Swiping the sweat and grime from my face with the hem of my shirt, I think through my plan again. Get in. State the facts. Get out.
Dad will respect honesty.
I tap my fist against the frame.
Or he’ll have a complete breakdown, and it will be all my fault.
When I finally step into the living room, conflicted but resolved, my younger sister looks up from the TV.
“Dad’s home.” Angela’s voice sounds off. She’s sprawled out on the sofa, flipping through channels like David Beckham running down the wing. Her bare foot taps the leather cushion, and the remote bounces in her hand. She’s anxious. Or upset. And that can only mean one thing.
“They’re at it again?” I ask, parking my ass on the edge of the sofa.
Angela’s frown silently answers my question.
Our parents don’t have knock-down, drag-out fights or anything. In fact, they don’t argue at all. That would require emotion from Dad, and since David died, that’s something he doesn’t have. As for Mom, her general M.O. is not to rock the boat. To keep everyone happy and hold us so close we suffocate. But lately things have been weird. Dad’s schedule has been erratic, Mom’s rosary rarely leaves her fingers, and they’ve both been talking in code. Dad’s business partner has been calling a lot, so I figure it must be about the record label. But if something happened to make Angela this stressed, maybe I should hold off on talking to Dad.
“You don’t think we’re moving again, do you?”
Her question yanks me from staring a hole through the closed office door. My jaw pops as pieces of the puzzle start to click. Oh, hell no. Moving isn’t an option.
“My sweet sixteen is in a few weeks,” she continues, shoving a thick section of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m finally getting invited to parties. Yesterday, Desiree and Ciara saved me a seat in the cafeteria, and Micah smiled at me in gym.” I’m wracking my brain trying to remember who this Micah is when Angela’s big brown eyes find mine. “We only just got here, Luc. I don’t want to go back.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I promise. The panic in her eyes starts to recede, and I squeeze her painted toes for reassurance. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll play soccer for the rest of my life if I have to, but we’re not leaving. We’re for damn sure not going halfway across the world.”
My family moves more often than not. A constant back and forth between the States and Italy, where Dad grew up and where the home base for Lirica Records is. Four years ago when he transferred to the Milan office permanently, neither of us cared. Leaving our house in L.A.—the backyard where David had just taught me passing drills—was easy. The life and friends that I’d made had been dispensable.
It was during the last move to Italy that I became the soccer star. Not so much because I wanted to, but because it’s what Dad needed. Grief makes life lose its color, and his was muted gray…until I stepped into my brother’s cleats. Soccer was always David’s sport, his and my dad’s, and giving it back to Dad seemed like the least I could do. For a while, it helped us both.
Being on the team shot me into the in-crowd. I went from being the quiet kid, shaping clay, to the guy with tons of connections. Soccer gave me a life and friends. But it wasn’t my life. And those so-called friends were fake as shit. All they cared about was how many goals I scored on the field and how many girls I went through when I was off. But here, I have real friends. And I only want one girl.
I’m not leaving Cat. Dad will have to snap out of it and fight me first.
Like my thoughts conjure him, the door to the office opens. Mom bustles out, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, and Angela springs up on the sofa.
“Everything okay?” my sister asks.
Mom’s gaze collides with mine, and guilt, worry, and a dozen other emotions I can’t name flash on her face. The exact opposite of Dad, who strolls in behind her, lifeless as ever.
“Right as rain,” he answers. The stupid phrase is as fake as his detached tone of voice. He’s a shell of the man I once knew. Dad used to be funny as hell and laugh all the time. He used to fit the stereotype of the hotheaded Italian, impatient and stubborn. Used to. Dull gray eyes focus on me, and a brief flicker of emotion passes as he asks, “How was practice?”
“Good, sir.” It’s my standard, automatic reply. If I told him the truth—that I hated every second, and would rather be sculpting in the studio or tinkering under the hood of a car—who knows what he’d do.
But then I remember my decision.
