by Lauren Layne
“I just wanted to let you know I won’t tell the Middletons about this,” she says in a quiet undertone.
“Tell the Middletons about what?” I play dumb.
She presses her lips together. “About your new fling.”
I shrug. “Go ahead and tell them. Also, I’m bringing her to Paige’s wedding, so maybe by then you can stop bringing up Olivia in front of her.”
Mom studies me. “Paige’s wedding isn’t for a couple of weeks.”
“And?”
She gives a brittle smile. “Well, how do you know that you and Stephanie will still be seeing each other?”
“I just know.”
“Ethan …” My mom places a hand on my arm and I look away, because she really does look distressed, and deep down I know she wants me to be happy. “This Stephanie seems like a nice enough girl, but you and Olivia—”
“Are over, Mom.”
“But why? You were always so happy together.”
Were we?
I mean, we were content, sure. Up until the end, we were also drama free, and I know enough other females to be aware how unusual that was. So yeah, I guess we were happy. Enough.
But then things imploded. And does my heart feel like it belongs in a boy-band ballad about being brokenhearted?
No.
I start to head back toward the living room, where Stephanie’s talking with my dad, but I stop and turn back to my mom.
“Why is it so important to you that I reconnect with Olivia? What’s it even have to do with you?”
My mom blinks, as though surprised by the question. “I just … I thought … I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy, Mom. With Stephanie.”
Apparently I’m better at this whole charade thing than even I knew, because the words are out before I even have a chance to think them.
My mom holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re young; I guess I should expect that you’d want to play the field.”
I meet her eyes. “Is playing the field limited to the young?”
Her back stiffens slightly as she squares her shoulders. “What is that supposed to mean, Ethan?”
“You know what it means,” I mutter.
And then I walk away.
I know I should have the balls to just talk to her about it. To confront her about what I saw.
But I don’t know how to have the conversation. Don’t know how to tell her I saw her with Mike senior that day. Don’t know how to tell her that I know she’s having an affair with my best friend’s dad.
Someday maybe I’ll be able to laugh at the farcical fortuity of learning about my mother and Olivia in the same day. Hell, in the same hour.
That someday is not today.
Today I do not feel like laughing.
“You ready?” I ask Stephanie, itching to get out of this house.
My dad winks at Stephanie. “My boy wants to get you home.”
I search my dad’s expression, trying to determine if his choice of words is intentional. I haven’t exactly told them that Stephanie and I are living together, and although they’re not prudes, they’re old-school enough that I don’t exactly want to advertise the fact that we’re shacking up. Although this is the first time in my life that I actually hope my parents mistakenly believe that I am sleeping with a girl, rather than her being a 110 percent platonic roommate—a living arrangement that I suspect is going to be the death of me.
As if on cue, Stephanie lifts her foot to adjust the strap of her little sandal, exposing slim, toned calves, and I find my mouth watering.
Shit.
We say good-bye to my parents, my dad all enthusiastic and booming, and my mom … not.
Outside, I lift a hand to hail us a cab, and Stephanie shakes her head at me. “You’re only a few blocks over. Why don’t we walk?”
I shove her into the cab. “Nobody willingly walks outside in summer, Goth.”
She scoots across the cab seat, quickly tugging down on the hem of her skirt, but not before giving me an eyeful. I don’t bother to look away, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or care. It’s like it doesn’t even register that we’re of the opposite sex, and damned if that doesn’t bug the crap out of me.
“Your parents are nice,” she says quietly.
“If by nice you mean my mom’s part shark, sure.”
“She’s not so bad,” Stephanie says with a shrug.
I hear the slight censure in her voice, and I’m pretty certain I know what she’s thinking: At least you have a mother.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your mom?” I ask, already pulling out cash to pay for the ridiculously short ride.
She shrugs. “Never really came up.”
I should probably let her off the hook, but hell, we’re roommates and in a weird sort of relationship. She can’t go on being vague about big details like this.
“Well, actually, it did come up.” I extend a hand to help her out of the cab. Her eyes meet mine when our hands touch and I have to force myself to let go of her fingers once she’s out of the car. Since when did I become so addicted to touching this girl?
She tugs her hand free and heads toward the front door of my building. No, our building.
“I’ve asked you before where home is,” I press. “You don’t think that might have been the time to be forthcoming?”
She storms past the doorman and punches at the elevator button. “You’re not my boyfriend, Ethan. I don’t have to spill my guts.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I close it just as quickly. She’s right. I’m not her boyfriend, nor do I want to be. The irritability and anger pent up in that pint-sized body aren’t exactly appealing.
“Got it,” I say curtly as we step into the elevator. “Perhaps we can just exchange fact sheets with each other’s vitals for the rest of the summer and call it good.”
She glares at me out of the corner of blue eyes. “What’s got your designer boxers in a bunch? I thought the night went pretty well, but now you’re jumping down my throat.”
“It went fine. I wouldn’t say well,” I say as we step into the hallway.
