When he walked inside, his mom looked up from the papers on her desk. “Hello, sweetheart, this is a nice surprise.” She pushed her black-rimmed glasses back on her head to hold the waves of blond hair out of her face and came around to hug him. “I haven’t seen you much this week. How are you? I heard about the fight you had with Audrey.”
Cabot took off his sunglasses, though with all the halogen spotlights reflecting off the gallery’s white walls it was brighter inside than out. “You did?”
“Her mom and I had lunch a few days ago. She said Audrey was very upset over the whole thing.”
“It was more than a fight. We broke up,” Cabot said.
“Why, honey? What happened?”
For a second he thought about telling her that Audrey had slept with another guy—his mom, of all people, would understand what it was like to have her significant other cheat—but he didn’t. It was one thing to have everyone at school know, and an entirely different thing for your mom to know. Instead, like his parents’ divorce papers, he cited, “Irreconcilable differences.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Well, I’m sure y’all will work it out,” she offered. “You seemed very happy together.”
So did you and Dad, he thought, but didn’t say. He began to wander the perimeter of the gallery floor, checking out the framed canvases. They were abstracts, with lots of bright color and bold, liberal strokes. “A new artist?”
“Yes, a local woman. Aren’t they dynamic? Flying off the walls, too. As soon as she gets them to me they’re snapped up.”
Cabot noted the price listed on the sign next to the painting in front of him: $5,200. A hefty price for a small canvas by an unknown artist.
“How is your painting coming along?” his mom asked as she resumed her seat behind the desk.
“It’s coming,” he answered, though he hadn’t been inside the studio at their house all week. His head was not in the right place for the detail work painting required, and that was even before the breakup with Audrey.
“Good. Everyone is looking forward to the show in the spring.” His mom’s gallery would be the show for his senior seminar class project. In a few months, these canvases would be replaced with his and his classmates’ art. “If the painting you did of Audrey is any indication, the show will be fabulous, sweetheart.”
The painting of Audrey hung on the wall in his studio. He’d worked on it for two months over the summer, hours and hours spent painstakingly creating it from the photo he’d taken of her at the spring dance recital. Only his mom and Audrey had seen it; it would be unveiled with the others at the gallery show.
“Mom?” He wanted to ask her how much she would price his painting if he were to sell it, but he couldn’t get the words out, afraid she would either lie to him because he was her son, or tell him the truth. And Cabot knew from experience that discovering the truth wasn’t always a good thing. He cleared his throat. “I thought maybe we could go to dinner tonight?”
“Not tonight, Cabot. I’m meeting Tanna and Shane in an hour to go over plans for the Austin Art Gala. Besides”—she glanced at her watch—“it’s Thursday. Aren’t you having dinner with your father?”
Cabot shook his head. “I canceled, told his assistant I’m sick.”
His mom sighed heavily. “Oh, Cabot…well, I’m sure I’ll have a note from his attorney in the morning reminding me of our custody agreement. Not that I blame you for canceling. Having to sit across from that man for more than a minute would be enough to put me off food for a month.”
This was how it went now. His parents communicated only through email (cc: attorney), or through him, and even though they hadn’t lived under the same roof in more than two years, the sniping at each other never ended. Except Cabot was the only one around anymore to hear. It got old. After seeing what happened with his parents, and after this disaster with Audrey, he wondered if any relationship was worth it. “Mom, stop.”
She put up her hands in surrender. “No, you’re right, he’s still your father. I shouldn’t burden you with our problems. Anyway, let’s have dinner tomorrow. There’s a new fusion place I want to try.”
“Can’t tomorrow, Mom. I have a date.”
“Already? That’s fast. Though, I remember seventeen; relationships are fleeting at your age.”
“It’s only a date, not a relationship.”
“Well, does she go to your school? Do I know her parents?”
“Yes, and probably not. She doesn’t live in the Hills.”
“Sweetheart, please. I know more people than those who live in the Hills.”
