Sweet Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  Brody looks up in response, his lips pursed in barely concealed disdain.

  “I’m at a bar in Hollywood on a Thursday. I’m drinking domestic beer while a man in a furry leotard screams directions to a room filled with college students. Sweetheart, I’m not sure how much further I can get into the spirit without requiring a tetanus shot,” Brody tells her pointedly.

  Landon just smiles in response and gives him a kiss on the cheek. She must have realized long ago what a snob Brody is and what kind of fuss he’ll put up if forced to come to a place this far east of Cahuenga. The fact that he is here at all just shows what he is willing to put up with in order to hang out with her.

  A group of guys walk by our table holding a third round of beers, and one of them slides his gaze slowly up and down my leather leggings.

  “I like those pants.” He starts in on the pickup line that nobody has used since ’98 and that no one had ever pulled off successfully. “They’d look way better on my—”

  Before I can even open my mouth or move to block Brody from jumping to my defense, an angry voice cuts through the buzz around us.

  “If you value your teeth, you won’t even finish the line,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me.

  The creeper smirks in typical douchey male bravado, but it totally loses the effect when he trips and his friends have to catch him. They stagger back to whatever corner of the bar they came from without looking back again.

  I spin around in shock.

  Taylor stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. His right hand flexes menacingly at his side, and the map of artwork curves around his hard biceps. I recognize what he must look like to another man: trouble.

  Beside him my brother appears equally tense as he looks back and forth between Taylor and me. There isn’t any love lost between the two of them and hasn’t been for months. Taylor and Landon are close friends, which means Brody knows he has to play nice. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. He looks at Taylor now like he is appraising him for the first time.

  “Bennett,” Brody says, reaching a hand out.

  Taylor looks off over my shoulder, staring after the group of guys, his jaw still clenched. Honestly, I appreciate the anger on my behalf, but that wasn’t anything I couldn’t have handled. He finally reaches out to shake the hand in front of him.

  “Hey, man. How’s it going?” he finally asks civilly.

  “Well . . .” Brody looks around us as if the mass of bodies and neon lighting is explanation enough. “I’m going to need another drink,” he announces. “Who else needs a refill?”

  “Me!” Miko says, shaking an empty bottle in the air.

  “Ditto,” Landon calls.

  I shake my head since I’ve barely touched my drink.

  “I’ll help you carry,” Taylor tells him, and they walk away to the bar together.

  I fiddle with my bracelets nervously, feeling suddenly stupid to have worn leather pants in the first place. I rarely put any effort into going out, but I felt like putting some in tonight. The leather pants fit like a second skin, and while the white T-shirt isn’t tight, it still hugs my curves. I’d finally found the time to have my hair cut, so my pixie cut is back in a perfectly styled fauxhawk. With the smokiest of smoky eyes and a deep-plum lip stain, I am actively trying to look hot for the first time in years. I don’t want to peer too closely at why that is.

  “Unlike you to be so quiet,” Miko throws out conversationally.

  I snort, feeling more like myself with the disdainful response.

  “Hardly. I’m rarely talkative. That’s Landon’s area of expertise,” I tell her.

  “You’re right. You are typically quiet unless challenged or pissed off or dealing with a jag bag,” she tells me, all the while never taking her eyes off the six bingo cards laid out in front of her. She watches them with childlike glee as if willing them to possess each new number Manly Cyrus calls out.

  “Jag bag?” I can’t help but ask.

  “It’s a perfect word for guys like that, trust me.” She points a thumb behind her in the direction of the drunk guys and stabs her stamp down on O-73.

  “Ah,” I answer, taking a sip of my drink.

  “The point being that you don’t ever hold your tongue in situations like that. Makes one wonder what’s got you so flustered and introspective.”

  “They didn’t have Perrier,” Taylor says, setting a bottle down in front of me. “I got you a Pellegrino instead. I know you like lemon, but I don’t trust anything not from a hermetically sealed container in this place.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  The tension is gone from him now, and he takes a long pull of his beer while sliding my card closer so he can have a look.

  I don’t have to look Miko’s way to know her head is cocked to one side, studying us both. I keep playing with the straw from my drink while Taylor turns to talk to Brody. I studiously avoid turning in Miko’s direction, so she finally leans close and whispers so only I can hear.

  “One can’t help but remember a lost bet that resulted in a day trip, a trip you still haven’t told Landon about for some reason. That makes one wonder why he nearly rammed his fist down some guy’s throat for half a pickup line. Or when, in your limited acquaintance, he started to care so much about how you take your water.”

  I don’t have the nerve to look back at her or play dumb, because I am wondering the same thing myself.

  “Max,” she sings my name with wicked glee, “are you keeping secrets?”

  “Bingo!” Landon screams above the crowd, clapping happily.

  All eyes swing to her as she jumps into Brody’s arms, laughing like she just won a new car instead of a free drink ticket.

  Around us everyone smiles along with her because her joy is infectious, and I am saved from having to face a question I don’t have a good answer to.

  “Oh, Kenzie, isn’t this just divine?” my mother coos to me.

