Epic Fail

by Claire Lazebnik

  “Yeah, well, senior year and all,” Derek said. “Nice to see you.” He turned back to the table. “So what looks good to you, Elise?”

  “The chicken skewers are ah-mah-zing,” the guy said before I could answer. “And the caprese salad—to die for! So are you a friend of Derek’s?” I gave a brief, tentative nod. “Lucky you. And lucky him, too, I’m sure. I’m sitting with your dad and some other people over in the corner,” he said to Derek. “I’m just getting myself a second helping of those heavenly skewers and then I’m heading back over there. Come join us!”

  “Actually,” Derek said, putting his hand on my back. “Elise needs to get going, don’t you, Elise?”

  “I’m late already,” I agreed obediently.

  “Well, don’t go before you try the skewers,” John Montero said.

  “I’m on a raw food diet,” Derek said apologetically. Then, to me, “Let’s get you home.” We headed toward the exit.

  “Sorry about leaving so suddenly,” he said as we waited for the valet to bring his car. “But I could already tell we weren’t going to get left alone for a—” There was a sudden burst of light in my eyes, and I jumped in surprise. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he said, and pulled me against him like he was trying to protect me from something.

  “What was that?”

  “Just a flash,” he said grimly. “Paparazzi.”

  It occurred to me I should probably move away from him—did I really want anyone taking my photo all crushed against Derek’s chest like that?—but at the same time a slightly dopey feeling of enjoyment was spreading over me at the feel of his jacket under my cheek and his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Part of me just wanted to melt and relax into him. Actually, all of me wanted to do that. Who cared if they took a picture? I wasn’t anybody anyway—the worst they could do was print the photo with the caption “Melinda Anton’s son and unknown female” under it.

  Derek wasn’t exactly rushing to push me away, so we stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, my face hidden against his arm, until he murmured, “My car,” and I slid out from his embrace without meeting his eyes, a little embarrassed and a little uncertain what I’d see there.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once we were settled in his BMW, Derek asked me if I wanted to go to his house.

  “Sounds great.” I might have sounded a little too eager. But I really wanted to be alone with him at this point—somewhere we could relax. And I knew his parents wouldn’t be there.

  After we reached Brentwood, we headed north and wound up at a guardhouse, where the guy on duty waved us through an enormous iron gate. Then we turned onto what was either a big driveway or a small road and had to stop at another, somewhat smaller gate that Derek had a remote control for, before we finally parked in front of what I assumed was the Edwards/Anton home.

  Once I’d adjusted to the enormity of the property, to how the lawn, trees, and flowering plants stretched on for miles, lit up by random spotlights even at this late hour, and to how the main building—flanked by several smaller connected ones—was wider and went back farther than I could even make out in the dim light, I realized that the house itself was actually kind of simple, in that spare, elegant, modern way that you usually only see in magazines. There was nothing ornate or unnecessary in the design, no swirling ironwork, no little pillars, no windowboxes—just strong, clean lines.

  If houses had genders, this one was male. A very handsome male.

  The very handsome male at my side said, “What do you think?”

  I was suddenly aware I’d been standing there with my mouth open like a fish. (Speaking of which, there was a koi pond not five feet from us, stocked with freakishly large red-gold beauties, whose scales flashed in the spotlight aimed at them.) “It’s beautiful.” I hesitated, then said uncertainly, “Is this your real house? Or the guest one?”

  He laughed. “We passed the guest house on the way in. I’m taking you straight into the belly of the beast. You okay with that?”

  “I’m kind of honored.”

  “Good. Are you cold? Do you want to grab your sweatshirt first?”

  I said firmly, “I will die of frostbite before I wear that sweatshirt over this dress again” and headed toward the enormous carved-wood front door, but Derek caught my arm and said, “This way,” with a bob of his head toward the side of the house. I followed him around the corner to a small porch.

  He pulled keys out of his pocket. “Smile,” he said as he unlocked the door.

  “Any particular reason?”

  He pointed above my head. I looked up and into the round black lens of a security camera bolted to the wall. “You’re being filmed,” he said, and opened the door.

  Inside, he led me down a narrow hallway—“Laundry room, pantry, Jackie’s room—” he recited, gesturing at various doorways—and into a large kitchen. There was only one dim counter light on when we entered, but Derek hit another switch and the entire kitchen became bright.

  Really bright: everything in the room was white or stainless steel, except for the floor, which was a veined green marble. It was easily the biggest kitchen I’d ever been in and had the biggest oven and island I’d ever seen. The far side of the kitchen opened onto a family room with a big comfy-looking sectional sofa that faced a large-screen TV.

  It was all kind of intimidating, but I liked the big glass bowl of apples and oranges on the island—real, ripe ones, not old or fake ones—and the vase of sunflowers on the counter near one of the several sinks. It felt like someone had made an effort to warm up the otherwise antiseptic and oversized space.

  “Let’s see what we have to eat.” Derek flung open one of three gargantuan floor-to-ceiling stainless steel refrigerators (or freezers?) and studied its contents. “Have a seat,” he added over his shoulder, with a flick of his chin toward the stools that lined one side of the big island.

