My Charming Rival

by Lauren Blakely

  “Oh, you’re funny, Jess. You’re so, so funny.”

  “It would be interesting, though, to find out who’s doing the makeup, don’t you think?”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “You are such a gossip hound,” she said, but she was smiling. “You and your father. He’s addicted. I’ll have to send him to a twelve-step program soon.”

  My dad shrugged his sheepish admission as she gave him a wink.

  “I wonder where the wedding will be,” I said.

  “Malibu,” my mom said. “The gals were talking about it at The Sandy Show. Supposedly at one of Veronica and Bradley’s friend’s homes.”

  Score! Now all I had to do was narrow down the couple’s lists of friends. I tossed out names of Veronica’s closest actress friends, and my mom shrugged at each name. Her gossip compartment was closing. She started to clear the table.

  “Don’t give Jennifer the chicken until everything is clear,” she said to my father, as she brought plates to the sink.

  “I’d never do that, Diane,” my dad said, and I shot him a hard stare to second my mom’s command.

  “Dad,” I admonished, as he gave a backhand toss to the dog, his former college athlete quickness coming in handy as he furtively fed Jennifer. She knew the drill—she caught the chicken in her mouth like a frog ensnaring a fly. “What? She’s not begging. She’s still lying down.”

  I shook my head, but smiled nevertheless.

  My dad leaned closer and whispered, “Speaking of gossip, did you hear that they’re close to casting Ren Canton in the remake of We’ll Always Have Paris? I read it in Hollywood Breakdown this afternoon.”

  “Ren Canton is just a pretty boy who likes to take his shirt off. How can they even consider him to play one of the greatest roles ever? He doesn’t even look old enough to own a bar in Morocco.”

  “If I had a gin joint, I’d never let Ren Canton within a mile of it,” my dad said, then blew air through his lips. “To top it off, it’s a three-pic deal. If the deal goes through, he’ll be in Queen of the Nile and the Sicilian Eagle, too.”

  “Ugh. I think my dinner just came back up,” I said, but then cursed myself for the slip-up.

  My dad’s face fell. “You’re not doing that again, are you?”

  “No. And it was only once,” I said, and grabbed my plate to help my mom. It wasn’t only once, but I wasn’t doing it anymore, so it didn’t need to be discussed. They’d never known about my problems with food, and they didn’t need to know. I had everything under control, the way I liked it.

  6

  William

  * * *

  I parked the bike in the lot at my apartment building later that night. John and I had won the round of beach volleyball. At least, I thought so. We didn’t entirely keep score. Games like that were just for fun. I unhooked my helmet, tucked it under my arm, and threaded my way through the other vehicles in the lot. Grabbing my cell from the pocket of my shorts, I scrolled to Matthew’s number.

  He answered on the first ring. “Better make it quick. I’m about to head into the Knitting Factory with Jane.”

  “Is she performing tonight?” My brother was engaged to Jane Black, a smoking hot and ridiculously talented rock star who’d won a Grammy for an epic break-up album—one that was inspired by the guy before my brother.

  “No. We’re seeing Matt Nathanson. Jane loves him.”

  “You’re so getting laid tonight. That guy is like catnip for women.”

  Matthew laughed. “That may be true. About the Matt Nathanson catnip. And that may be true on the other aspect of your comment, though I think it’ll be because of my skills, rather than the other Matt.”

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, or rather the pain, of this phone call?” Matthew asked as I walked into the entryway of my building.

  “Just letting you know my new assignment is going quite well. Surprisingly so considering how long it took for him to even give me the time of the day.”

  “Well, he’s always been a bit of a bastard, right? Too bad mum’s sister can’t quite smell the stench of prick that surrounds him.”

  “Uncle has never been a pleasant word, but he pays in cash, so that’s all that matters for now.”

  “Think it can turn into something more?”

  My chest tightened, as it often did when I thought of my highly limited options. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? Only if there aren’t millions of other Americans who can do what I do.”

  “Well, all you can do is try to be the very best at it.”

  “I know,” I said, in all seriousness. “I just wish I had a specialized skill set, like you do covering rock music. I have a few more interviews so we’ll see if those pan out as well.”

  I walked to the mailboxes and slid a key into the slot for mine. Matthew had been in the United States for nearly a decade now, thanks to his work as a music critic for the leading music magazine in the world. It was the kind of specialized skill set that allowed for work visas to turn into green cards. Matthew was even marrying an American woman soon, too, but he was already a permanent resident before he proposed. Lucky bastard. He didn’t even have to marry her to stay. Not that he should marry her for that reason. Not that anyone should. And not that I was angling to get hitched to keep two feet on American soil. I simply adored this country, and wanted desperately to stay.

  Hence, my need for employment. I’d already tried my hand at several jobs since landing here for my junior year abroad, and turning that into a senior year stay, too. Matthew had tried to help me find work, but even though he’s in high-demand, he’s not in charge of any hiring at his magazine, so there wasn’t much he could do. Plus, both the music industry and the journalism business are highly competitive in the first place for Americans without any specialized knowledge. That meant most of the connections he and Jane have in the business didn’t pan out for me. I’d also tried parlaying my language skills into a part-time translation job that could become full-time, but I’d been turned down for having no experience and no degree. Yet. I had an interview at a new agency on Wednesday morning specializing in court translators so perhaps something would come of that.

