Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  Red light.

  Wow. I really am locked inside like some kind of criminal.

  Somewhere to hide, then.

  I scan the nearby studio doors and see one whose window is dark. Perfect. I turn the knob, go in, close it behind me, and prepare to take a few deep breaths and maybe collapse on the floor.

  Except I hear music. Piano and a stunning, heartbreaking voice. And through the dim light coming through the closed blinds, I see a baby grand piano and the singer sitting, playing it.

  The notes are melodic, the song like a dirge, albeit a bluesy, sexy kind of dirge.

  I step farther into the room, but the singing cuts off mid-note and the singer pushes back abruptly and slams the lid down over the keys.

  “Well hello there,” I say once I’ve recovered from the shock. “Nice to see you, roomie.”

  She stands rigid, looking at me.

  “So…you’re singing? Does that mean you’re cured? That was fast.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Not cured. Faking?”

  She shakes her head, more vigorously this time.

  “So…the selectivity is selective, is that it? Personally I’d call that faking, but hey, no judgment here. Song’s a little depressing, but you’ve got a wicked voice.”

  She crosses her arms, glares.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. At least, I don’t plan to.”

  She points imperiously to the door.

  “Yeah, I’m going. You don’t have to pull your snake girl routine or anything.”

  I’m turning to go, then remember the map in my hand and the reason I came in here in the first place, and turn back.

  “Wait a second! Jade? Any chance you’re a Level Three? Because I’m desperate for some fresh air.”

  She stares at me with her freaky, piercing gaze, calculating.

  I stare back.

  Of course I wouldn’t tell her secret. But she has something I need right now and there’s nothing wrong with a little friendly, mutually beneficial deal-making…provided she doesn’t stab me first.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m skulking through a series of courtyards, like Harry Potter looking for the Slytherin Common Room, but without the invisibility cloak.

  I have not seen a single male, teenage or otherwise, plus it’s hot as hell, I’m stressed out, and I’m starting to sweat. If I were a real alcoholic, this would definitely send me over the edge.

  I’m taking a rest on a stone bench and getting ready to look at the map again when I spot my heart’s desire. Well, my heart’s current desire—not Wade, but a teenage male.

  Hallelujah.

  He’s short, with white-blond hair, and he’s wearing a wetsuit—a surfer. As he comes along the path, I hunch down, pull a large leaf in front of me, and concentrate on becoming one with the foliage.

  He comes so close I can smell the ocean on him, but he passes without noticing me. I wait a few moments, then get up and follow him on tiptoe.

  Five minutes later, I’m trying to stand casually behind a clump of hibiscus plants—I say casually because while I want to be inconspicuous, I will obviously give myself away if someone sees me actively crouching and peeping, and God forbid I should get mistaken for a paparazzo or something and get publicly humiliated and/or turfed from the premises before I have a chance to explain myself, much less get sober and fit and fall in love.

  Up ahead, through an iron gate on the opposite end of the property from the building I’m staying in, and connected by the series of courtyards I got lost in, is a whole other building, also in Spanish Colonial style.

  Adam said the guys were in another wing.

  This is not a wing, it’s the whole freaking bird.

  The building is similar to the main one, including the private, suicide-proof balconies that must be attached to the dorm rooms, but slightly smaller—I’d have to guess without the dining hall and infirmary.

  I’ve got nothing but my Level One card, but I need to find Wade, or find his room or his balcony at least, so I can come back at a more auspicious time—by moonlight, for example.

  I check my watch. The hour allotted for my therapy with Madam is almost over and things are quiet. Ten minutes from now, I’m guessing, people will be out and about, moving from one session to the next.

  In the meantime, my surfer boy has his card out and is getting ready to go inside.

  What the hell.

  I take a deep breath in, straighten my shoulders, step out from behind the hibiscus and up to the gate, just as surfer boy gets the green light and opens the door. I catch the door on the backswing and follow him into the foyer, which is almost identical to the one in the other building, right down to the double stairway and tiled fountain.

  Surfer boy turns back, gives me a questioning look.

  “Thanks,” I say with a confident smile and a wave of my card.

  “Uh, okay, no problem,” he says, then shrugs and takes off up the right staircase, leaving me alone, at least for the moment.

  Too late to get a maid’s costume, I suppose.

  I step lightly onto the left staircase and make my way up. Below me, two guys come into the foyer, but their heads are together and they’re in deep conversation, so they don’t notice me.

  At the top of the stairs, I check my map again, make a guess, and go left.

  I’m halfway down the next corridor when someone, another teenage boy, this one super nerdy, comes toward me. He glances at me, frowns.

  “What’re you looking at?” I snap.

  He ducks his head, walks faster, and I feel a pang of remorse for picking on someone who looks so downtrodden already. But I didn’t exactly have a choice.

  Besides, it worked.

  I get to the doorway of the dorms but see the already familiar key-card thingy.

  I try my card, but of course it doesn’t work, so I turn and make my way back. Maybe I can find the lounge. I’m rounding a corner back near the stairway when I hear voices behind me—multiple voices.

  Crap.

