“Now that we’ve established the basis of my presence,” I shift my weight and cross my arms, supporting the wine cooler in the crook of my elbow. “How did you wind up at the party? Do you know Payton?” It seems that almost every attractive guy at our party is connected to Payton in some way.
Drew shakes his head and smiles blandly. “I guess you could say that I’m sort of with the band.”
“Oh.” I crinkle my forehead and chuckle. “Like a groupie?”
Drew doesn’t answer immediately. His bright blue eyes flash and he takes another swig from his beer bottle. Finally, he inclines his head toward me and says softly, “not exactly.”
“Are you friends with Ben?” I sputter, taking a half a step back.
“Not exactly,” another voice says. It’s a deep voice with the slightest trace of a drawl.
Drew’s eyes flick over my shoulder and his whole face closes up.
I turn. Ben is standing about three feet away from us with his back to the hectic party. I spot the beautiful angel girl watching us from over his shoulder. Her mouth is pressed together in curiosity.
The knot in my stomach tightens at the odd look on Ben’s face and the way that his hands are balled tightly at his sides. Strands of long dark hair fall down across his eyes. I have the urge to reach over and brush them away, but I don’t dare. He’s glaring at Drew with an expression that I can only describe as contemptuous.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Ben spits the words out and I flinch.
Drew lets out an exaggerated sigh through his teeth. He rubs his eyes with his thumb and his index finger, then sets his beer bottle on the porch railing and straightens his shoulders. “Dude, I wanted to come here to listen to the guys play. I was hoping that I could talk to you.”
“But, you got distracted and decided to corner Ellie instead?” Ben’s mouth twists into a grimace.
A slow kind of panic is starting to seep into my body. “Ben,” I murmur.
His eyes sweep to mine then go back to Drew. “I can’t even believe that you would have the balls to show up at my house. I think I was pretty clear when I said that I never wanted to see you again.”
“I just—” Drew starts but Ben cuts him off.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
I feel like I should say something to diffuse the situation. I don’t know exactly what’s happening between these two, but I know that whatever it is, it isn’t good. I take a step toward Ben and place my palm flat on his forearm. When he looks down and sees my hand, the rawness that flashes through his eyes makes my heart drop.
“Ben… I think you should calm down,” I begin, but the words are like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
Drew doesn’t move. His lips are set in a straight line that cuts across his face and makes him look different than he appeared five minutes ago. He says, “Look, I know that we can’t go back to the way things were before, but I thought that we could at least talk. We have too much history to not even be civil to each other.”
Ben’s laugh is humorless. Agitation rockets around his eyes and I’m certain that he’s one wrong word away from losing it.
“You have got to be kidding me. Civil to each other?” Ben’s almost shouting now. A few people nearby turn to see what’s going on and they shift creating a semi-circle around us. The angel girl is among them and she’s frowning. I spot Payton edging her way toward us.
Ben continues. “You think that you’ll be a better friend this time around? You think you can refrain from screwing my girlfriend? You’ll stay away from my band and my house and…” he chokes, “Ellie?”
Whoa.
My pulse is thumping. With my free hand, I push against Ben’s chest so that he’s forced to take a step back. He radiates heat and I can feel his racing heart even through his shirt. A guy with shaggy red hair appears and grabs hold of Ben’s other arm. I recognize him as the drummer from Ben’s band.
The drummer says something that I can’t hear into Ben’s left ear and he visibly softens. His eyes skip over me.
Drew’s mouth opens and closes. “Ben, I swear that Lily and I aren’t even talking anymore, and I didn’t know that you and Ellie were—”
Before Drew can finish the sentence—before I can correct the mistake—Ben shakes me and the drummer off and steps forward, effectively blocking me with his shoulder. He pointedly says to Drew, “Just leave.”
There’s no questioning the tone or the look. Drew purses his lips and throws me an apologetic nod before turning and walking away. He doesn’t even take his scarf with him.
