Chapter 7
HALLIE
The ringing of an alarm-like sound buzzes from my phone. Apparently, I had been able to fall asleep eventually. I had spent most of the night tossing around the Egyptian cotton sheets, pretending like I had actually been fabulous and witty and charming enough so that I didn’t make a total idiot of myself last night.
I was pretty sure that I had failed on all counts.
I reached over and looked at the phone. Sophia.
Get ur ass out of bed, sleepyhead. Door’s locked.
I groan.
I unlock the door and yell out into the hallway, “Sophia. I need a shower, because I feel like I rolled around in a pile of someone else’s puke. It might have actually happened. I might have puke on me right now. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. The drunks took over my room. Give me 15 minutes.”
“I don’t see puke anywhere on you,” a low voice responds.
I turn back into the hallway to see a shirtless, muscular blond guy laughing at me as he comes out of Sophia’s room. “Sophia said that she needed to show her friend around. I assume you’re the friend. Thanks for the cockblock.”
He’s giving me a murderous look, so I shoot him one back as Sophia’s voice comes drifting out of her bedroom. “You better be ready in 15, slow ass! And you in the hallway, exit stage left.”
He flips his middle finger at me and disappears.
“Jerk,” I hiss under my breath before shouting to Sophia. “It’s definitely going to be at least half an hour!” She was probably going to bust into my room, demanding that I accompany her somewhere. Tyrant. One of the most incongruous things about Sophia was her penchant for waking up early.
She would always say, in a fake British accent, “No need to waste the day, dah-ling, when you’re entirely too young and too beautiful. There’s time for sleeping in when I’m wrinkly.” It would be obnoxious coming from anyone else, especially given the unnecessary accent, but Sophia somehow managed to pull it off. I would laugh right along with her, usually grabbing an extra-large iced coffee to chase the sleep from my eyes.
I jump in the shower and although the water is raining down from some fancy showerhead and I could stay in it forever, I make record time. I grab a pair of black pants and a white sweater from my suitcase, stopping for a minute to blow-dry my hair halfway and to add a couple of coats of mascara and some lip gloss. It didn’t make much of an improvement, but at least it was something.
I glance at the clock. 8:45. I would have preferred to stay in the warm cocoon for at least three more hours, especially given the walking social disaster I had been the night before, but that was never going to fly with Sophia. I look at the flip flops discarded in the corner, and desperately pray for a moment of foresight. Maybe I had packed something like real shoes.
I plunder the corners of my suitcase, and feel something stab my palm. I pull it out and groan again. Great. The only real pair of shoes I had brought was the stiletto stripper boots Sophia had squealed over when we had seen them in the mall.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Stripper boots and a broken ankle or flip flops and frozen toes?
Stripper boots it would be.
Stumbling a bit over my own feet, I emerge from the bedroom to find a perfectly clean apartment. Sophia’s sitting on one of the stools at the counter, picking at a plate of fruit.
I look around in total puzzlement. I know she hadn’t spent the whole night cleaning, so what magical fairy had erased all traces of last night?
“Rosaria,” Sophia says, laughing at me. “And her team of minions. I never wake up to a dirty house.”
Of course. I think back to the only party I had ever thrown, where I had spent no less than eight hours picking up every last piece of trash (or so I thought). My mom had found some girl’s bra in the nook between her bed and the headboard and had grounded me for life (it had lasted exactly seven weeks, which to a seventeen-year-old, was life).
I grab a banana. “What’s our agenda for the day?”
“We are going to take on New York,” she practically sings, throwing her arm over my shoulder. “Did you have fun last night?” she asks casually.
“Yep,” I respond, forcing a smile onto my face. “Your friends were nice.”
She laughs. “Come on, Hallie.” She grabs her coffee and pulls me to the couch. “Of all the things that my friends are, nice is not one of them. I can think of about a thousand adjectives that would suit them, but most of them involve some combination of dirty words, and I don’t think your delicate Ohio ears want to hear about that.”
