Exes and Ohs

by Beth Kendrick

  “Totally,” echoed the awestruck teen. “Your show was the only thing that kept me going through sophomore year. My teachers kept hassling me to go see a counselor or a psychologist or something, but none of them ever helped me as much as Twilight’s Tempest.”

  “Psychologists,” grumbled the old man. “Pack of liars and charlatans. ‘Mental health.’ Hogwash.”

  “Can’t compete with a good dose of hard work and common sense,” his wife agreed.

  “It’s not even a real science.” The teenager rolled her eyes.

  I scowled at them and drummed my fingers on the brass handrail.

  “What’s her glitch?” the teenager muttered.

  “She’s a psychologist,” the old woman stage-whispered back.

  They all regarded me with real pity.

  When the doors finally opened at the ground floor, I couldn’t sprint out of there fast enough. But Harmony stayed right on my tail. I could hear her stilettos clicking on the marble floor.

  I swiveled my head from side to side, gazing past the groups of tourists and hungover bachelor partyers, searching for any sign of Cesca or Mike. “Where is she?”

  “Look!” Harmony grabbed my arm, practically drawing blood with her manicure. “It’s Carter Nicholson!”

  I followed her gaze to an impossibly tall man surrounded by a phalanx of flashbulbs and fans. “From the Lakers?”

  “Yeah.” She squinted across the lobby. “Who’s that woman he’s kissing?”

  The sea of photographers shifted, and I caught a glimpse of Carter’s companion.

  Cesca DiSanto.

  Wearing the designer creation formerly known as my wedding gown, looking impossibly petite next to the six-foot-six point guard, and smiling for the cameras. On her left hand, she sported a diamond ring so colossal, I was surprised she didn’t need a sling.

  In a trice, Harmony had her Chanel gloss out of her purse and onto her lips. “Let’s go!” But she froze in midstrut, regarding me with guilty eyes. “Oh. I’m not supposed to flirt with married men anymore, right?”

  “Right,” I said when I recovered the power of speech. “Especially that one, because I think…I think he’s married to Cesca.”

  “That’s your roommate?” She squealed. Heads turned our way. The male heads stayed turned. “Oh, she’s adorable! She’s like a little fairy princess!”

  “More like a ninja. Surprise attacks with no warning.” I gaped at Cesca and the stately hunk beside her.

  “You know, I met Carter at a record release party last month. Let’s go say hi!”

  One thing I had to say for Harmony St. James, she could really shove her way through a crowd. She jabbed her bony little elbows through the media throng with the ruthless efficiency of a New Yorker cramming into a subway at rush hour. No doubt she’d had years of practice cutting a swath to the bar at premieres and award ceremonies.

  I peered over a photographer’s shoulder, trying to catch sight of Cesca. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her telling the reporter, “…And it was just love at first sight. He looked at me, and he said, ‘I seem to have lost my phone number; can I have yours?’…”

  I stopped jockeying for position long enough to gag.

  “…And then he bought me a glass of wine, and then…we just knew. So here we are.”

  “Oh, that is so sweet,” Harmony gushed, right in my ear.

  I rolled my eyes. “He must have slipped something into that wine, because this is not the Cesca DiSanto I know and love. This is a twisted parody of a DeBeers ad.”

  “That’s quite an engagement ring,” the reporter said. “Mind if I ask how many carats?”

  “Mind if I ask if that’s your real hair?” Cesca shot back.

  I smiled. “Now that’s the Cesca DiSanto I know and love.”

  When the reported backed off, I shoved past him and came face-to-face with my soon-to-be-ex-roommate. “You know, Ces, if you wanted to move into a nicer apartment, there are subtler ways to tell me that than marrying a Laker.”

  “Gwen!” She pounced on me. I started getting a contact high from all her perfume and euphoria. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tracking you down like a dog in the street.” I leaned in and whispered, “With your boyfriend, I might add.”

  “Who?” She looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. “Mike? Oh, that was never serious. Come on.”

  “‘Never serious’? What the hell?”

  Her big brown eyes went distant and dreamy as she turned to her new husband. “I was just waiting for my true love to come along. My prince.”