Cracking my knuckles, I go back over my canned speech. Soccer doesn’t make me happy. We can still watch a match together or play one-on-one, but I’m quitting the team. Screw the championship, the scouts, and their supposed scholarships. We don’t need the handout. Even if we did, Mr. Scott says I can get one easily for art. But that’s a whole other issue.
Dad snatches the newspaper on the way to his recliner. Another minute and he’ll be lost in world politics, finance, and sports. Anything to keep his brain busy and away from home.
It’s now or never.
I push to my feet and walk forward until I’m standing in front of him. My throat feels thick as I rub my hands down the sides of my shorts and stare at his bowed head of thick, graying hair. “Dad, you got a minute? I want to talk to you about the team.”
He doesn’t react right away. Just turns another damn page. But from behind me, I hear Mom exhale audibly, and I know she’s reciting a string of prayers in her head. She knows how I feel. That I want to major in studio art, not business, and get a Fine Arts degree. She’s supportive—to an extent. She just doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t say anything when Dad pushes about games or my future at the label, and in a way, I can’t blame her. This isn’t her battle to fight. It’s mine.
I scratch the back of my head, undecided if it makes it easier or harder that he hasn’t looked up. “The team’s great,” I say, clasping my hands behind my neck. “Coach knows his stuff, and he’s tough as nails. Today was supposed to be a student holiday, but he had us in for extra hours, and I respect it.” At this point I realize I’m stalling. Rambling and talking out of my ass. I exhale, frustrated, and say, “Look, Dad, I just don’t—”
“David’s coach at USD was tough, too,” he interrupts. “It’s good for you. Character building. It’ll prepare you for college.” He folds the newspaper in half, gaze now glued to the sports section.
The double whammy of comparing me to my brother and dismissing me so easily punches me in the gut. I don’t know why it continues to surprise me. Hurt me. You’d think I’d be used to it.
My unclasped hands smack against my thighs, and a small thrill of satisfaction jolts through me when my father jumps. He raises his head, an actual emotion—confusion—swirling in his eyes. I open my mouth and say, “You’re not listening to me. This isn’t about Coach. I’m trying to tell you that I—”
“Lucas, you’d better come see this.”
In the second it takes me to glance over, Dad lowers his head again to the paper. I curse under my breath. “Angela, what the hell?”
Mom pops me on the back of the head, and I feel like crap when I see my sister’s torn face, but damn. She knows better than anyone how important this conversation is. How rare it is to get Dad’s full attention. How close I just came to finally ending it.
“Sorry.” Gnawing her lip, Angela lifts her chin toward the television on the other side of the room. “But I thought you’d want to know what was happening.”
I look over to see what could possibly be so huge that she had to interrupt us, and it takes me less than two seconds to understand.
A beautiful brunette is on the screen, her face tear-streaked and Botoxed. Everyone in the world knows who Caterina Angeli is, the rumors and scandals that follow her. But only a select few know how she destroyed the girl I care about. And that it’s because of this woman that she sometimes still pushes me away.
The obnoxiously perky host glances at the spellbound
crowd. “This weekend, you say?”
Cat’s mom nods and dabs her eyes as she says, “I only hope my daughter accepts my apology.”
I’m halfway to my room, cell phone in hand, before I even know what I’m doing. The showdown with Dad can wait. My girl needs me.
Alessandra answers her phone on the third ring, and I say, “I’m on my way.”
The Shoe Drop
∙Cat∙
Our cell phones haven’t stopped. Calls and text messages have been incessant, long-lost friends and acquaintances coming out of the freaking woodwork. Dad’s crack security team arrived a little while ago and at least put the beat down on the constant ding-dong of the doorbell, but even they can’t drown out the noise. The click of cameras, the hum of voices—the sound of the other shoe not just dropping, but dropkicking.
It would appear that normal in this town is as mythical as happily ever after.
