Free The Last Best Kiss by Claire LaZebnik Page A

talk about that stuff tonight when the point is to have fun.
    Since I can hear them laughing a lot, I assume the other guests—Lily, Finn, Eric, and Oscar Green—are having a much more fun conversation on their side of the room, but after that car ride, I feel like Finn would prefer me to keep my distance. Too bad: Oscar’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s funny and self-deprecating and adorable, and normally I’d go sit with him . . . but not right now.
    Lily and Finn are squeezed together in an oversize armchair. It all looks very cozy.
    At least Lily’s made me feel less overdressed. She’s wearing a party dress—a real party dress—the kind a little girl would wear to, like, a big formal event. It’s a light blue satin, with poufy sleeves and a floaty tutulike skirt so big, it covers Finn’s lap too. It probably is a little girl’s dress: Lily’s so small and slender, she sometimes shops in the kids’ department. She’s also wearing knee socks and platform heels and has on some kind of headband encircling her head above spit curls. She looks crazy. Adorably crazy. But crazy.
    She’s brought her ukulele, and when Taylor Swift performs, she pulls it out and sings along. We all applaud, and she gets up and curtseys, grinning and bobbing.
    “You’re better than she is,” says Finn, and Eric chimes in with his agreement.
    When Lily thanks them, she only looks at Finn.
    The evening grinds on. Lucy and Phoebe stop talking about the SATs and start talking about grades and college applications. I alternate between sort of listening to them and sort of watching the TV. The others keep laughing.
    I get up to pour myself some more Diet Coke, but the bottle is empty. I call over to Phoebe, who says to get another bottle from the kitchen.
    I find the Diet Coke in the refrigerator, and I’m turning around with the bottle in my hand when I stop, because there’s a dog in the doorway.
    Her eyes are narrowed, and her head is lowered. She’s pretty big. She’s growling at me, lips pulled back from the sides of her mouth, showing her teeth.
    And, Granny, what big teeth you have.
    I like dogs. My parents refused to get us one—or any pet—because they didn’t want to be “even more burdened than we already are,” but a lot of my relatives and friends have them and I’ll pet and cuddle and throw balls with pretty much any sweet dog I come across.
    But I don’t like this dog. Mostly because she already seems to have decided that she doesn’t like me.
    “Good doggy?” I suggest hopefully.
    Good Doggy’s upper lip twitches up to show a fraction more tooth.
    “Just let me get by you, okay?” I say. She growls deeply in her throat.
    I can’t remember if you’re supposed to look an angry dog in the eyes or not look it in the eyes. I try looking right at this dog, and she instantly narrows her eyes so malevolently that I quickly look away again. I take a step toward the door, thinking maybe she’ll move aside—maybe she’s just fooling around—but instead she lowers her shoulders into what looks like some kind of pre-lunge position, and I step back.
    I want to yell for Phoebe, but I’m seriously scared that shouting will make this dog attack me. So I say, “Uh, Phoebe?” very quietly into the empty air. Maybe she’ll hear me. “Your dog is kind of blocking my way. She’s kind of terrifying me. Like I think she might kill me.”
    I can hear the sound of applause and music coming from the family room. The TV’s on really loud. No one’s going to hear me talking that quietly.
    “Okay,” I say to the dog. “It’s just you and me. And I really want to get out of here. So you’re going to let me. Right, doggy? Nice doggy?” Trying to keep my voice soft and gentle, I take a careful step toward the door. The dog holds her ground but doesn’t do anything else. “That’s right. Good dog.” I take another step. And another. I’m almost there—
    And that’s when she starts barking—so