  At this, His Royal Highness smiled indulgently and kissed the top of her blond-streaked head.

  I stared at them. “What have you done with the real Cesca?”

  “I ditched her at the state line.” She laughed. “Meet my husband, Carter Nicholson.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Carter’s hand was about four times the size of mine, but I tried to shake it anyway. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” My gaze bounced from him to Cesca. “How long have you two known each other?”

  Carter consulted his diamond-studded Rolex. “About ten hours.”

  “I know this seems a bit…rash,” Cesca said.

  I nodded. “Just a bit.”

  “But it is so right, Gwen. I can feel it. Can’t you see it?”

  And I had to admit, she did look different. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled brighter than the diamond on her finger. She looked like I had felt when I still thought I was going to marry Dennis—lit up from the inside. Eager for the rest of her life to unfold.

  “Yeah.” I hugged her back. “I do see it.”

  “Plus, how gorgeous am I?” She struck a pose for the photographers, who snapped away. “I make this dress look good.”

  “It’s an aisle, Ces, not a catwalk.”

  Carter laughed at this. I was warming up to him already.

  “How did this happen?” I asked. “I thought you were going to wait at the apartment and make my excuses to Paul.”

  “I did!” She threaded her arms through Carter’s and leaned into his black wool lapel. “Look, let’s get out of this rat hole and go get a drink. We’ll explain everything.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “‘Rat hole’?”

  She did her best Zsa Zsa Gabor imitation. “Dahling, we’re moving to a penthouse suite at The Palms tonight. Less riffraff, you know. We’re just going to grab my bags and pay the bill here.”

  I pouted. “But I’ll have to go back to Westwood all by myself. Who will eat breakfast with me in our little firetrap by fraternity row?”

  She tugged at Carter’s hand. “I know! Gwen can come live with us in Brentwood, right? And live in the guest house and have breakfast with me every day while you’re on the road!”

  Carter laughed but did not, I noticed, agree.

  I tried to emulate their enthusiasm. “Let’s go raid the minibar at The Palms.”

  She shivered with delight. “I love minibars!”

  “Then you’re gonna love being married to me,” Carter assured her.

  I gasped as five razor-sharp nails sank into my forearm. “Ow-wow-wow.”

  “Oh sorry, chérie, did that hurt?” Harmony sidestepped around me and turned her ice blue eyes and freakishly thick eyelashes on Carter. “Hi, Carter. You might remember me from the RCA party at Fenix? I’m—”

  He cleared his throat and took a wild guess. “Uh…Catherine?”

  She batted her eyelashes again. “Not quite. I’m—”

  “Harmony St. James! Fancy meeting you here, ya little minx!” A white-blond metalhead with black leather pants and a southern accent tackled Harmony. He had BIOHAZARD tattooed on his forearm and too many years of hard living etched into the deep lines of his face.

  I backed off, repelled by both his unpredictable lunging and his pungent body odor.

  Harmony peeked out from the half nelson he’d pinned her in. “Roy?”

  “Rock
and roll, baby!” His laugh sounded like a rusty muffler dragging against asphalt.

  “I can’t believe you’re still alive!” She threw her arms around him. This elicited a frenzy of flashbulbs from the photographers.

  She turned to me. “Do you know who this is?”

  I considered asking about the possibility of a Keith Richards and Daisy Duke love child, but decided that this might be taken the wrong way. “No.”

  “It’s Roy Rob!” Mike, practically foaming at the mouth, materialized at my right elbow.

  I blinked. “The Scottish hero of lore?”

  “No, dude. Roy Rob. Lead singer of the Daddy Long Legs. My personal idol.” Mike’s eyes glazed over. “I love you, man.”

  “Somebody slap him,” Cesca commanded.

  Roy sized up Mike with the practiced coolness of a man accustomed to Fatal Attraction fans. “You’re crazier’n a treed raccoon, buddy. Far out.” He dug around the back pockets of his leather pants and produced a laminated square of paper. “We’re playing the Hard Rock tonight. Here’s a backstage pass.”