Outside my window, neighbors crowd the streets filled with paparazzi. It’s amazing how quickly people will sell you out for five measly minutes of fame. Hock your deepest secrets to the highest bidder. I guess if fame isn’t shoved down your throat since birth, it’s hard to see how fleeting and superficial it all is. How isolating and lonely. But since Jenna and I have slightly more pressing concerns today than teaching life lessons or divulging juicy tidbits, our poor neighbors are left storyless, in turn leaving the vile shutterbugs with nothing more to go on than shot after shot of our fascinating front door.
It serves those bloodsuckers right.
Justin Timberlake serenades the living room again, and Jenna lurches for her phone. I don’t have to see the screen to know it’s Dad. He’s spitting fire and stuck in gridlock, and in lieu of misguided road rage, he’s been blowing up our cell phones every few minutes.
“Peter, we can’t get married like this.” Jenna is borderline hysterical. Her constant pacing halts as she lifts a slat of the closed blinds, then drops it like the vermin outside are contagious. “My parents won’t be able to make it down the street.” She thumps her head against the wall and mutters, “That selfish witch ruined my wedding.”
I suck air between my teeth, imagining Dad’s reaction. He’s totally blaming himself. Apparently, in a horribly ill-advised attempt to make peace with my birth mother, Dad sent her a wedding invitation via her agent. It was common courtesy, he said, and he’d assumed the gesture would go unanswered.
Obviously, that plan backfired spectacularly.
Alessandra rests her head against mine. “Lucas is on his way.”
This is the third time she’s said this in the last twenty minutes. Lucas called right after Caterina dropped her bombshell, while I was still in a what-the-heck-just-happened coma. I don’t know how he knew that I needed him. If my Italian hottie shares Hayley’s talk TV obsession, it’s certainly news to me. But at this point, I don’t care. I’m just glad he’s coming.
Learning to lean on Lucas has definitely been a transition. I’m so used to being the strong one in any situation, never showing anyone how much things affect me. But I’m slowly figuring out how to let go. To let him in. To trust that Lucas has me.
At least for now…
I whisk away the cruel taunt whispered in a voice way too much like my mother’s and glance at the remains of our aborted bachelorette party. When the latest installment in the Crawford/Angeli family drama reared its hideous head, and the bride-to-be got demoted to phone duty, our driver took Hayley home. As for Less and me, we haven’t budged from our spots in the living room, other than to finally wash the gunk off my face. (If tabloids ever got a pic of me like that, it’d definitely make the front cover, right under the headline Vixen’s Daughter Is Really an Alien.) I guess it’s possible Alessandra’s still in shock over seeing her mother’s doppelganger on screen—but from her constant state of fidgety, I’d say I’m the bigger concern here.
I know what she’s thinking. What they’re all thinking. They’re waiting for me to freak. To go nuts, lose my bananas, and declare I’m taking off for a commune. A person doesn’t go ten years without any semblance of contact from her estranged mother only to sit mute when something like this happens.
But the truth? I’m not silently freaking. I mean, yeah, I am angry she ’fessed up to her sucky parenting skills on national television. It annoys the ever-loving snot out of me that she used this admission for her own gain—I don’t doubt for a second that she made a buck out of today’s appearance. And it is total crap that she sold out Dad and leaked the details of his and Jenna’s wedding.
But…I’m also curious.
Is it so bad that a tiny, infinitesimal part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, my mother meant what she said? That she misses me and actually wants to know me? I’ve spent most of my life believing that I wasn’t good enough. That she viewed me through the lens of her impossibly high standards and found me lacking. The chance that I was wrong is like a drug. A dangerous, potent need roiling inside, begging for relief.
Jenna plops down beside me, her phone now in her lap. Linking her arm around mine, she says, “I just don’t get Caterina’s angle. What stunt could she be trying to pull now?” She purses her lips and after a moment, shakes her head. “Of course, your dad said she’s not answering his calls. No surprise there.”
It’s been like this for the last half hour. Ever since my mother’s segment ended and Jenna flipped off the television, the verbal tirade has been endless. Jostling my elbow, she asks, again, “How you holding up, sweets?”
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth. I know she hears the edge in my voice, but I can’t help it.