  “That’s the challenge, isn’t it? You do so many things well, but we need to find the one thing you do that no one else can. In the meantime, maybe the State Department will forget your visa is up. Bureaucracy and all,” he offered as the mail tumbled out. On top of the stack of bills was an envelope from the State Department.

  “Not likely,” I said as I ripped it open. It was a reminder that my student visa expired in two months, and if I didn’t find an employer willing to sponsor me to turn that student visa into a work visa I’d need to skedaddle then. I told Matthew about the notice.

  “You could do grad school,” he suggested, trying to be as chipper as he could.

  “That just delays the inevitable. Besides, then I’d go into debt. College is covered. I somehow doubt mum and dad want to pay for more education,” I said, as I read the cold, harsh reminder from the United States of America that my days were numbered as graduation drew near.

  “Hey, I’ve got to run. Jane says we need to get inside. She also says she adores you and will hire you as a groupie if you’d like,” he said, and I could hear the playful glint in his tone.

  “Tell her she picked the wrong brother. Tell her to marry me.”

  “I’m sorry. I believe there is a problem with this connection. I better hang up now or else I’ll fly out to LA on the next plane to pummel your dreary ass to the ground.”

  “Enjoy the show with my future wife.”

  Once inside my apartment, I flopped down on the futon, grabbed the slip of paper from my wallet with Jess’s number, and cycled through my best options. I wanted to see her again. I also needed a job. She was both to me. Was that so wrong?

  * * *

  Jess

  * * *

  I read over Anaka’s shoulder later that evening, enjoyi
ng the latest entry in Karina’s Burn Book.

  * * *

  How is it possible that Velvet Treadman has yet to receive the memo that berets are out of fashion? I mean, they are just soooo last year. In fact, they’re so last year they’re like the year before last year now. The only acceptable fashion for one’s head is a pillbox hat, thanks to the princess. Velvet, dear, do call me before the next time you set your little feet on the tanbark of a playground, and we’ll have a refresher course on the basics.

  Love always,

  Your friend,

  Karina Templeton

  * * *

  Anaka had started her uber-popular, completely anonymous blog for fun a year ago, and now it had become a bona fide online hit. In it, she dispensed fashion advice under her pen name, posing as the famous offspring of a now-divorced pair of movie stars—the eight-year-old fashionista Karina Templeton.

  “Who knew that little Karina would have so many opinions on berets,” I said as I returned to my chair. The kitchen table at our apartment near campus was littered with fashion magazines, celebrity tabloids, and my science textbooks.

  “Karina has an opinion on everything,” Anaka said, as she picked up her glass of wine and swirled it, a faux-haughty look in her eyes as she spoke in character. “Including the fact that you look beautiful even in your simple T-shirt and jeans,” she said, returning to her regular voice. Anaka was always encouraging and I loved that about her.

  “And you’re beautiful to me because you rock at being a friend,” I said, shooting her a quick smile.

  “Oh stop, stop. You’re embarrassing me,” she said as she took a sip of her wine. “This is delish. Are you going to have some?” She waggled the bottle of white at me.

  I shook my head. “Wine makes me sleepy.” I tapped my coffee mug. “I need to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if you’re already working thirty six–hour shifts as a resident.”

  “I know. But you have to train early to stay awake for days.”

  “All I can say is, thank God I’m a creative writing major. And speaking of, why isn’t anyone making me an offer to turn Karina’s Burn Book into a movie? I had three hundred thousand visitors last month,” she said, then reached for a handful of cherry jelly beans from the glass bowl on the table, popping some into her mouth.

  I reminded Anaka of her plight in her quest to snag a movie deal for her blog. “Because no one knows you’re the amazing, all-powerful force behind the blog.”

  “But seriously. Do you think Karina’s Burn Book would make a hilarious movie or even a TV show?” she asked, because Anaka dreamed of being a screenwriter, and had even written three original scripts that I personally thought were everything any studio could ever want—she had humor, mystery, romance, and happy endings in all her scripts. But she didn’t want to rely on nepotism, so she wouldn’t show her father, Graham Griffin, any of her screenplays, nor her website that I was sure could somehow be turned into a movie, too—just add plot.

  “Yes. Provided you can weave in a story, some peril, and an antagonist.”

  “An antagonist?” she said with a snort. “Everyone is an antagonist as far as Karina is concerned. Because nearly everyone commits fashion crimes.”

  “There you go. Now all you need is a plot.”

  “Karina fends off a dangerous paparazzo,” she said, suggesting a storyline immediately.

  I laughed. “Speaking of a dangerous paparazzo, or dangerously attractive ones, I ran into a constitutionally good-looking fellow shooter tonight,” I said as I tapped my pencil against the notebook sheet in front of me that was filled with organic chemistry formulas.

  “Constitutionally good-looking? That high up in the ranks?”

  “So good-looking his looks would have to be codified and written into all the law books as a special amendment,” I said, then twirled the pencil between my thumb and forefinger, and sighed as I remembered William’s handsomeness.