  A match made in Hair Band Heaven.

  Mike accepted the pass with an air of quiet awe. “I’ll be there, my man. I’m in a band too.”

  Cesca snorted. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am so! It’s called Three-Hour Tour. Just like that line from Gilligan’s Island.” Mike squinched up his face and screeched falsetto. “A three-hour tour…A three-hour tour.”

  “You played once, at your brother-in-law’s barbecue, and the neighbors called the cops.” She hiked up her gown and leaned into Carter. “Take me away from all this.”

  The two of them exchanged a scorching, honeymoon look.

  So there I stood, surrounded by: newlyweds who’d been acquainted for less time than it took to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner, a half-pickled headbanger, a jilted groupie with a major jones for pilfered Diet Coke, the paparazzi, and my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, whom I was coaching to be his future wife.

  Life just doesn’t get any freakier, right?

  And then the ex-boyfriend and his son walked into the lobby.

  20

  “What are they doing here?” I yelped.

  Harmony followed my gaze to Alex and Leo. “Oh! Well, Leo really missed me. When I talked to him on the phone yesterday, I told him I was going to be in Vegas, and he wanted to come out and see some spider exhibit at the Shooting Star, so…”

  “So why are they standing in the lobby of my hotel?”

  She shrugged. “They just called me from the airport. I told them to come on over. But don’t worry—I didn’t tell them you were here.”

  “I think they figured that out all by themselves.”

  Leo was pointing at me and hopping around excitedly. Alex seemed less enthusiastic. His was the expression of a man about to face a prolonged technical interview by Senate subcommittee members.

  Our plan to avoid all contact was officially a failure—first Eggo night, now this. And every time we were thrown together, extricating myself got more excruciating. Maybe Alex could set aside the feelings we’d had for each other and make his peace with the baby mama drama. Harmony definitely could (reading piles of soap opera scripts probably helped to keep things in perspective). But I could not. And I was through with pretending otherwise.

  Leo’s sneakers squeaked across the marble as he raced over to us. “Hey! Everybody’s here!”

  “Hi, Pookie!” Harmony swooped down for a jasmine-scented hug, but he wriggled away to share his news with me.

  “We’re in Las Vegas.” He tugged on my hand with sticky fingers to make sure I appreciated the magnitude of this. “And know what’s in Las Vegas?”

  “Fear and loathing?” I ventured. I tried not to stare at Alex. I could feel his gaze on me.

  Leo ignored this and carried on with breathless delight. “The desert! We’re in the desert! There can be radioactive spiders out here!”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah! Just like the ones that bit Fider-Man! And me and Daddy are gonna look for ’em, and maybe we’ll find one and…”

  Harmony patted his head. “Isn’t that sweet? They’ve bonded.”

  “Yeah, it warms my heart.” I turned to Mike. “I’m heading back to L.A. Right now. You coming?”

  “No way.” Judging by the vacant look in his eyes, Mike Jessup had, for all intents and purposes, already left the building. “Roy Rob said he might hire me as his personal assistant. I’ll have a real job and travel the world. Working for Daddy Long Legs. Can you believe it?”

  “Righteous.” Roy contorted his right hand into what I was pretty sure was a satanic salute.

  “All right, then. I’ll see you both on VH1: Behind the Music.” I pivoted and dashed for the elevator.

  “Hey!” Cesca shrieked. I heard the rustle of a tulle crinoline as she ran after me.

  She caught me by the elbow. “What are you doing, Gwen? I thought we were going to celebrate?”

  I jerked my head toward the latest addition to the party. “I can’t stay here with them.”

  She nodded slowly. “Oh I guess this must be…”

  “Exactly. I’ll see you at home. Enjoy your honeymoon.” I resumed my charge toward the elevator banks.

  “Can’t you just stay a few hours? Don’t you even want to hear about the wedding? Don’t you want to help me figure out how the hell I’m going to tell my parents about this?”

  “I do, but I have to leave. We’ll talk when you get home.”

  “But…I won’t live there anymore.” She said this slowly, as if the truth of the statement were just dawning on her. “I’ll be moving out.”