  I cast about for somewhere to hide and realize there’s a door just ahead. Unfortunately, it’s the men’s room door.

  No choice.

  I push on it, and it gives.

  I push harder and then hurl myself inside, shove it closed behind me, and lean backward on it, safe for the moment.

  And, as luck would have it…there stands sexy Wade Miller.

  The only problem is, sexy Wade is…peeing.

  He’s standing at a urinal, peeing.

  We haven’t even kissed yet and I’m watching him pee.

  Oh my God, kill me.

  This is not the first encounter I want to have. I cannot have it. I’ll have to throw myself back out the door and pretend it never happened. I start to move but, crap, it’s too late—our eyes have met in the mirror.

  “Uh, hi…” he says, less fazed than you’d expect, considering.

  “I am so sorry! I’ll just…” I turn to go.

  “No, no, wait,” he says, and I do because there are still voices in the hallway. I stand with my back to the room and close my eyes.

  All these years I’ve dreamed of us meeting again, I imagined myself cool, self-possessed, and glamorous—nothing like the awkward kid I used to be. And we’d be on a red carpet, or in a field, or on the cobblestoned streets of Europe.

  A bathroom in a teen rehab center falls rather short from a romantic perspective.

  Add the fact that he’s peeing and it becomes unspeakable.

  I hear a flush, some rustling, water running at the sink, and then the sound of a paper towel dispenser.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I say again, talking straight into the door.

  “Hey, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says.

  “You… Why?”

  “First girl I’ve been alone with in days and she catches me with my pants down.”

  “Oh. Ha ha.” This would be a good time for the long-awaited big earthquake to come and swallow us
both up.

  “You can turn around, I’m decent.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I say, still not turning because maybe I can keep my back to him the entire time and then he won’t recognize me yet (he might not anyway—my being transformed into a totally different person is kind of the point—he’s not supposed to associate me with the old me until he’s at least met, and ideally started to fall for, the new me, at which point I can also begin the rescue mission) and then next time we meet we can start over.

  “Come on, now you’re making me feel weird,” he says.

  “Now I’m making you feel weird? As opposed to when I walked in on you in the bathroom?”

  “Well, then, too.”

  I turn, putting my back to the door again, ostensibly to keep my distance from him, but also hoping to prevent anyone from coming in.

  He’s standing in the middle of the room looking…ridiculously good. I may not be able to breathe enough to manage a conversation with him. Rehab and recent detox notwithstanding, the slightly odiferous orange bathroom, the lighting of which does not do his coloring justice notwithstanding, this guy who was charming and deadly cute a couple of years ago is now dazzling. He’s grown taller, his shoulders have filled out, his face is more chiseled—those are the biological facts, the on-paper differences. Meanwhile the sandy hair and cappuccino-colored eyes are the same. But…what is that saying about the whole being greater than the sum total of its parts? The sum total of Wade and his parts is devastating, is heart-stopping.

  Bam.

  I’m not going to rescue him. I’m not even going to talk to him. I’m just going to melt into a worshipping puddle at his feet, or throw myself, naked, into his arms.

  Unless I can get a hold of myself, stat.

  He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, meets my eyes, then gives me a definite and not-subtle once-over.

  I try not to hyperventilate, or giggle, or look away, and somehow manage to stand my ground.

  He smiles his now-famous smile—some teen magazine actually awarded him “best smile” last year—and I watch his eyes for signs of recognition.

  “So,” I say, schooling my insides to calm the eff down, “how’s your day going?”

  “Looking up,” he says.

  No way he’d flirt like this if he knew it was me. And I doubt he’d be so cocky talking to Ben Carlyle’s daughter, either. Mind you, he is cocky compared to the old Wade—he’s grown a swagger. But you need some arrogance, or at least the appearance of it, to thrive in Hollywood, so it’s not a bad thing.

  Underneath, I have no doubt sweet Wade Miller from Ohio is still there, and I may be one of the only people in the state of California who knows him. All I have to do is cut through to that guy, make him fall in love with me, then escape from the bathroom without getting caught, and we’ll be set.

  Yes, he’s gorgeous. But he also knows he’s gorgeous, and that fact somehow helps me chill.

  “So, I’m Wade,” he says.

  I smile. “Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

  “No, Wade. Wade Miller.”

  It’s annoying yet adorable how he expects this information to make me swoon. Sure, the sight of him might have given me some heart palpitations and robbed me of breath for a few moments, but celebu-spawn do not swoon over TV stars, or any stars for that matter. Much better to put them in their place. Putting him in his place is also part of the Save Wade program, the program to get him off the Hollywood/Wade Kool-Aid, because that’s got to be at the root of whatever other addictions he has.

  “Huh. You one of the counselors, Wayne?”

  “No, I’m not a counselor,” he says, charm giving way to disbelief.

  “Phew!”

  “And it’s Wade. W.A.D.E. Wade Miller. From Drift.”

  Everyone knows Drift. It’s huge, the network has spent a fortune promoting it, and Wade has been on a zillion billboards.

  “Hey, relax,” I say. “Your nostrils are starting to flare and stuff.”

  He frowns, touches his nose.

  “So, Drift…is that down the coast?” I ask.