“Well, it’s not my fault your mother is hung up on your ex-girlfriend. Does the girl have golden ovaries or something?”
“My mom seems to think so,” I mutter as I unlock the door. I immediately head to the fridge and pull out two beers. I pop the top off both and hand one to her.
Stephanie takes a long sip before turning on her heel, flouncing to the couch, and sprawling out on it. The horrible posture is so incongruous with the tidy, country-club appearance that I nearly smile.
“Why don’t you just tell her to piss off?” she asks. “Tell her that your old girl is boring and dumpy, and your new girl has it going on.” She gives an uncoordinated little wriggle at this, and I make a face as I sit in my favorite chair across from her. Apparently we’re done fighting.
“Got it going on?” I ask incredulously. “When was the last time you heard anyone use that in a sentence?”
Stephanie shrugs. “For someone who’s so keen on being up with the times and all, how about you start by telling your mother that we don’t live in some sort of ancient empire in which you and Olivia should feel obligated to stay together just to produce an heir that pleases your parents?”
“It’s not like that,” I say. But it sort of is. “She … my mom just has a sort of vision of my future, and her own. And it involves Price/Middleton offspring and lobster Christmas dinners with everyone all together.”
Stephanie nods and takes a sip of beer. “So she doesn’t want any Kendrick riffraff blood in there.”
I salute her with my bottle. “Precisely.”
“I thought I was looking pretty good, but clearly I need to up my game,” she says, looking thoughtful.
My eyes catch on her legs, which are a little overexposed in her current position. “You did great. You look great.”
She blinks at me for a second, but immediately looks aw
ay when I meet her eyes.
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously,” I say, pushing on, although I don’t know why. “You played it like the ideal girl next door. Like you’d been that girl before.”
Her shoulders go back, and she tugs at the hem of her dress. “Yeah, well. My focus is cinematography, but I still had to take a few acting classes freshman year.”
I nod, but I don’t buy it for a second. She knew exactly what she was doing around my parents, and it had nothing to do with a couple of acting classes. She knew when to smile, when to laugh, how to keep the conversation going …
I don’t know what her story is, but I don’t think she comes from a fleet of angsty musicians.
Which means that someone or something made her change into the stompy, cranky version I met on that first day of summer classes.
And I want to know what.
“Olivia cheated on me,” I blurt out.
Aaaannnnd … there it is. I’ve just spilled my guts to someone who I’m not entirely sure won’t take said guts out on the back deck and barbecue them.
She was about to crawl off the couch and retreat to her bedroom, but she pauses and sets her bottle on the table. “Well … shit. Speaking from experience, I know how much that sucks. Although admittedly David and I weren’t betrothed from the womb, like you and Olivia.”
I smile grimly. “It’s worse. She cheated on me with my best friend. The Price/St. Claire/Middleton clan I was telling you about? You mentioned we sounded incestuous … let’s just say that the youngest Price and the youngest St. Claire have officially ‘shared’ the youngest Middleton.”
She puts a hand over her mouth. “Gawd, Ethan. Sorry. When I said that, I didn’t mean …”
“Sure. But you were right.”
“Wait—if she cheated, then why is she still coming around your parents’ house? I mean, you shouldn’t need a decoy girlfriend if your old one has, um … moved on.”
I fiddle with the bottle. “Well, see, I’m not sure Olivia has moved on. She texts me about five times a day apologizing. Says it was a mistake.”
“And you won’t forgive her.”
I suck in a deep breath, considering. “I could. Maybe I should. I mean, we’re young, and we’ve been together forever, and I know these things happen. But I can’t get the mental picture out of my head, ya know?”
Her eyes bug out. “You actually saw them?”
For a second I’m tempted to clam up. To blow off her questions the way she blew off mine when I asked about her mom. But if we’re going to make this believable, even on a charades level, she’ll need all of the information. Especially when she meets Olivia, which will be unavoidable at my parents’ party in a few weeks.
“Michael, my best friend—” I break off. “Former best friend. The two of us were inseparable. I know that’s not the cool-guy thing to say, but we grew up together. Our parents were the same, our education was the same, same sports, same activities …”
“I get it. Classic bromance.”
“Right. So anyway, I’d gotten box seats for the Yankees from my dad, and I swung by Michael’s place to see if he wanted to go. And …”
She covers her eyes like a little kid watching a scary movie. “They were together.”
“Oh, yeah. I walk into his bedroom, and there’s my best friend and my girlfriend—”
Stephanie holds up a hand. “God. Stop. I get it.”
I tilt my head. “Really? Because I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.”
Although honestly, I don’t mind that she’s cut me off. The mental image of Michael and Olivia is ingrained enough in my brain without having to plant the picture in someone else’s head.
Still, Stephanie looks revolted by my revelation, and I wonder if it’s because she’s remembering the moment when that douche boyfriend of hers cheated on her. For some reason I never made the comparison before, but it occurs to me now that in certain ways we’re not that different.
