a normal thing for a mom to throw into the mix as her kid leaves for a party, but it had a very, very specific meaning from my mom. Did she think I was cheating on Chloe? Or does she know about the breakup?