  I perched on a caramel-colored leather seat, leaned forward, and rested my chin on my hands, so I could gaze at Derek as he sorted through items in the fridge, free to admire unobserved his strong back and narrow waist and broad—

  He turned and caught me staring at him. He cleared his throat and said a little unevenly, “Um, there’s not a ton to eat unless you have a craving for wheatgrass or jicama. My mom’s still on her crazy diet. But there’s fruit and I think we have some chips in the pantry.”

  “I’m not actually that hungry,” I said, because something about the tone of his voice and the way we were alone in the kitchen was making my stomach curl up and shrink in on itself. I was beginning to understand why Juliana stopped eating when she fell in love.

  Not that I was falling in love.

  Not that I wasn’t.

  He kicked the fridge door closed with the back of his foot and said, “We might—”

  Before he could finish, a small woman suddenly emerged from the back hallway. She stood in the doorway blinking at us from behind owlish black glasses. Her dark hair was pulled back in a long thick braid, and she was wearing a bathrobe over plaid pajamas. Simple leather slippers completed the “at home about to go to bed” look.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” she said in a brisk English accent. “What are you doing back so early? Figured you’d be at the party until midnight at least. And who’s this?”

  “This is Elise,” Derek said. “Elise, this is Jackie.”

  Ah. The nanny.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, and hustled forward, her hand extended. I slid off the stool and we shook. I felt her scrutinize me and wished—not for the first time that night—that I had worn something more substantial and less revealing than that slip dress. I had dressed for what the evening was supposed to be and not for what it had turned into. She turned to Derek. “Thought you two could sneak in without my hearing, eh?”

  “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you’d come help us. We’re hungry and there’s nothing to eat.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to take care of that for you?”
she said with a sort of fond annoyance. “You can’t possibly make a little snack for yourself? He’s like that, you know,” she said to me. “Always inconveniencing others, only thinking of his own needs.”

  I laughed, and she nodded at me as if to say, Good for you—you know I’m joking.

  She crossed over to the refrigerator. “Since I’m up anyway, I suppose I could make you something. An omelet? She still lets me buy eggs, you know, even though She won’t touch them Herself, not with that crazy diet of Hers.” She turned and added in a stage whisper, “And there are pizzas and hamburgers hidden in the freezer but don’t tell Her, or it’ll be nuts and berries for us all for the rest of the year.”

  “Pizza, Elise?” Derek asked me hopefully.

  “Sure.” I still wasn’t hungry but pizza sounded as good as anything.

  “I’ll pop it in the oven. Is it asking too much of you to take it out when it’s done?” Jackie’s small black eyes were shrewd but kind behind those big glasses. The lights were brighter near the refrigerators, and I could see threads of gray in her hair: she wasn’t as young as I’d thought at first.

  “I think we can manage that,” Derek said.

  “But I suppose you’ll be needing me to chew the crust for you and pass it into your mouth like a mama bird. He’s lazy,” she said to me. “And selfish. Never lifts a finger to help anyone, never carries a bag of groceries, never stops to chat when I’m feeling lonely, never calls his sister to check up on her. Selfish, selfish, selfish.”

  Again that seemed to be a joke. Which led me to assume Derek actually helped her a lot, because otherwise it was a lousy joke.

  “Do we have any barbecued chicken pizzas left?” Derek asked, peering over her head into the freezer. He was at least a foot taller than she was. “And shouldn’t you be preheating the oven?”

  “Oh, go away, will you?” she said, shoving him gently. “Unless you want to do it yourself. Why don’t you go show your friend the indoor swimming pool and impress her with that since you don’t have the looks to get a girl any other way?” She nodded in my direction. “Is she the one you’ve been telling me about?”

  “Shh,” he said, and quickly turned to me. “Come on, Elise—I’ll give you a tour.”

  He ushered me out of the kitchen and into the family room, then through its open doorway into another hallway, much more formal than the other one, wider and with higher ceilings. There was hardwood under our feet, and the walls were painted in neutral colors and hung with large paintings under simple spotlights, like in a museum.

  “What was that about?” I asked Derek, pulling him to a halt. “What Jackie just said?”

  “She has a big mouth.” He avoided my eyes. “That’s the butler’s pantry and that’s the dining room and that’s the—”

  I shook my head. “You are so not getting out of this one. I’ve had to suffer through being embarrassed by my family plenty of times with you—now it’s your turn. Tell me what she was talking about.”

  He flushed. “It’s nothing.” He glanced up and down the hallway, a little desperately. “Fine,” he said finally. “I made the mistake of mentioning to her once that there was a girl at school I liked who didn’t like me back. You happy now?”

  “And that was me?”

  He rocked back on his heels with a deep sigh. “You’re a little bit of an idiot, you know that?”

  “Did you tell her how rude you were to me at first?” I said. “Or did you make it sound like it was all my fault?”

  “All I told her was that I didn’t have a chance in hell with you.”

  “Well then,” I said, looking down, feeling my cheeks turn hot, “who’s the idiot now?” When I had the courage to glance up at him again, he was grinning.

