The Parent Trap

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Did it stick?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. By the time I got to fingerprinting, she’d cooled off and let me go. It was just the shock of seeing me, I guess.” He eyes me. “What about you? Ever been arrested?”

  I hold my nose up in the air. “I have not.”

  “Nothing, not ever?”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “Well, I got a warning, once.”

  He smirks—we’re pulling into the airfield where the helicopter is kept. “I sense a good one.”

  “Not a good one.”

  “Hey, I shared mine.”

  I sigh. “There’s nothing to tell. I got caught in the back of the car with Andrew Easton, senior year, at that little spot north of here you were talking about having taken Leslie Donovan.”

  “You and Andy Easton?” He blinks. “Wow. Not who I would have pictured you with.”

  I bite my lip. “It was a short-lived attempt at rebellion I guess. Andy was the bad boy and I wanted to feel like the girl who goes for the bad boys. Not just the…the goody-goody.”

  He cackles. “I was the bad boy…he was just fuckin’ trouble.”

  “No kidding,” I say, sighing. “He’s doing ten years in a penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder.”

  “Yeah, I heard that.” He laughs, shakes his head. “You got caught with Andy Easton. Like, how caught?”

  I blush harder than ever. Shrug uncomfortably. “I mean…”

  He laughs harder. “No! The cops rolled up on you, naked in the back of Andrew Easton’s fuckin’ Monte Carlo?”

  “Actually it wasn’t his Monte Carlo. Apparently that was in the shop.” I bite my lip. “It was his mother’s minivan.”

  His laughter is uncontrolled now, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “In the back of a minivan with Andy Easton. No fucking way.” He wipes a tear away. “Did he at least cover for you?”

  “Cover for me? I was buck-ass naked and on top—and all of our clothes were in the front and we were on the back bench. He hid behind me. Let me talk us out of it.”

  “What a dick.” He eyes me and then looks away, and I can’t make out his expression. “Did you? Talk yourself out of it?”

  “Of course I did. The cop was a client of Daddy’s—we were building him a house, so I told him I’d upgrade his counters to quartz if he let me go and didn’t tell Dad.”

  “Smooth.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, except I couldn’t ever visit the jobsite again. I mean, how do you look the man in the eyes after that?”

  He laughs. “I can see how that would be awkward.”

  “Awkward? It was mortifying.”

  Something in the air between us has shifted, since I told him that story, and I can’t place what. There’s no time to figure it out, though—the helicopter is warmed up and we board, and the pilot, a good friend of Daddy’s and a former military pilot, has us in the air. He asks where we’re going, and Thai tells him San Francisco.

  “What’s in San Francisco?” I ask, through the headset.

  He smirks. “You’ll see.”

  “Oh, a surprise, is it?”

  “Of course,” he says. “You wouldn’t agree to anything I suggest, so I’m just not going to tell you. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  My first instinct is to make some snappy comment about how I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. But I hold my tongue, because…is it true? Do I trust him, or don’t I? I guess I do—or I’m starting to, at least. The last month he’s been working for the company, he’s been…consistent. Hard-working. Available. He has been…trustworthy.

  Ugh. Annoying. It was so much easier to just hate him. Now I have to go around rethinking and second-guessing everything I thought I knew about him, everything I think about him. The snarky comments I instinctively make.

  The flight is short, and there’s not much talk—Thai is on his phone most of the ride, texting. Not sure who, and I make a point of not asking.

  When we land, there’s a car waiting. I glance at Thai, but he just grins at me. “What?”

  It’s a Rolls Royce, new and white and sleek and expensive-looking, a droptop. I roll my eyes at him. “A Rolls?”

  He waves a hand. “It’s not mine, just borrowing it from a friend.”

  “But…a Rolls?”

  “It’s fun. You ever been in one?”

  I shrug. “No. But it’s just a car.”

  “It is not just a car. It’s like driving rocket-powered silk.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means just get in and enjoy the ride.” He holds open the passenger door for me, closes it once I’m in.

  I shoot him a puzzled smile. “Manners, too?”

  He slides in behind the wheel, presses the button, and the motor snarls to life. “Ahhh, the joys of low expectations—the simplest thing will impress! Opening a door? What a gentleman!”

  “I feel like you’re being sarcastic.”

  “Me? Sarcastic? Never!”

  “Where are we going now?”