In a state of near breathlessness, Payton herds us into Ben’s room. She pulls off the devil horns that she’s been wearing all night and throws them onto the bed. “What in the hell was that all about?”
I look at Ben and then back at Payton. The red-headed drummer is standing just inside the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks uncomfortable. He’s wearing a bright green shirt that says The Hulk, and a pair of clashing army green cargo pants. He’s got a smear of face paint down one cheek like someone started to paint his face but got bored and stopped halfway through.
“I have no idea,” I say honestly, glancing down at my ridiculous high heels.
Payton is staring hard at Ben now. I can almost see the wheels in her head turning, scraping against the inside of her skull.
“Oh my God. Are you two…” she points to me first, then to Ben. Her eyebrows waggle. “Are you, you know—”
Ben and I intercept her meaning at the same time. Both of us put our hands up and nearly shout in unison, “No!”
“Okay, okay,” she says with a wan smile and takes a step back.
I’m not sure if she believes us. She folds her hands on her hips and angles her chin so that her short dark hair fans around the collar of the sparkly red halter top that she’s wearing.
“Then please explain to me what happened out there.” She points at Ben. “You almost got into a brawl at our party and I want to know why.”
Ben slumps into a chair by the desk. He drags his hands over the back of his head.
I realize that I haven’t been in this room since he moved in. The walls are bare except for a single black and white charcoal drawing pinned above the headboard. The comforter on the bed is still Hannah’s light blue one with a delicate pattern of white flowers. I recognize the green pillows as the ones I helped her choose over the summer.
A few articles of clothing lay scattered on the floor near the closet, but mostly it’s clean by college guy standards. In the corner of the desk there’s a stack of books and a plastic cup that holds about a half dozen Sharpies and a single yellow pencil. A black guitar case is propped against one wall.
To my surprise the drummer takes a step away from the door and is the one to speak. His voice is gravelly like he doesn’t use it very often. “Drew used to be our lead guitarist and Ben’s best friend. He fucked it all up by sleeping with Lily awhile back. Ben came home early from class one afternoon and walked in on ‘em.” He motions to Ben, whose head has fallen into his hands so that I can’t make out his face. “The shit hit the fan and we all decided to ask Drew to leave the band. Then Ben moved out of the apartment he shared with Lily and in with you guys. The rest…” he shrugs his shoulders. “Well, you pretty much know the rest. I’m Nick, by the way.”
Even at a moment like this, Payton has the wherewithal to flash a charmingly flirtatious smile and wiggle her fingers in a sort of wave. Maybe she spotted the wrist tattoo peeking from the sleeve of Nick’s shirt. It’s a known fact that Payton Moorehead is a sucker for ink.
Payton clears her throat. “So Drew…”
Ben looks up. His eyes are watery and red. He nods once.
My stomach swims. My limbs are heavy like I’ve been running for too long. If I could melt into the wooden floor right now, I would. I can’t believe that Drew is the asshole that slept with Ben’s girlfriend. And worse, I can’t believe that I w
as flirting with him.
Ben turns his head in my direction and his eyebrows go up. He seems expectant, like he’s waiting for me to do or say something. Like the explanation that Nick just gave was for my benefit. Like he needs to know what I think. Like he wants to turn over and examine all the words and secrets that are hidden inside of me.
I don’t understand it. Payton’s the one asking questions and I’m the one standing here like a fool.
I blink.
Ben is still looking at me hard. His brown eyes are boring holes into my skull.
The room tilts and I get that weird queasy, nauseous sensation that comes right before you’re about to throw up. Maybe I’m way past drunk, or maybe I’m just a mess and my insides want to purge all of me.
Under the intensity of Ben’s gaze, I know that I’m about to vomit, or pass out, or burst into flames, or something equally as dramatic. I need air. So I shake my head from side to side slowly, and mutter unintelligible words under my breath, and duck out of the room before anyone can stop me.