Jenna has every right to be pissed about what happened—I sure as heck would be if my wedding were ruined. But the digs and slams against my mother, followed by the hovering hen act, is rapidly driving me batty.
I need to get out of here.
She shifts so she can better stare into my eyes. “Are you sure? You know you can scream or vent or talk it out if you want to. I’m here for you. We both are,” she adds, nodding toward Less. “This has been a crazy day, and no one would judge you one bit for losing it. I’m certainly freaking.” When I don’t return her forced smile, she drops hers and sighs. “Listen, I don’t know what that woman is planning, but I promise you this: she won’t hurt you again.”
Really, really need to get out of here.
“I know,” I say, putting on the old familiar façade of confident indifference. “She can’t hurt me again because I won’t let her.”
That much is at least true because I refuse to play her game. If my mother really does want to meet, then it’ll be on my terms. It’ll be a fact-finding mission, a bit of much-needed closure, plain and simple. If closure leads to more, such as an actual relationship, well…
The doorbell rings, breaking off my train of thought. My pulse rate accelerates as I push to my feet. I know who waits on the other side of the madness. Thank God he lives close. Alessandra and Jenna exchange a glance as I rush by, but I don’t care. I shoot right past them, jogging to eat up the seemingly huge distance between the living room and my front door.
Lucas will make the panic in my blood go away. He’ll remove the weird lump in my throat. Just looking into his eyes does that. I’ve stopped questioning why. It doesn’t matter if divine intervention, an extremely odd coincidence, or simply Reyna being Reyna put Lucas in my path. What matters is that for the first time ever, at least in this century, a guy honestly cares about me, and not the Hollywood trappings.
In fact, Lucas seems to hate the whole scene even more than I do.
So when I finally reach the door, I don’t hesitate. I don’t care that a bazillion flashes are about to go off or that a picture of this meeting will end up on Perez Hilton. At least I won’t be the green, cracked-mask-faced girl standing next to an Italian god. Releasing a relieved breath, I throw open the door, needing to look into those bottomless chocolate-brown eyes. They always reach into my soul, calming me. Well, interchangeably calming and
exciting me.
As expected, flashes go off the second I stick my head outside. My fake smile holds as I face the onslaught and close the door. There’s no way I’m going back in there. It takes a half second for Lucas to turn, but then he does, golden curls catching in the breeze and rich brown eyes locking with mine.
The only problem is they’re not peaceful, as I’d expected. More like the exact opposite.
What the hay?
Mi Casa Es Su Casa
∙Lucas∙
Flashes explode behind me and reporters scream questions from the gate as I stare into the wildness of Cat’s eyes.
I took too long.
My shower was the quickest in history. I sped the entire way here—if I could’ve taken my motorcycle, I would’ve gotten here even faster. But glimpsing the fear she’s finally letting me see, I realize even that wouldn’t have been fast enough.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” I pull her into my arms, picture-snapping asshats be damned. “That woman is a pyscho.”
Instead of agreeing like I expect, Cat’s entire body stiffens. A warning bell goes off in my head as I lean back and brush away strands of hair from her makeup-free face. I almost do a double take. Cat is easily the hottest girl I’ve ever met. She doesn’t need all that junk. But she never goes anywhere without it. Hair, makeup, clothes—they’re like her armor. A wall she throws up between her and the world. Protection against the very things happening around us right now, and without that mask, she looks more vulnerable. Every protective instinct I have goes on full-scale alert as my hands lock around her back.
“What’s going on?”
It’s a dumb question. Obviously, the entire world knows what’s going on. Her mom sold her out on television, and jerkoffs with expensive cameras and cheap cologne are camped outside her front door. Security is here, too, enough to rival a damn One Direction concert, but it’s her reaction in my arms that worries me. Her mother is a psycho, and she’s caused enough problems in our relationship without being in her daughter’s life. I can’t imagine the havoc she’d cause if Cat lets her get a foot in the door.
My Not So Super Sweet Life Page 2