  “I trust you procured pictures?”

  “For Karina’s Burn Book?”

  “No, for me.” She banged a fist on the table. “Photographic evidence of constitutional hotness must always be shared. It’s the democratic way.”

  “No. But I kissed him by the beach.”

  Anaka shrieked and nearly spilled her wine. I loved shocking her. “Details, Jess. I want every sordid detail.”

  I dropped the pencil on the table, spread out my hands wide as if I were a screenwriter pitching a new script in a producer’s office. Because this—scripting a life like the movies—was the one thing that took the edge off me. “Imagine if you were casting the perfect romantic comedy with a hot British guy. But not a tortured hero. The completely irresistible, charming hero.”

  “Why are you talking to me, then? Why are you not making out with him right now?”

  That was a good question. That kiss was epic, and I could still feel the aftereffects in my body hours later. All I had to do was close my eyes, replay, and I’d be right back on the beach savoring William’s lips on mine. Of course, I could also rewind to our conversations, to his relaxed and easy way of chatting, whether about food or about the roles we all played. Or to his quick reflexes in saving me from the cyclist.

  I wondered if the scratch on his forehead was hurting him. If he needed me to kiss it and make it better.

  As soon as I thought that, I wanted to smack myself. I needed to get him out of my head now.

  “You know why,” I said, as I pointed to the tuition due notice in the middle of our table scattered on top of our mail, including Jennifer’s therapy dog renewal certificate. Anaka knew well and good that romance didn’t mesh with me. Just the memory of those out-of-control days sophomore year when I’d become beholden to food made me cringe. I was a control girl, and had every intention of staying one. That’s why I took that brief hit of William and nothing more. Okay, more like a long and lingering hit. The kind that could feed a late-night fantasy alone in my bedroom.

  “You are so not fun,” she said with a huff. “Why did you kiss him if you don’t want to go on at least one date?”

  “Because all I wanted was a quick fix, nothing more. I need to focus on finishing my senior year and paying for med school next year. There is no time for boys, guys, or men. Speaking of love, is there any chance you can find out where in Malibu Belle and Bowman are getting hitched? I hear it’s at one of their good friend’s homes. And I need that shot to pay for next year.”

  “Sure,” she said. Even though Anaka didn’t believe in nepotism for herself, she took advantage of tidbits her dad might drop and fed them to me. We were quite symbiotic.

  “Are you going to the wedding?”

  She scoffed. “As if. Besides, if I had gotten an invite, don’t you think I would have told you? My dad’s definitely going, though, so I’ll see if I can get some details. Let’s get Kennedy on it, too,” she said, and opened up an email.

  “It’s like we share a brain sometimes,” I said. “I was going to suggest we ask your cousin.”

  “Then I’ll just copy you on this note,” she said with a wink as she tapped out a quick email, then closed the browser. “Now tell me more about this kiss with the hot British guy.”

  I was about to give her all the details, every single one, when my phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the screen.

  There was a text message from a number I didn’t recognize.

  How do I move that maybe to a yes?

  An hour later, I still hadn’t replied. Nor had I deleted his note. Which meant I was still squarely in the maybe camp, and definitely not in the no camp, but absolutely fighting off the yes camp.

  Because on the one hand, there was that bill. That bill was my future. But on the other hand, here was my present. The tingles that raced down my spine every time I replayed that moment on the boardwalk reminded me of how much a good kiss could turn a day around.

  On the third hand, I had been on a nice even k
eel with food and grades for a few years now. Perfect even. No slip-ups when it came to bulimia, and nothing less than a B when it came to grades. Maybe I was stronger. Maybe I knew how to handle change without spiraling. Perhaps I could manage a little flirtation from a distance.

  After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and slipping into bed, I chose the third path. I clicked on his text, adding him to my contacts, and listing him as HBG for Hot British Guy. Keeping him nameless would help me keep him at the necessary distance, I reasoned.

  I tapped out a reply.

  Generally speaking, one relies on moving trucks for such tall tasks.

  I hit send, then hit the pillow. Seconds later, the phone vibrated.

  HBG: Funny thing. I have a truck. With a very large bed.

  A grin tugged at my lips. Damn that William.

  Nice try. But I saw your bike.

  I switched off the lamp on my nightstand.

  HBG: You were checking out my wheels?

  He had me on that one.

  Maybe I was. And I’m not sure that bike has enough room for a yes.

  I held the phone tighter, eager for a reply.

  HBG: But it definitely has enough room if you ever want to go for a ride with me.

  My eyes floated shut as a spark rushed through my veins. How I would love to get on the back of his bike, wrap my arms around his waist, and hold on tight.

  I thought you were asking me out for a pizza. Now you want a ride, too? You are demanding.

  I tossed the phone to the foot of my bed, as if that would stop me from wanting to hear back.

  But in seconds, it lit up again. And in seconds I swiveled around and clicked open the screen.

  HBG: That’s only because you kissed me. Now I know what I’m missing if you say no. Don’t say no, Jess. I want to see you again, and I want to kiss you again.

  * * *