Of course, our similarities are limited to the fucked-up kind: being cheated on, taking classes during the summer in order to avoid something else in our life, and then being so unwilling to actually face the shit that’s staring us down that we’ll invent a fake relationship.
“Your turn, Kendrick,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Give me at least a hint of the home situation. At least help me understand why you talk about North Carolina like it’s a leper colony.”
Though she hesitates, my own confession must have had the desired effect, because she reluctantly slumps back down onto the couch and starts fiddling with the label on her bottle.
“Short version?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’ll take what I can get.”
“After my mom died, my dad remarried this total … well, I don’t get along with my stepmom. At all.”
I nod, and wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t even try to meet my eyes.
“And …?”
“What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“Come on, you’re not the first person to resent a stepparent. There’s got to be more to the story.”
“Why?” she asks, her expression going petulant.
“Well, because you’re twenty-one, not eleven. Adults don’t begrudge their parents their happiness. Especially not widowed parents.”
I don’t mean to be harsh, but she looks like I’ve slapped her, and I instantly feel like I’m missing something major.
“It’s not like that,” she whispers.
I lean forward. “Then what is it like?”
But she clamps her lips together before setting the beer on the coffee table and standing. “Don’t worry about it, Pygmalion. As long as your ivory statue keeps performing to spec, that’s all you need to worry about.”
She’s right, of course. She’s fulfilling her end of the bargain.
But as I hear her bedroom door shut with a decisive click, I find myself wanting to punch something.
Why is she so damned closed off?
And, more important, why does it bother me so much?
Chapter Eleven
Stephanie
“Your turn,” Ethan says, using the driver-side controls to roll down the passenger-side window that I just rolled up because it was wreaking havoc on my hair.
Giving up, I find a hair tie in my bag and pull my hair into a messy ponytail. The rush of clean, crisp air on my face is worth getting a few tangles. Even if I do have to meet his friends in a couple of hours.
We’re on our way to the Finger Lakes for an overnight trip with some of his friends. I fully expected the car ride to be hell, but instead it’s been kind of nice. Getting out of the city feels amazing.
And being with Ethan …
Well, that’s okay too.
It’s been almost a week since the semi-awkward dinner with his parents, and we’ve settled into a pretty decent routine. Despite the fact that he’s not officially interning at his dad’s company, he still heads over there most mornings to do who knows what.
I managed to get a part-time gig at the coffee shop I worked at freshman year. I only get a few hours a week, but having some sort of income makes me feel less on edge about taking money from my father.
Not to mention the free rent from Ethan.
Except it’s not free. Because I’ve been giving up weekends and evenings and whenever else he needs a play girlfriend. And I’m not hating it.
He leans over and pinches my arm softly.
“Ouch! What?” I ask.
“Your turn,” he says again.
“For …?”
“Two truths and a lie,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road.
I groan. “I’m out of ideas.”
“Lame. We’ve only had two rounds.”
“Which is two more than anyone outside of a high school orientation group should have to endure,” I say pointedly.
Although, if I’m being truthful, the dorky icebreaker isn’t a horrible way to get some basic facts about the
other person. Getting to utter one false statement for every two factual ones makes the real confessions feel less … soul-baring.
Not that we’ve ventured much beyond favorite colors and ice cream flavors. All the more reason to quit while we’re ahead.
“I’ll go again while you think on it,” he says.
He pauses for a moment before making his three statements.
“One: I shared my mother’s womb with a twin up until the second trimester. But there wasn’t room for both of us on account of my big wang, and he didn’t make it to full term. Two: My favorite book is Great Expectations. Three: Despite the fact that I didn’t feel like interning this summer, I’m actually sort of excited about the prospect of taking over the family company one day.”
I don’t even pause to consider which one is the lie. “You did not have a twin in the womb.”
He makes a wincing face like a game-show host whose contestant has just screwed up. “Oh, and I’m sorry, but that is not correct.”
My jaw drops. What? It has to be.
“Take note, girlfriend, I can’t stand Dickens. And Great Expectations is the worst of the bunch. So mopey and dramatic …”
I raise my hand to cut him off. “I refuse to buy the twin-killed-by-big-wang story. It’s medically ridiculous.”
He’s silent for a half beat. “Well, maybe they can’t prove it was death by penis. But I know.”
I snort.
He gives me a look. “You don’t have to sound so sure of yourself.”
“Oh, but I do,” I say, turning to look back out the window. “Because I am sure.”
“Can’t be sure if you haven’t seen it.”
“I’m sure,” I say. God, all this about a penis.
He’s quiet again. “So you’ve thought about it.”
“No!”
He shakes his head in a sympathetic way. “You have. Because if you hadn’t, then when the question came up, you would have had to stop and think, ‘Hmm, is Ethan’s penis big enough to push another baby out of the womb?’ But you answered right away, which means you’d already formed an opinion. An unflattering opinion, I might add. And quite incorrect.”