Wild Swans by Jessica Spotswood

wasn’t a mistake, but kissing me after prom would’ve been?”
    Shit.
    Not all of my anger evaporates, but a good bit of it does, because I know what Alex sounds like when he’s hurting—and it sounds like this.
    I hurt him.
    â€œIs that what this is about?” My voice is softer now.
    â€œI’ve been waiting for you to change your mind,” Alex says. “Nobody would treat you better than me. Nobody knows you better.”
    â€œMaybe I don’t want somebody who already knows me,” I say. I say it fast, without thinking, and it’s only in that moment that I realize it’s true. That’s the reason behind all my excuses. I love Alex. Always have, always will. But the only times I’ve wanted to kiss him were when he looked at me like I was a little bit new.

Chapter
Seven
    My words hang unanswered in the air between us. I look away, pretending fascination with the star-drenched sky above us, with the soft, slow shush of the tide washing in.
    When I can’t stand the silence another minute, I look at Alex. His jaw is clenched; his brown eyes are narrowed. “For somebody who’s worked so hard to be nothing like your mom, you’re sure acting a lot like her.”
    I shrink away as though he’s slapped me. That’s the problem with fighting with your best friends. They know the words that will hurt you most.
    You hurt him first , my conscience needles. But that doesn’t justify what he said.
    Or is Alex telling the truth? Drinking, making out with someone I barely know—those are the kind of reckless, impulsive choices I’ve been warned against all my life. They’re the choices my mother made. That a Milbourn girl would make.
    Connor made me feel pretty and smart and wanted . Is that so wrong?
    â€œWhat the fuck did you just say to her?”
    Claire sails between us like an avenging goddess. Her sundress is short and fire-engine red, her gold platform wedges are a good four inches high, and the look on her face says she’s about two seconds from throwing her drink in his face.
    â€œStay out of it. This is between Ivy and me,” Alex mutters.
    â€œNot anymore.” Claire stands tall, without wobbling, and as a girl of flip-flops and ballet flats and sneakers, this impresses me. She props one hand on her hip and stares at Alex with her big, unblinking brown eyes. Waiting for an explanation.
    He falters beneath that gaze. Most people do.
    â€œShe was kissing some guy. Some college guy. And she’s drunk,” he says.
    â€œAnd?” Claire retorts. “You’ve never gotten drunk and hooked up with somebody? What about Ginny West last Fourth of July? Or Madison’s cousin on Labor Day weekend? Or Charlotte Wu at Dave’s Halloween party?”
    â€œWait, Charlotte Wu?” I ask. I heard the gossip about the girls Alex hooked up with last summer. Everybody heard about Ginny. She was a just-graduated senior, two years older than us, and the guys on the baseball team were gross about Alex “scoring a triple” until Claire overheard and shut them down. She and Alex have been sniping at each other ever since.
    But Charlotte is on the swim team with me. We used to be friends. This could explain why she froze me out all last season. I thought she was mad because I kept beating her in the one-hundred-meter freestyle, but maybe she was mad that Alex hooked up with her and then never pursued anything. Maybe she thought he wasn’t pursuing her because of me.
    â€œDidn’t know you were keeping score, Claire,” Alex says.
    She rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care who you hook up with. I’m just making a point. How come what’s good for the gander isn’t good for the goose?”
    Alex squints at her. “What the hell is a gander?”
    â€œA male goose, asshole!” Claire throws up her hands, sloshing white wine out of her cup. “My point