Cabot didn’t know where Mariely lived exactly, but he did know she was on scholarship at NextGen, so he seriously doubted she lived in any neighborhood where his gallery-owning mother knew anyone. He walked over and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you this weekend. Don’t work too hard.”
“Have fun, sweetheart. If this date goes well, maybe I’ll get to meet her?”
Cabot imagined for a moment Mariely, with her retro hairstyles, vintage clothes, and winged eyeliner, like she fronted a rockabilly band, meeting his chic society mother, but he couldn’t quite get the picture to focus.
Chapter Ten
On Friday night, I’m waiting on the front porch of Willa’s new house on Lake Austin for Cabot to pick me up. Willa and her dad had to leave to meet Mia and Finn somewhere for dinner so I’m all by myself. I pull out my phone—he’s ten minutes late. I glance down the street toward his house, but I don’t see his car. Even though we talked about it a few hours ago, I’m wondering if he forgot, or worse, decided not to come. I start to text him when his car lights wash over me, from the opposite direction than I expected.
Cabot jumps out of the car. “I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
Confused, I look in the direction of the mini mansion from the party last weekend. “I thought you’d be coming from your house.”
“No, my dad lives there. I live with my mom over in Pemberton Heights.”
“Oh. Pemberton Heights or Lake Austin? Posh or more posh? Tough choice, I’m sure.” I’m teasing him, but his voice is super serious when he answers.
“Not really. I’d always choose my mom.”
“I was talking about the houses. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say, worried I’ve offended him. He’d mentioned his parents’ divorce—I guess it must have been bad, and it’s not something he wants to talk about further, because he changes the subject.
“You look nice,” he says.
I look down at my calf-length black sweaterdress and vintage moto jacket. It’s flirty with a little edge, but I went with a simple high pony and a little less makeup than I would normally wear for a Friday night. I wanted to look nice, but not like I was trying too hard.
Cabot could probably put on a paper sack and pull it off, but he’s wearing jeans and a nice gray striped sweater. Also, glasses. Black, square frames that on anybody else would look tragically hip, but only make him adorkably Clark Kent-ish.
“I didn’t know you wear glasses,” I say.
Self-consciously, Cabot removes them. “I only need them at night, for driving. I’m farsighted in one eye and nearsighted in the other. Doesn’t bother me most of the time, but in the dark it makes my depth perception off.”
“You should wear them more often. They look good on you. They really show off your eyes. Besides, they remind me that you’re not perfect.”
His brow creases. “Um…thank you?”
“No, I mean it’s better for me that I know you’re not perfect.” Oh, great Greta Garbo! That wasn’t better. “Look, Cabot, if we were on some crappy teen show, the casting sheet for you would read: tall, dark, perfect high school guy with mesmerizing blue eyes, Porsche driver. Mine would read: Hispanic girl from the East Side with big dreams and not much else. I’m just saying, it makes it easier for me to sell this whole fauxmance thing if I know that in a tiny way, you’re flawed, too.”
Cabot laughs. “Mesmerizing? I thin
k you’re giving me way too much credit, and not enough for yourself. Certainly my eyes.”
“Come on, you see yourself in the mirror every day. You can’t tell me you don’t know how incredible your eyes are—like crazy depths of the ocean blue.”
He rocks back and forth on his feet, my gushing making him clearly uncomfortable, but for me, it feels sort of freeing—like I’m putting it all on the table so for the next three weeks I don’t have to tiptoe around the fact that I do, indeed, think Cabot is gorgeous. That by stating the obvious, I take away its power to embarrass me down the road.
“You have nice eyes, too,” he says, probably because he feels like I’m fishing for compliments.
“Thanks, but no one’s swooning over basic browns.”
“Swooning? I don’t think I’ve had anyone swoon.”
I nod. “They swoon, trust me.”
Cabot opens the car door for me. Jacen didn’t have a car, so this is a first-time thing for me, almost as if we’re on a real first date. Now I feel kind of shy and a bit nervous. Nerves makes me chatty.
“So, this is how it’s done,” I say when he gets in.
“How what’s done?” He starts the car and we drive away from Willa’s house.