Stumbling into my bedroom, my hand splayed to the wall for support, I tear off the grey scarf and throw myself on top of my bed—shoes, dress, and all. I try my best to push all of my thoughts aside. I don’t want to picture the look on Ben’s face when I ran out of his bedroom, or wonder what the hell Payton must be thinking right now.
My head is full of whispers.
The party is still raging out my bedroom window when I close my eyes and cover my head with a pillow.
Before I fall away, I have one last clear thought. If Ben Hamilton can screw with my brain function this way then the plan has been a total disaster.
CHAPTER SEVENDressing on the Side
I’m lying half-awake in my bed. The blue-grey morning sky winks at me from between the slits of the window blinds. I can hear muffled activity outside my door. It’s probably my roommates—up and starting to clean the mess from the party.
I know that I should get out of bed and help, but I don’t feel like dealing with anyone this morning.
I roll over and my shoe catches on something. It’s my tail. The black dress from last night is bunched up around my hips. I didn’t even bother to wash my face before I collapsed on the bed. This morning I probably look like some kind of freakish back-from-the-grave nightmare.
I’m in the middle of debating the advantages of a self-imposed exile to my bedroom when I hear a sound that can’t be real. A familiar voice so out of place in this house that I wonder if I’m having a psychotic break.
My dad.
My fucking dad.
Shit.
Double shit.
Now, I’m up like a shot, darting out of my room and across the hall to the bathroom before I can even take a breath. I fling open the door and smack into something warm and wet.
Arrggghhhh! It’s Ben.
He’s standing at the sink with a damp white towel wrapped low around his waist. Beaded water clings to the smooth skin of his bare chest. Freshly showered hair drips down his back. I look down to the edge of the towel and back up quickly.
His brown eyes widen and he opens his mouth. I slap my hand across it and stand on my toes. Forget propriety. Forget awkwardness. Forget what happened last night with Drew or last week between us. My dad is less than fifteen feet away.
The whispered words gush out of me. “My father is right outside this door. I completely blanked that he was stopping by to take me to lunch on his way to a conference today, and now my life is crumbling. My dad cannot see me like this. You have to help me!”
Ben pulls my hand away from his lips. “What can I do?”
My heart is pounding with distress. I’m looking around the bathroom wildly, definitely on the verge of a panic attack.
“I’m not even sure what I need,” I say quickly.
My eyes pause on Ben’s naked chest and my heartbeat kicks it up another notch. This can’t be happening!
He’s peering down at me and we share this moment that seems to last a million seconds. So much is scribbled across his face that I think I could fill up a novel trying to describe it. His lips twitch into a shy smile and it’s like a door inside of me is opening. Like it’s blowing off the freaking hinges.
Ben nods. With his hand cupping the small of my back, he pulls me in and presses his mouth against my forehead. The contact is electric. I gasp, but before I can manage to say a single word, he’s out the door.
I take the fastest shower in the history of the world. I’m drying myself before the soapsuds are rinsed off my body.
After toweling off, I bunch my wet hair into a loose knot at my neck and clip it in place. It’s going to dry into a nest of frizz, but I just don’t have time to worry about that.
I skip soundlessly to my room and slip into a pair of clean pants and an open-necked green top that cinches in at my waist. In a last-ditch effort to distract my father from my puffy, post-party eyes, I smear on some pink lip gloss and slip simple gold posts into my ears.
There. I survey myself in the mirror. Not too shabby.
Dad stands up from the couch when he sees me. He swallows me in our traditional hug.
He’s wearing a navy blue sport coat dabbed with gold buttons and a small checked pocket square. His khaki pants have stiff creases down the front, and he’s got on a shiny brown belt and matching loafers. This is my father in uber-casual mode.
We have the same untamed hair and milky skin dotted with sunny freckles. Mark told me once that my father and I are like a walking, talking advertisement for Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger. My mother is darker—the planes of her face stronger and more impressive. The only traits she passed on to me are her lean, willowy frame, and allergy to shellfish.
