Free All Our Yesterdays by Cristin Terrill Page A

mwamp. In between stealing glances at James—James in a tux —I toy with my salmon and push the vegetables on my plate into neat little piles. After a while, I make a landscape out of them: a green broccoli valley at the base of Salmon Mountain, which rises toward puffy clouds of basmati rice.
    I catch Finn watching me, his expression lit up with mocking. How old are you, he’ll say, four? I wreck my landscape with my fork and lean my head against James’s shoulder.
    “Bored?” he asks.
    “A little,” I whisper.
    “Well, at least you look beautiful.”
    I forget about Finn entirely. I forget to breathe . Suddenly the idea of parting James from his clothes doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous.
    “Hey,” I say softly, hearing the words come out of my mouth as though I’m separate from my body. “Want to come over to my house when this is over? My parents left for Vail this morning.”
    James is watching the speaker at the podium. “Yeah, sure.”
    He often stays at my house when my parents are away, which is constantly, so he’s not getting it. But I can’t just say it, especially not here, with Finn Abbott two feet away. So instead, I put a tentative hand on his leg.
    Any closer to his knee and it would be merely friendly. If I gave it a quick pat, it would be friendly. But my hand is just a little too high on his thigh, and I try to channel Sophie as I give it a light squeeze. It may seem like a cool move from the outside, but my chest is so tight, I legitimately wonder if I’m having a heart attack.
    James looks up at me, and I see the cogs beginning to turn in his head.
    “Hey,” Finn says. “Nate’s up.”
    I jerk my hand back, and James turns toward the stage. I die in about forty-six different ways as I add this to the list of reasons I hate Finn Abbott, and I clench my trembling hands into fists underneath the tablecloth.
    Nate is the second-to-last to speak, right before the vice president. Mayor McCreedy, who’s an old friend of my mom’s and comes to every party at our house, introduces him. A “rising star” in the Democratic Party, recently elected Minority Whip and climbing the ranks in the House Intelligence Committee.
    Plus, he’s a Shaw .
    “Do you think Nate will run for president someday?” I ask while the crowd applauds, trying to sound normal. Tamsin or Sophie wouldn’t be all mute and trembling, so I won’t be, either. I’m casual.
    James shrugs. “He’s never said anything to me about it.”
    “He will,” Finn says. “Not the next time around, but after that, maybe. After he’s been a senator or governor.”
    “What makes you so sure?” I ask.
    “He’s got it all. The lineage, the resources, the perfect presidential hair. He’d be crazy not to run.”
    James laughs, not hearing the undertone of mocking in Finn’s words that I do.
    “Well, I think he’d make a great president. He’s smart and compassionate and tough. Plus, you know”—I shoot Finn a withering look—“he has such great hair .”
    “You shouldn’t discount the importance of a good haircut, M. It really—”
    I cut in. “I’m being serious here, Finn, can’t you—”
    “—says a lot about the man!”
    “—quit being an idiot for ten seconds?”
    “Guys, shh!” James says. “Nate’s coming on.”
     
    Em
    I sit on the frozen asphalt, leaning against the side of a salt-dusted Civic with Finn beside me. He rubs his hands together to keep off the chill, while I stare at the gun that lays in my own open palm.
    It’s heavier than I remember a gun being. It’s been a while, but I didn’t think I would forget that kind of thing, and now, for some reason, it’s all I can think about.
    “You sure you’re okay to do this?” Finn says. “Because I can.”
    I shake my head. “I’m a better shot than you, and we might only get one chance.”
    “You’re barely a better shot than me.”
    “Oh please, Abbott. You suck, and you know it.”
    “Maybe, but I didn’t grow up with—”
    I