“A date. You coming to pick me up, holding open the door. This is my first date in forever.”
“What do you mean forever? You and Jacen didn’t go out on dates?”
“Well, he didn’t have a car, and I don’t have a car, so mostly we just hung out with other people, either Willa and Himesh, or other theater nerds. We were always together, but never really went out alone that much.”
Cabot’s quiet for a moment. “That didn’t seem weird? That he didn’t want to be alone with you?”
I bristle, ’cause I know what he’s thinking. “Are you asking me how I didn’t know he might be into guys?” This is the question I know everyone at NextGen has been thinking, too, myself included. “I guess I missed the signs, or didn’t want to see them. I don’t know the answer.”
“No. You didn’t see it coming because you trusted him. That’s on Jacen. He betrayed that trust by not being up-front with you about his feelings. So don’t beat yourself up about it.” Cabot takes his eyes of the road to look at me, and I might be imagining this, but his eyes linger on my lips. Not too long, but long enough to make the butterflies in my stomach unfurl their wings. “But for future reference, whoever comes after Jacen, just so you know, he’s gonna want a lot of alone time with you. Trust me.”
Simmer down, my little winged tummy friends. Since there’s not going to be anyone after Jacen for a long time—maybe ever—and that person definitely won’t be Cabot, I don’t need to worry about all this supposed alone time. Still, I can’t lie—it’s nice to hear someone say it, especially with how my breakup went down, especially when the someone saying it looks like Cabot. But since I asked him to trust me about the swooning thing, I decide to trust him about this and, for future reference, I let one little butterfly do its thing.
Goodnight Irene’s is part diner, part bowling alley, and part karaoke bar. Friday nights are always packed. When we get inside, it’s crazy loud—music is pumping, bowling pins are falling, and people are everywhere. I can tell none of this is Cabot’s thing. He has a deer in headlights look.
“Come on, back here,” I say into his ear and take him by the hand, leading him to the private karaoke rooms in the back. Here it’s quieter, at least until I open the door to the reserved room. Everyone else is already here. The small room is decorated in disco glam with a mirror ball on the ceiling and lighted dance floor in the middle. Tyler Franks has the mic in his hand, belting out Gaga’s “Poker Face.”
Cabot’s hand stiffens in mine, so I give it a reassuring squeeze. Theater people can be an acquired taste.
Zoe Derricks jumps up to give me a hug. “Mariely, I’m so happy you’re here. I didn’t think you’d come.”
I plaster a huge smile across my face. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?” I deliberately don’t let my gaze wander over to Jacen and Himesh sitting together on the red pleather sofa. “Zoe, you know Cabot, right?”
“Yeah, sure, we have biology and lit together,” she says. “Hi, Cabot. Hope you’re ready to sing your asses off—Tyler’s already got twenty-three points, and Jacen has thirty-five, so you have a lot of catching up to do if you’re going to beat him.”
“Points?” Cabot whispers in my ear, his warm breath sending a surprise delicious shiver along the sensitive curve. Everything Cabot does, even breathing, seems to shock and delight my body, and I have to take a moment to gather my thoughts before I can answer.
“We do this Olympic-judge style,” I explain. “After you sing, everyone gives you a score based on song selection, how well you sing it, and style. Tyler usually racks up style points—he’s got flare, as you can see.” I point to Tyler’s ensemble of emerald-green velvet jacket, white shirt with French cuffs, a bow tie, and the skinniest jeans you’ve ever seen on a guy. “Jacen usually hits it big with song selection; he’s got a great range.”
“And you,” Cabot asks, “what’s your specialty?”
I toss him a saucy grin over my shoulder. “I’m a triple threat.” Tyler finishes his song and takes a deep bow while everyone claps. “Y’all, this is Cabot,” I say, pulling him into the middle of the room. “Cabot, I don’t know who you know, but this is Tyler, Madelyn, Hailey, Caden, Himesh, and Jacen.”
Jacen gets to his feet to shake Cabot’s hand. “Hi Cabot. I’m glad y’all could make it tonight.”