I look at her. Sophia had been telling me all about her friends for months. She may have neglected to mention that nearly 100% of them seemed to be pretentious idiots, but that was beside the point.
When she was trying to sell the trip to me, I spent hours listening to her go on and on about all the parties that we were going to, all of the things that she loved about New York. She had even danced around me in glee after I told her that I would come with her after Thanksgiving and the Susan incident. What was she saying now?
“I think I am going to have to spell it out for you.” The wistful look in her eyes makes her appear more like the Sophia that I had come to know and love than the Sophia-like creature prancing around her apartment the night before.
“Are they my friends? I guess so. When we were kids, we were friends. We had sleepovers and talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up—usually some version of what our parents did. Instead of firefighters and ballerinas, we wanted to become investment bankers and corporate lawyers. But we grew up at the age of 13 and sometimes sooner, because everyone grow up quickly here. Everything became a competition. Whose parents had the best house for a huge party? Who had the best view of the city or the best spot on the beach in the Hamptons? Whose parents currently had an in with the mayor or a senator or a big-time director? Who would get into the best school? I envy you sometimes, you know, when you talk about your friends and all of your little adventures. Even camping. The thought of crawling around on the ground holds little appeal, but at least you don’t have to constantly wonder about whether you’re going to become nothing more than a cast off who doesn’t even have a summer share.”
She sounds nothing like herself. Her voice is low and serious and for a second, I think she’s about to cry. I throw my arms around her.
“Those don’t sound like friends to me.”
Sophia was hardly ever serious. I knew that despite her flippancy, her devil-may-care clothes and hair and attitude, she was always watching, paying attention. She was calculating, yes. She always got what she wanted. But sometimes she seemed more like a lost little girl than a grown-up seductress who wrapped everyone around her little finger. And this was one of those times.
“It’s the world that I live in. That’s why I wanted you to come. I thought you could add an extra something. The je ne sais quoi, the Midwestern fabulousness and the lack of caring about your humble roots,” she says.
The moment is gone and the twinkle had come back into her eye.
“My humble roots?” I repeat, punching her lightly on the arm. “Wow. You are such a brat.”
“It was meant to be a compliment,” she manages to get out, before tossing the pillow at my head. “You know, that approachable, girl-next-door thing.”
“You mean the fact that everyone thought I was the maid? I think that girl in the kitchen even thought that I was a homeless person brought in for a little entertainment.” But I’m laughing with her. In the light of the morning, particularly given the coffee shop conversation with a jaw-droppingly handsome boy, those moments of isolation on the balcony didn’t seem so bad anymore.
I was in New York, in a beautiful apartment, with an unlimited food and booze budget, and we were sans any parental figures. All the people at the party who thought I was a total loser didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; I would never see them again after my little jaunt to the city was over.
�
��They did not!” Sophia is mock-outraged. Then she starts laughing. “Wow. What a bunch of dicks.”
I look at her mischievously. “They definitely did. But this could be fun. We could pass it off like I’m some long-lost princess who wears Target jeans and we would need a super-sensitive timer to count the number of seconds before they start fawning all over me.”
A devious look comes into the corner of her eyes. “Or you’re actually the illegitimate daughter of the Crown Prince of Bahrain or something.”
I laugh at that one. Sophia’s scheming could get out of hand, so I nip it in the bud. “It doesn’t matter anyways,” I tell her. “We’ll have a good trip.”
She smiles, at ease now. She looks me up and down. “We can certainly do that. Now, dear, I know that you don’t ever give two shits about what you wear, but if you’re going to be with me, in my city, for the next two weeks, we are definitely going to have to do something about your wardrobe. Particularly if the plan is to pass you off as a princess. So, the first item on the agenda is shopping. Lots of shopping.”
Her words still teased, but in a flash, she had become the other Sophia, the New York Sophia, and I sigh. Lots of shopping was the absolute last thing I wanted to do.