  I look at her over the top of a rack of summer scarves as she holds up a long-sleeved top the same color as the sign out front. Only in Los Angeles are there such things as summer scarves, and only at Fred Segal do they cost more than a small fishing boat.

  “Mom, you already have, like, several hundred tunics, and I’m sure you have more than one in that color,” I say, walking over for a closer inspection.

  She sticks her tongue out at me playfully. “Well, you’re no fun as a shopping buddy today.”

  “Which makes sense because I came for the chicken paillard,” I say while looking idly through a line of leather shorts.

  “Ooh, what about these peasant tops?” she asks, making her way over to the next line of clothing. “But then, you don’t like an empire waist, do you?”

  “Makes me look like my torso is nine feet long,” I tease over my shoulder.

  “Some people might love to have a nine-foot torso.” She waves the peasant top in my direction.

  “Name one.”

  “Um . . .” She fights a smile. “Someone with a twelve-foot inseam?”

  I laugh loud enough that I’m sure they hear it all the way back in men’s shoes. We haven’t hung out like this for a while, not because she didn’t ask, but because so many unresolved arguments between us made wandering through an overpriced department store more than tedious. When she suggested the outing earlier in the week, I internally balked at the idea since I would have to fit it in during the only hours I’d had off in several weeks. But I still have some pretty epic guilt about all of the secrets I’ve been keeping, and some part of me loves afternoons like this for the same reason she does: they remind us both of better days.

  Fred Segal, with its all-American signage and its leaf-covered façade, is the epitome of Southern California shopping. Everything inside it is unique and hand-picked, and has the price tag to keep out the riffraff. We’d been having lunch at the café together since I was a teenager.

  “All right, miss. I promised you lunch,” she sa
ys, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s head out there before it gets too crowded.”

  As we sit down at a small table on the patio, I push my sunglasses up on my head to see the menu better. I know what I will order; I always get the same thing here, but I love reading through a restaurant’s description of its food. Now that I work on recipes regularly, I know how hard it is to sell a dish based on a single flowery description.

  “What are you going to have?” I ask, looking up at her.

  Rather than respond, she knits her eyebrows in a frown. She reaches out her hand to run a thumb along the top of my cheek.

  “Mackenzie, you look so tired,” she says, sounding sincerely worried. “Look at these bags under your eyes.”

  I pull my face away, and her hand drops back down to the table.

  “Thanks, Mom. That’s just what every woman wants to hear.”

  I try to deflect her attention with my annoyed tone, but I know she is right. The weeks of double shifts are still evident in the dark circles under my eyes. Even with only one job, I am still working too many hours to catch up on the sleep. I keep telling myself that once I know the menu better, I won’t have to work so many extra hours to perfect every dish. But it seems like each time I figure out something new, Avis has another challenge to throw my way.

  “I’m serious, Mackenzie,” Mom tells me.

  “So am I, Mother.” I raise my eyebrows. “The waiter would like to take our order. What are you going to have?”

  She smiles sweetly at the waiter she only just noticed.

  “Oh, Matthew,” she tells the guy standing next to our table. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see you there.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Ashton. Should I give you both a moment to decide?” he inquires.

  “Oh, of course not.” She looks over the menu in front of her. “Kenzie, do you want your usual?”

  I nod in response to her raised eyebrows and sit farther back in my chair to watch the show. My mother makes ordering from a menu into some kind of art form. She rarely chooses one entrée but rather selects three or four things so she can have a couple bites of each. It is a complete indulgence, and she spares no expense in her selections or her requests to alter those selections to suit her ideals. Her love of food combined with the fact that she tips exceptionally well makes her a favorite of waitstaff on both coasts.

  “First we’ll have the quinoa salad without the peas. And Matty, can we get just a dash of that Italian truffle oil on top?” she asks, knowing full well she’ll never be denied anything despite the fact that the menu clearly states there can be no substitutions.

  “Of course.” He smiles grandly.

  “You’re an angel.” She beams at him. “Next, I’m dying for the vongole. What wine should I have today?”

  “We just opened a gorgeous Sancerre,” he tells her, nearly giddy as he writes down each new addition to the order.

  “Divine! Two glasses, please. Then we want the chicken paillard, but can you ask them to sauté the potatoes in butter instead of olive oil?”

  “Absolutely,” he agrees again.

  “Ooh, what’s the pizza today?” she says, apparently coming to that line on the menu.

  “Mother, where are we putting all of this?” I have to ask.

  She dismisses my question with a wave. “You know Daddy will eat whatever we bring home.” She looks up at the server expectantly.

  “Margherita, with heirloom tomatoes. Would you like to add that as well?” he asks.

  She wrinkles her nose in distaste. Apparently the choice isn’t exciting enough to warrant the calorie count.

  “No, let’s just start with the first three, and if we need to add on we can later.”

  “Perfect.” He takes the menus from us. “The wine will be right out.”

  She turns to me with a huge smile on her face.

  “I can’t wait to try that vongole,” she says happily.