I watch Ben rise from the armchair. He’s obviously been chatting up my dad while I’ve been getting ready. The idea frightens me as much as it excites me.
Ben’s hair is mostly dried off by now, and, thankfully, he’s wearing clothes. I don’t think I could handle my father and a shirtless Ben Hamilton at the same time.
A quick glance around the room proves that there’s no use in pretending that a party did not happen here last night. All the surfaces of the house are littered with plastic cups and metal bottle tops and wadded up papers. Ainsley’s friend Laurie is curled in a ball, fast asleep in the corner. A steady stream of drool is running down the side of her face.
Payton is in the kitchen, her back nestled between the refrigerator and the wall and she’s got a bag of frozen peas balanced on her upturned forehead. When I ask if she’s okay, she moans and skulks back to her bedroom.
There’s an open pizza box in the middle of the living room floor and a pair of white women’s underwear sprawled over the back of an armchair. A busted piñata dangles from the slowly circling fan.
“Fun night?” Dad chimes, a little too brightly.
Somehow, Ben is in the car going to lunch with my father and me. I’m listening from the backseat as my dad asks him about his band and which orchestra he’d like to play for next year and whether or not he writes any original music. Ben is talking animatedly and my dad is laughing, and nodding, and acting like a normal human.
What the hell?
An hour earlier if you asked me how my father would react upon learning that his one and only daughter is living in the same house as some guitar-playing man with long hair, I would have told you that aggrieved would be a muted version of his reaction.
But dad barely hesitated. He slapped Ben on the shoulder and said some malarkey about not having to worry about us girls so much.
Say what?
And now they’re exchanging opinions of classic rock albums. Honestly. It’s like I passed out last night, and woke up this morning in an alternate universe or something.
The restaurant we pull up to is the one that my parents choose every time that they visit. It’s posh and quiet save for the delicate tinkling of silverware on plates and glass.
Everything is shaped like a crescent moon—the slo
ping walls, the tables and booths, the suspended pendant lights, and the logo etched into the frosted glass of the door.
The hostess is standing behind a high desk by the front door, jotting something down in a large book. She has her long coppery hair twisted in a side braid that hangs down over her shoulder. When she sees us walk through the door, her already lively face lights up even more. She skips around to the front of the desk and swings her arms around Ben’s neck. Gently pulling back from the hug, he smirks down at her and whispers something in her ear. She tilts her head, laughs, and bats her eyelashes. Meanwhile, my father and I are hanging back in the corner like a pair of old shoes.
“So, you two know each other?” I ask as we slip into the curved dark leather booth—Ben and me on one side, dad on the other.
“Hmmm?” He lifts his eyebrows then turns his attention to the menu.
“You and the hostess?” I don’t mention the shooting pain that’s clawing through my gut. And I don’t ask the thing that I’m thinking: what’s with you and all these girls? Lily, the angel girl, the hostess… Because the answer is probably exactly what I think it is.
Ben barely looks up from the menu. “Uh, yeah… we have a few classes together and we played in the same section last year. Julie’s cool.”
“Oh.” My bottom jaw hangs loose like it doesn’t know what to do.
Julie’s cool?
I’m about to ask him to elaborate when dad cuts in, his eyes peeking over the top of the leather-bound menu. “Elizabeth, what are you going to order?”
There it is. Elizabeth. My parents can’t seem to get on the don’t-call-me-that bandwagon.
Ben sneaks a sideways glance at me. His eyebrows are high and his mouth is twitching. I die a little bit.
“Ummm… probably just a salad or something. My stomach’s feeling queasy.”
Dad tsks. “I wonder why,” he says all fake innocence and charm. “Ben, has Elizabeth ever told you about the time that she ordered sweetbreads when she was seven? She thought that they would actually be made of bread.” He laughs to himself.
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