I’m following him through the crowd toward an empty spot on the large, covered patio. There are no more seats out here, but Lotte told me her neighbors hate her parties, so she doesn’t encourage people to party outside.
The fresh night air does help to clear the fog from my head. Brushing my sweat-moist hair from my face, I stare at Ellis and laugh.
“This is fucking crazy, right? What are you doing here?”
There’s that heavy chuckle of his again.
“I’m working on a two-year contract with a software company here in Amsterdam. I've been here for about a year now.” He leans his elbows back on the railing, staring out at the party, where the crowd is starting to dwindle now as people head home with their partners—new and old. "What about you, Nash Wilde? All grown up and at a dirty party in the Netherlands."
His heavy stare lands on my face as he scrutinizes me, and I realize this is probably a lot more fucking weird for him. The last time he saw me I was about ten years old. While I looked up to him, he saw me as nothing more than a bratty kid who occasionally crashed the party.
I bite the inside of my cheek just thinking about it. He thinks this party is kinky and he has no idea what the last year has been like for me. He knows my dad. What would he think about what we did?
“So, what are you doing here, Nash?"
"I'm in an internship at Schiller Industries. I got here in January."
He leans toward me, a subtle smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. "What are you doing here at this party, Nash?"
I laugh, feeling like an idiot, but try to hide it. "Lotte is my friend. She's been trying to get me out of my apartment since I got here. What about you?”
“I get bored easily,” he says in a dark, ominous tone like there’s more meaning there than he’s giving me now. In my memory, Ellis never seemed like the kind of guy who handled boredom well. He was younger than my dad and definitely had a wild streak. Apparently, he still does.
“I guess I do too,” I reply, and he laughs again.
"You're not ten anymore,” he says like it’s an observation, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me as if he’s sizing me up, and I fidget under his stare. “So, how is your dad?"
My smile fades and I let out a heavy sigh.
"Uh-oh," he says as he pulls a rolled cigarette from his pocket. I watch his fingers as he lifts it to his mouth and flicks a lighter, the flame illuminating his dark brown, almost black irises. Once he lights it, the smell hits my nose and I bite my lip to hide my smile and look away.
Ellis Prior is smoking pot at a party in Amsterdam.
When I look back at him, he holds the joint out to me, and I take it with a small shake of my head. "This is fucking crazy."
It's quiet for a moment, and I'm grateful he didn't ask me to expand on the dad question. I don't even fucking know what I would say about it. How I'm not mad at my dad, but I don't not hate my dad right now either. Ellis was present at a time of my life when I looked up to Alistair Wilde, worshipped the ground he walked on, wanted to live my life in his image. In that world, I still had a brother.
"Hey," he says after a moment, and maybe it's inspired by the fact I'm staring blankly ahead. "I heard about Preston. I'm sorry, Nash."
"Thanks," I reply, looking up at him. Whenever people apologize for Preston's death, I look at them to see if they're giving me pouty condescending bullshit or if they really are sorry. I've never known Ellis to be fake, so it's no surprise his expression is genuine.
"I talked to Alistair shortly after it happened. I never got to talk to you though."
His gaze is fixed on my face, and I start to feel a strange thud-thud in my ears. The pot hits my system, and the tension in my shoulders melts like wax.
Two girls walk up to us, and it takes me a moment to realize one of them is Britta, but she's not staring at me even though she announces herself by saying, "Hey, Nash."