  I shake my head, amused at her obvious excitement. “You’ve had it at least a thousand times before,” I tell her.

  “Exactly. I know it’s good.”

  When the waiter drops off our wine, she takes a sip and closes her eyes in bliss. When she opens them again, she snaps her fingers and points a well-manicured finger at me.

  “Did I tell you about the event I’m chairing for Elysium?”

  “Is that the one next month?” I ask, taking a sip from my own glass.

  The waiter might be obsequious, but his taste in wine is stellar. The Sancerre is, in fact, just as gorgeous as he predicted.

  “No, this is set for the fall. Let me give you the details. I’m thinking of asking the girls to help.”

  At some point over the last couple of months, my mom started to refer to Landon and Miko as “the girls.” She does her best to adopt them in everything but name, and they return the adoration with the kind of devotion little girls reserve for their favorite Barbie.

  I listen attentively as she tells me the details of her event and marvel, not for the first time, at her ability to keep so many of them straight in her mind. Her favorite saying is “To whom much is given, much is expected,” and that belief is evident in the way she lives her life. My mother sits on the board of at least five charities, all of which have something to do with art (which is my dad’s second great love) or helping single mothers in struggling economic conditions (which is particularly close to her heart since she had once been one). She and my father have given millions over the course of my lifetime to causes important to them. Beyond financial support she is totally involved with each cause, donating as much time with her hands as she does with her wallet. She might drive me crazy at times, but they don’t make women any better than the one sitting in front of me.

  They bring the salad to our table, and she chats on while we start to eat, pausing only long enough to praise the flavor of the truffle oil she added. I smile as we nosh, and I am once again reminded that she is the reason I love food so much. Maybe it is the wine or the gorgeous summer day or heck, maybe it is the truffle oil, but for one split second I almost tell her everything about Dolci.

  “Sweetheart, please drink some more water,” she says, sounding concerned again. “You don’t drink enough of it, and you know you need to stay hydrated. If you don’t stay hydrated, you run the risk of wearing yourself out and having another accident. You have to be responsible about this.”

  I smile tightly and reach for my glass. All thoughts of baring my soul wash back down my throat along with the Perrier.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Taylor asks as he walks into his kitchen. He runs a hand back and forth through his hair, and sawdust flies out in every direction, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s some sort of black forest cake”—I tap the Post-it notes in front of me—“which doesn’t really make sense because I don’t see anything that might be chocolate on here. But that’s what she said, so here I am.”

  Taylor looks over my shoulder at the mess of baking ingredients on the counter in front of me. He reaches around and taps a bag of chocolate chips with his finger in silent demand.

  “It seems like you’re figuring these out faster each time. Last week it only took you three tries to get the trifle right.”

  I fill a quarter cup halfway up with the chips from the bag and then turn to pour some into his waiting hand. He shifts to lean back against the counter, tossing some of the chocolate into his mouth.

  “I think I’m just getting better at deciphering her handwriting,” I say, combining the dry ingredients into the batter.

  “I don’t see how,” he says as he leans down closer to inspect the notes in front of me. “It looks like a toddler wrote this.”

  His shirt moves the slightest bit, and I see a quick flash of black script on skin. I should not be so curious about all the different words inked underneath his clothes.

  I force my eyes back to the whisk in my hand as I move it slowly in circles around
the bowl.

  Whisk, whisk, scrape the sides, whisk, whisk, turn the bowl a quarter to the right. If I just keep watching my hands work, then I won’t be tempted to look at him, or to notice how that white T-shirt clings to his chest or how good he looks in worn jeans or how the jeans are covered in varnish and dust or how he smells like sweat and the Douglas fir he just spent the last hour sanding down into someone’s conference table.

  I don’t realize I’ve dropped my whisk until it crashes to the floor, flinging chocolate against the cabinet next to me.

  “Hey,” Taylor says, reaching for me.

  I crouch down to grab the whisk before he can touch me.

  “Are you OK? Do you need to eat something?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  I need to get a grip—and not just on the utensil in my hand.

  I toss it in the sink with the other dirty dishes and grab a new one to work with. Taylor still looks concerned, but I wave him away.

  “I’m fine. Go take your shower. I promise to still be upright when you come back.”

  Taylor’s lips twist in annoyance.

  “You know I hate it when you joke about your health,” he tells me seriously.

  I nod, only slightly chagrined.

  “You know, it used to just be this thing I had. But since the accident it’s overshadowed every conversation I have with my family.” I start in before I can think better about revealing even more information to him. “It’s really nice to treat it irreverently. You’re the only one I’ve joked about it with. Ever.”

  I roll my eyes at how moronic I sound.

  “Man, I don’t know what it is about you. I keep telling you all of these ridiculous things!” I start combining the wet ingredients into the mixing bowl in agitation. “I am the least expressive person I know, and every time I get around you, the word-vomit just won’t stop.”

  I am annoyed with myself now, because even the diatribe about word-vomit is just more word-vomit. Ugh!

  Taylor doesn’t say anything in response, and when I can’t stand the silence anymore, I look up at him.