Money meant nothing to her. It meant everything to me. I almost had a nervous breakdown over the whole plane ticket thing. After I had spoken to my mom and agreed to join Sophia in the city, her father had paid for our plane tickets to New York before I had the opportunity to offer. I had clicked on the link that her stepmother’s secretary had sent, hoping to find out exactly how much it had cost, so I could write her a check. My salary for my lifeguarding job at school was a measly eight dollars an hour, but I worked almost 30 hours a week, so I had built up a little savings fund that I thought I could use in New York.
Four thousand dollars.
I had given an involuntary shudder when I saw that number on my computer screen. I immediately checked my bank balance. It would almost totally wipe me out. I sent an e-mail to the secretary who had arranged our flights, asking her if I should just send a check or try to pay with my debit card.
I only got a six word response. The flights are already paid for.
The gnawing feeling in my stomach only intensified when we stepped into the first-class cabin on the plane. I should have realized, since I would bet that Sophia had never flown coach in her life. Of course, the closest I had ever come to the first-class cabin was at the beginning of flights when they make you pass all of the people sitting comfortably in their plush chairs, enjoying their cocktails and appetizers.
It should have been fun to be one of them for a change, but the thought of an almost empty bank account consumed any joy that I may have been able to get out of it. I didn’t enjoy the little shrimp rolled in bacon (which were fabulous, by the way) or the glasses of champagne the flight attendants had handed to us with nary a mention of showing ID.
I couldn’t keep up with Sophia and her spending at school, but I tried anyway. I cheerfully went along with her and the other girls on my floor to expensive dinners, secretly picking up extra shifts in the pool to make up for the money I was spending. Sophia must have known that I couldn’t afford it, because always tried to throw her dad’s credit card down for both of us.
“I got it,” she would say. “No,” I would reply. “I’m fine.”
The table would be filled with appetizers and desserts and drinks and even though I always stuck with water and salad, it got split evenly between all of us and I would watch two or three early morning shifts disappear along with the dishes. I couldn’t ever remember a time when my mom had allowed me to get an appetizer with a meal, let alone a dessert. It wasn’t like we were poor or anything, just careful.
Every time I heard an offer to pay for me (my lack of wealth was not a secret at Greenview), I heard my mother’s voice in my head—“You are the only you that you’ve got. And by letting someone buy things for you, they get to buy you, too.” And I would politely refuse.
When we had arrived, Sophia’s father and stepmother had been there to greet us before they left for their “cottage” in the Hamptons. I had known before we came that William and Cleo were going to be spending the break in the Hamptons and on one “one of the islands.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it conjured up images of white sand beaches and fruity drunks. Sophia had told me that we would see them the first day and for a few days the last week. Knowing that we would be alone in the city for basically the entire duration of the visit was a bonus for me, although it would have been a deal-breaker for my mother. So, I may have let her get the impression that I would be singing Christmas carols with Sophia’s family all week.
As soon as we walked in to the apartment, I put a check for the cost of the plane ticket in William’s hand. He had looked down at it, and said, “What’s this?” like I was some kind of alien.
He looked again, finally understanding. “This is completely unnecessary. Sophia invited you here. We aren’t going to let you pay for a little plane ticket, now, are we?”
He had taken my check, representing all of the money I had saved from working two jobs in high school and one in college, and threw it in the trash. Part of me was secretly grateful that he had turned my offer to pay down. But the owing continued to eat away at me. Nothing could have made it more clear that this wasn’t my world than the careless gesture of tossing all of my hard work into the trash.
First world problems.
I had been lost in thought, silently wondering how I was going to be able to pretend that I couldn’t find anything of worth in all of the shopping that New York offered. Sophia was going on and on about some fabulous boutique that she had discovered the year before when the strumming of “Let’s Get it On” (her ringtone), comes from her phone.