“Thanks,” says Cabot. “Mariely promised I won’t have to sing.” I watch Jacen closely for a sign, a tic, a twitch, a slow blink, anything to indicate that me and Cabot together stings, even a little.
Nothing.
“I’m next,” I call out, taking off my jacket and tossing it onto the sofa. I take the mic from Tyler and scroll through the songs. I’d originally planned to start with something fun and girlie, but right now, I feel more like Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.” Only I don’t think Jacen would care. So I decide to go Broadway instead, and I know the perfect song.
“‘Big Spender,’” I tell Zoe, who queues up the music, a big Broadway show-stopper about low-level chorus girls taunting their high-dollar customers, striptease style. This song is raucous, bold, and sexy—definitely sexier than the entire Taylor Swift discography. Since this whole night is about selling the Mariely-and-Cabot-all-fun-no-strings hookup to the world (okay, really to Jacen), I’m going all out. Like Cabot said, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it right.
At karaoke night, we don’t sing to the lyric screen. We’re show people—we love nothing more than to perform in front of an audience. Cabot is sitting stiffly on the sofa, wedged between Tyler on one side and Madelyn and Hailey on the other, who have plenty of room to spread out, but are bunched up practically in his lap. Getting into character, I channel all my focus on him and those hella blue eyes.
The music starts. I begin low and raspy, really grinding my voice’s lower register, on the opening lines. I hit the words “big spender” and tease him with a wink. The hint of a grin breaks at the corners of his mouth. I hit the next line, asking if he wants to know what’s going on in my mind, and blow him a kiss. Sauntering across the lit-up dance floor toward him, I sing about popping my cork, all while batting my eyelashes, pursing my lips, and swinging my hips along the way—these lyrics are not about subtlety, so I’m bringing the vamp.
Cabot’s eyes have not broken with mine, not once since I began, and now I see something flicker in them, something electric and intense, something that sends a spark sliding along my veins. It gives me the confidence boost I need to belt out the top of the chorus, holding the gorgeous note all the way down to the finish. Then I go extra soft and pouty, finding my inner Marilyn Monroe, and beg him to spend a little time with me. The music fades, and I’m breathing hard, only I don’t know if it’s because of the singing or the way Cabot’s looki
ng at me.
“Ten,” Tyler yells out. “Amazing, Mariely.”
“Ten, for sure,” agrees Caden. I get straight tens from my peers, even Jacen, who would never let feeling sorry for the way he hurt me affect his judging, so I know I killed it. Cabot doesn’t give me a score, though.
Madelyn and Hailey jump up for a duet and I take my seat next to him on the sofa.
“So…what did you think?” I’m a little bit nervous to hear his opinion.
“You know how you asked me before how I felt about karaoke?” he says. “I now have definite feelings about karaoke. You were out of this world, Mariely, like really, really talented.”
I blush, basking in the praise. “Thank you, it’s a great song. Plays to my theatricality.”
Cabot leans over to whisper in my ear. “I know you were doing it for Jacen’s sake, but I thought it was superhot.” Another electric sizzle skips across my nerve endings. I start to scoot away, put a little space between us, some breathing room to get my head in check, because no matter how much my body came alive while he watched me, I have to remember he was performing, too, that none of this is real. The second I shift my weight, though, his hand captures mine and holds it. He laces his fingers with mine, my palm cradled in his.
Suddenly, space is the last thing I want.
Chapter Eleven
We hang around for a while, watching the rest sing, though I couldn’t tell you one song because Cabot’s thumb is idly drawing tiny circles on the back of my hand. I don’t know if he knows he’s doing it; he doesn’t seem to, but I know he’s doing it. Because it’s like I’ve lost all feeling in my whole body except for that one spot.
Zoe drags me up for a duet and we crush Icona Pop’s “I Love It,” but after Himesh and Jacen belt “Don’t Stop Believing” to each other, Jacen giving it his all and completely covering the fact that he can’t stand this song, there’s no way I can beat him for points. I don’t care, though; I’m having a blast singing, hanging out with my people, with Cabot.
Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Page 7