  I swallowed. “I know.”

  “Oh, Gwen.” Her eyes filled up with tears. “You’ll be there all alone.”

  I glanced down and shrugged. “Nah. I’ll have all the frat boys I can handle to keep me company at three A.M.”

  She wrapped her fingers around mine. “This is really sad.”

  My smile was bright and breezy. “Just give me a call when you’re on your way back and we’ll decide how to break the news to your family. My advice? Think public places with lots of witnesses.”

  I risked a glance back at the fray in the lobby. Alex had disentangled himself from Harmony’s embrace and was heading toward the elevator. “Ces, I’ve got to go. I can’t deal with him right now.”

  She nodded, swiping at her eyes with her hand. “Go. Don’t worry, I’ll distract him ’til you’re on the elevator.”

  But I should have known that Alex could not be deterred when he had his mind set on something. He reached my side before the elevator doors slid open and demanded, in a voice roiling with frustration and fatigue, “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my room.” I kept my eyes on the floor and my voice level. “Have fun with the radioactive spiders.”

  I felt his fingertips brush my shoulder.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” he said. “Harmony never said anything about it.”

  I cleared my throat. “I know.”

  “But I have to ask. What are you and she doing in Vegas together?”

  “She’ll explain.” I finally swung my gaze up to meet his. “Listen. Not to be a complete sap, but good luck with Leo. And everything. Good luck with everything.”

  He waited a long, loaded moment before he nodded. “Because I’m not going to see you again.”

  I kept my mouth shut as the wood-paneled doors slid open. Then I stepped into the elevator, offering a wave and the snappiest farewell I could muster. “It was fun while it lasted, right?”

  My attempt at a grin would have chilled Hannibal Lecter to the bone.

  I hit the CLOSE DOORS button. My smile evaporated when I met Alex’s eyes. He started to say something.

  The doors closed.

  I leaned back against the smoky mirrors. The UP arrow illuminated with a cheery ding. And then I had twenty floors’ worth of silence to contemplate the solitude that waited for me back i
n Los Angeles.

  In truth, the whole “solitude” thing didn’t really kick in until two weeks later. It’s true that the five-hour drive back to Westwood was no great shakes—I had to pull over every forty-five minutes to have an emotional meltdown with a side of French fries—and I spent the remainder of the weekend curled up with the remote control, my Pulp Fiction DVD (oddly soothing for frayed nerves), and an entire case of Diet Coke.

  But come Monday, Cesca showed up with Carter for the great move-out. She brought along her entire family. Both parents, four brothers, and enough homemade goodies to feed the Lakers for an entire season.

  According to Ces, after the initial shock wore off and they had vented their spleen in a two-hour screamathon about how their only daughter had cheated them out of the chance to throw a “proper wedding” and was consequently disowned, the DiSantos had calmed down and welcomed their new son-in-law with open arms. Her brothers were ecstatic to have a real live pro athlete in the family.

  “Gwendolyn! You’re wasting away!” Mrs. DiSanto announced the minute she walked through the door. “Have some manicotti. Where are the plates?”

  I shook my head and lied through my teeth. “Oh thank you, Mrs. DiSanto, but I just had lunch. Really.”

  She glowered at Cesca. “Doesn’t she eat?”

  My roommate brushed this off with the nonchalance of a woman who has known since age three that she will never be able to eat enough to placate her mother. “I do what I can, but you know Gwen. She’s hooked up to the Diet Coke IV. I don’t even know if she can chew solid foods.”

  Carter smiled at me and tried to run interference. “I would love some manicotti, Mrs. DiSanto.”

  Mrs. DiSanto beamed. “Such a nice boy.”

  Cesca rolled her eyes at her new husband. “Brownnoser.”

  Carter laughed at this, but Mrs. DiSanto looked horrified. “I did not raise you to speak to your husband that way.”

  “Forget it, Ma. She was born sassy and she’s going to die sassy.” Tony and David DiSanto hauled a chest of drawers out of Cesca’s bedroom.

  Another brother emerged from behind a pile of boxes. “Yeah, good luck, Carter. You’re gonna need it.”