“Ugh. It’s Cleo. I have no earthly idea what she could want.”
“It’s okay. Get it.”
Sophia mouths sorry to me and answers the phone.
“Cleo,” she says impatiently. “Mmm-hmmm. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where is it? What? No, I have Hallie here. We were going to do a New York day. Yes, yes, I know it’s a tradition. I know. What? Overnight? No, Cleo, I can’t…Oh, I could bring her along.”
I shake my head emphatically. I wasn’t going to intrude on Sophia and her ridiculously well-coiffed stepmother. Whatever the “overnight” was, I was guessing it was going to add a whole other pile of guilt on top of my feelings about the plane ticket.
Sophia gives me a questioning look and I shake my head again. “Never mind about bringing her. Ok, ok, I’ll ask her if she minds. What time tomorrow? Of course I will. I’ll call the service and get it all set up. Of course.”
Sophia turns to me, an apologetic look on her face. “Shit, shit, shit. I am so sorry, Hallie. I told Cleo that I would do this spa trip thing today and tomorrow, and with the party last night, I totally, 100 percent, forgot about it.”
I had forgotten about it, too. The week before, Sophia had mentioned the annual spa overnight that had become a tradition with her and her stepmother. She had invited me to tag along, but when I refused, she had insisted that she would find a tour guide for me to see the city with. I was hoping that she had forgotten about that, too. I was actually looking forward to spending the day by myself—no one to impress or feel awkward around for a change.
I wanted Sophia to have the day with Cleo. I knew that Sophia actually liked her, mostly because she didn’t pretend like she was replacing Sophia’s mom or anything (who Sophia never saw because she lived in Paris with her “second family”). I also knew that some of it came from the fact that she took Sophia shopping and on a tour of all the best restaurants in the city on almost a daily basis. I liked Cleo, too; when I met her the day before, she had been kind and pleasant and had ended our introductions with the promise of getting to know me when she got back to the city. Besides Chris, she was by far the nicest New Yorker that I had met.
“It’s okay, Sop
hia. I was looking forward to this, remember? A day all by myself in New York. It will be fun.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? They have this absolutely to die for little package where you get pampered for two days straight, head to feet. You’re guaranteed to lose at least five pounds after the wrap part, and your skin comes out all glowing and fabulous. Cleo says she’s totally sorry that she forgot to mention it yesterday, too, and that you’re more than welcome to come along.”
I cringe at the thought of thousand-dollar haircuts and diamond-encrusted facials and some terrifying masseuse wrapping all of my fat up. “No, no, no. I would never want to do that, to interrupt your time. And really, I need some time to see the city. You’re supposed to wander around New York alone.”
“But I had promised you Chinatown. Shopping. A new wardrobe. Shit.”
“Sophia, it’s completely fine.” I try a different tactic. “You know I have that art history class next semester, and I wanted to do some work for it anyways. I will be more than happy to spend the day and night bumming around the most exciting city in the world and going to the museums. And we’ll still have almost two weeks for Chinatown and shopping when you get back.”
She sighs and hugs me. “You are totally the best friend ever. Probably the only real friend I have.”
She meant it. I hug her back, meaning my words, too. “Sophia, I’m grateful to be here. I will be completely fine. I’m not helpless. I’m just from Ohio.”.
She laughs. “Fair enough.” Then, a gleam comes into her eye. “Go raid my closet. You’re going to need some new clothes. And I have an idea.”
I know the look in her eye, and it stops me from arguing with her. She meant business. She grabs her phone, shoves me into her room, and winks at me. I stare into the walk-in closet that was bigger than my room at home, and sigh. She was never going to let me leave here without grabbing at least a few things. I shake my head. We weren’t even the same size, particularly after she went on that post-Thanksgiving crash diet. Sophia’s surgery-enhanced curves put mine to shame, and that was in addition to the fact that I’m at least three inches taller than her.
Falling into You Page 6