  “Come see the screening room,” he said, and took my hand firmly in his, sliding his fingers in between mine. I let him lead me down to the end of the hallway, where he opened a door to reveal a room so huge, it must have run the entire length of the house. There was a large movie screen at the far end, recessed into the wall, and rows of velvet-upholstered reclining armchairs and small sofas.

  I just stood there, gaping at it. I couldn’t believe someone would have this in his home. It was bigger than some movie theaters I’d been in.

  “You want to watch something until the pizza’s ready?” he asked. “A movie? TV show? Press tour clips of my mother? That’s a joke, by the way.”

  “Not enough time for a movie,” I said. “Something short.”

  “Let me see what we’ve got.”

  I moved forward, toward one of the chairs. He caught me by the arm and nodded at a little sofa. “Maybe one of those?” There was a hopeful, almost wistful sound in his voice. It wasn’t something you normally heard from Derek Edwards but I liked it.

  I sat on the sofa.

  He did something with some kind of machinery—I had no idea what. I mean, I noticed the curve of his neck as he bent down, and the way his hair flopped forward and he had to push it out of his eyes, but whether the machine was a projector, a DVD player, Blu-ray . . . I had no idea. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

  Derek picked up a remote and came back to where I sat on the sofa, hugging my arms against my chest, shivering a little with something that wasn’t cold.

  “Is this seat taken?” he said, joking—but his voice sounded a little shaky. He sat down next to me. The sofa was small, and his thigh squeezed up against mine. “I can control everything with this,” he said, pointing the remote. “See—” He pressed some buttons and the picture and sound came on. “It controls the lights, too,” he said very quietly, and the room slowly grew dark around us, until the only light was coming from the screen.

  For a moment we sat there side by side in the dark room, watching Lady Gaga howl and crouch. She wasn’t wearing much clothing. I clasped my hands and laid them primly on my lap.

  I waited.

  And then I felt Derek take a deep breath and shift a little away from me—but only so he could lift his arm. As it settled around my shoulders, I relaxed into it and against him and for the second time that night felt the warmth of his cotton-covered chest against my cheek.

  The video changed. Lady Gaga went away. Taylor Swift appeared. The music was calmer. I rolled my head back, so I could raise my face toward Derek’s. “Don’t you think—” I started to say, but the rest of that sentence got blotted out forever, even from my memory, because Derek Edwards chose that moment to lower his face to mine and kiss me.

  Finally.

  At first his lips were tentative and questioning against mine, but something in my response must have reassured him, because pretty soon his mouth grew more confident, and his arms tightened around me until he was almost crushing me against his chest.

  And I liked the feeling of being almost crushed, of being so much smaller than him, of his body enveloping mine, and of his mouth hot against my lips.

  I got lost in him, and it was the kind of lost that’s exactly like being found.

  An eternity went by. Or maybe it was a split second.

  Hard to be sure, but it occurred to me that the pizza might be burning. I managed to whisper something about that to Derek.

  “Let it burn,” he murmured, his lips moving against mine in a way that was very distracting, and for a moment I thought, Yeah, he has a point.

  But no—the house was too nice to burn down, and I pushed him firmly away from me so I could say so.

  “It’s not that nice,” he said, leaning in toward me again. “And we have insurance.”

  This time, my shove was less gentle. “Bad enough my phone went off at her premiere,” I said. “I burn down your house and your mother will never let me near you again. Unless that’s your goal?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “This has all been an elaborate plot to get you out of my life.” He sighed and stood up. “Fine. We’ll go check on the pizza, since that’s so important to you.” He held out his hand and helped me get to my feet. “Hold on a sec,” he said.
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br />   “What?” I looked down, thinking I had some fuzz or something on my dress, but he put his finger under my chin and tilted my head up and kissed me again. It felt different from a standing position. A difference that definitely needed to be explored. So we explored it.

  “Pizza?” I whispered after some more time had gone by.

  He raised his head slightly. “All you think about is food.”

  “I’m worried about burning the house down!” I protested.

  “See what I mean?” he said. “Food, food, food.” And then he lowered his face to mine again.

  Somehow, eventually, we did manage to separate long enough to make it to the kitchen, where we found Jackie already cutting up the pizza. “The buzzer went off ten minutes ago,” she snapped, looking over her shoulder as we entered. We were holding hands but dropped them sheepishly at the sight of her. “‘Oh, yes, we’ll take the pizza out of the oven,’” she said in a mincing voice. “‘Oh, yes, we’ll listen for the buzzer, Jackie. No problem, Jackie. You go on to bed, Jackie, don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.’”

  “We were in the screening room,” Derek said. “It’s not our fault it’s soundproof.”

  She shook her head and carried the platter over to the island, which—I now realized as we got closer—she had already set with plates, glasses, silverware, napkins, and a tray of fresh cut-up fruit. “I think you have everything you need.” She surveyed the spread. “Do I have your permission to go to sleep now?”

  “Please go to bed,” Derek said. “Before you embarrass me more.”