  “Down the coast? No!” Wade almost shouts. “Drift is… It’s a show. A TV show, and I’m the— I’m on it.”

  He’s both irritating and sexy, all flustered and pissed off at the same time, and I love how he barely stopped himself from shouting, I’m the lead!

  I take a few steps toward him, close enough to catch his scent—soapy and boyish and exactly the same but somehow more—and study his face like I’m trying to place it.

  “Drift…hmm, I might have flipped by it late at night. But I don’t watch reality TV.”

  He blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it.

  “Anyway, W.A.D.E., I hope you win the…whatever it is you’re all trying to win on that show.”

  “I—”

  I start to leave.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve kinda lost my way, and I’m pretty sure it won’t go over well for me to be found in here, especially with you.”

  “Why especially with me?”

  “On account of the male/female segregation, ahem, respectful separation, and the fact that there are supposedly a bunch of sex addicts running loose in this place. I might get mistaken for one of them and end up with a whole lot of extra therapy I don’t need.”

  He frowns, shakes his head, looks bemused.

  “Or you might. And I’m guessing you’ve got enough problems already, what with your reality show going on without you and stuff.”

  Now he laughs, a real, rumbling, nice kind of laugh, the arrogance finally gone.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve got one or two problems on the go. It’s not a reality show, though.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yeah, I can tell. You’re one of those real actor types, right? Chops galore, very serious guy.”

  “Ha. I guess.”

  “Changing the world and stuff…”

  He puffs up a little. “Sometimes. Not all the time, though.”

  “Oh well.”

  I should be leaving, but my feet seem overly heavy and we’re kind of…staring at each other and he is so damn beautiful it’s hard to stop.

  “Wait, do I…? You look familiar, except… No way, I would have remembered,” he says in a tone that makes me hot all over. “But it’s more like you…you seem familiar.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, I’m just trying to—” He breaks off as the door starts to open behind me.

  “Shit!” I say, looking for somewhere to hide.

  But Wade’s reflexes are fast, and in seconds, before the person on the other side actually gets in, his arms come on either side of me to push the door shut again.

  Lucky me, I’m between him and it.

  “Hey, what the fuck!” says a voice from outside.

  “Listen, man, I need a minute.”

  “Wade?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude, let me in.”

  “Come back in five. You don’t want to be in here, trust me,” Wade says, and mouths my roommate to me.

  “Okay, whatev,” the guy says. “Thanks for nothing.”

  And then things get quiet again. Quiet with me essentially pinned to the door by Wade. Not counting the peeing thing, this bathroom venue is turning out much better than I expected.

  Now if I could only breathe.

  He looks down at me.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to stay cool despite the record levels of hormones screaming through my veins.

  “So,” he says, still right up in front of me, “you said you were lost?”

  I nod.

  “You’re really lost,” he says.

  “Oh?”

  “It takes a special talent to get this lost. I mean, you ended up in a men’s bathroom on the other side of the compound.”

  “It’s my first day,” I say, as if this explains it.

  “
What are you going to do on your second?”

  I grin. “Don’t know. You have any suggestions? Because I plan to get lost every time I have therapy.”

  His eyes widen and sadly, he takes a step back to look at me.

  “You ditched therapy? On your first day?”

  “Kind of. Yeah.”

  “Uh, that’s not exactly the height of compliance.”

  “Hey, I’ll comply. I’ll do yoga and group and swimming and ‘Vision.’ I’m not going to drink or do any drugs. I just don’t want therapy. I don’t need it.”

  “At the rate you’re going, you’re going to have it twice a day.”

  “Not possible. I’m going to be way too busy doing downward dog and rock climbing. Assuming I can get back to the girls’ dorms.”

  “You need some help?”

  I draw myself up. “Do I look like I need help?”

  “Uh…”

  “Don’t answer that,” I say, and reach for the door handle.

  “Let me check the hall for you at least,” he says.

  “No, I’m good,” I say. “But you’re very cute to offer, W.A.D.E. Very cute in general. They should give you a bigger part on that show of yours.”

  “Actually, I’m the le—”

  And that’s when I kiss him.

  I swoop up, give him a fast but firm kiss on the lips, then pull away and open the door while he stands there, blinking.

  “Hmm,” I say, doing my best not to hyperventilate or, God forbid, swoon, “not bad.”

  “Not bad?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a casual shrug. “It’ll do.”

  Chapter Eight

  I’m sure the only reason I make it back through the grounds and into the main building without getting caught is I’m floating.

  I kissed Wade.

  The last time I saw him I had a plan to kiss him. It was at the wrap party and I was thanking him for letting me hide out in his trailer when my dad was in a mood, and he was saying he owed me big time for showing him the ropes and so on. My plan was to tell him I liked some guy and wanted to kiss him and Wade could pay back his big debt by helping me practice in advance. And then we’d have to practice a lot and in the process fall madly in love and he’d beg me to ditch the other guy and we’d live happily ever after. He probably would have done it, too. He was that nice of a guy, and I tend to be pretty convincing. Except I was too chicken to ask and so there was no kissing, for practice or otherwise.