  He just grins. “Surprises all the way. There’s just one rule on this little adventure, Miss McKenna.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Don’t say no.”

  “But what if—”

  His eyes are strangely serious. “You’ll just have to trust that I won’t ask you to do anything dangerous or flagrantly illegal.”

  “Flagrantly illegal?”

  “Yeah, you know—larceny, grand theft auto, jaywalking.”

  I snort. “Ahh yes, jaywalking, that heinous crime.” I sigh. “So you’re not going to expect me to do anything too crazy?”

  “No bungee jumping, no skydiving, no car racing.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Calgon, take me away!”

  “The hell does that mean?” he asks, laughing.

  “I don’t even know, actually. Some old commercial, I think? For a bubble bath? I don’t know. Mom used to say it when Dell and I were being crazy and Dad was working late. Which was every night.”

  We’re back in a car together, and this time it’s with the top down and the sun shining on us and the sea in the distance. Fortunately, I’d had my hair in a braid, so it’s not going to get too tangled. There’s surprisingly little wind noise, so we can carry on a conversation. Funny thing is, by the time we reach civilization from the airport we’d landed at, we’ve been talking nonstop but I couldn’t tell you a single thing we talked about.

  Thai is…shockingly easy to talk to.

  He’s funny—and laughter has been in short supply in my life, past few years. With Dad getting—not sick, just frail and tired and…old—more and more of the pressure was on me. Plus everything with Dell, and the whole company relying on me as Dad’s ability to make decisions waned…

  I guess I’m just now realizing how stressed I’ve been.

  Sad.

  Prickly and uptight.

  Jesus, he was right.

  I realize I’ve gone silent, and he’s watching me. “Thai…” I sigh. “Am I really prickly and uptight?”

  “You’ve had damn good reason, Delia. You’ve had the weight of the world on your shoulders. But I only meant it as a joke.”

  “I know. I guess I’m just…” I shake my head, trail off, unsure whether to say what I’m thinking.

  “What?”

  “I guess yet again I find myself surprised by you.”

  He laughs. “Like I said—it’s just that you’re coming in with the lowest possible expectations. But in what sense, this time?”

  “You’re a lot funnier than I ever really…than I thought you’d be. I remember you never being serious and always playing pranks and acting a fool, but…I don’t remember you being funny.”

  “Am I?” He makes a huh, who knew face. “I suppose I’ve always hidden my serious side beneath the whole clown persona. And when we were kids, I really was all about the jokes and pranks. And most of it wasn’t actually all that funny, come to think of it. B
ut since then, I’ve learned that I enjoy putting people at ease through conversation. I’m good at it. Like this morning with Haimovitz. A lot of that was calculated. When we first met with him, he was checking baseball scores on his phone—I saw. So I started talking about baseball—I can’t fucking stand baseball, by the way. But we needed him loose, we needed a connection. People are more…receptive, if you create a personal connection, if you put them at ease, like, we’re all just people here. Just average folks having a conversation. When you go in all tight and—” he clenches his fists and jaw and turtles his shoulders up around his ears, “—everyone around is going to mirror that. To an extent, we’re all empathic.”

  “So…the chitchat is a calculated act?”

  He snorts. “No. Not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “It’s not a charade,” he says. Pointing from me to himself. “This, with you? It’s not an act.”

  “But you just said—”

  “With Haimovitz, yes. You were freaking out. You were nervous. So I loosened it up with some conversation. That gave you time to realize he’s just a guy, and it’s just a conversation. Relax. Put your nerves back in the jar. Then you took over and went in for the kill.”

  “So you were doing it on purpose.”

  “Absolutely. I can’t wrangle a deal like that, Delia. I don’t know Haimovitz, I wasn’t the one who got him on the hook, and I don’t know the proposal you’ve been working on. What could I do? Use my conversational skills to…soften things up.”

  “But with me, in a personal sense…”

  “I’m just…being me. Talking to you.”

  “Putting me at ease.”

  He sighs, but it’s frustrated. “You’re still chewing on things. I can tell. Somewhere in the back of your head, the wheels are turning. About me. About…everything.” He didn’t say “about what happened,” for which I’m thankful. “You said you didn’t want to talk about…anything heavy…so I’m just keeping it light. But it’s not an act. I’m not—I’m not manipulating you.”

  He pulls into the drive-through lane of a Jack in the Box.

  I frown at him. “Uh-uh. No way. I don’t eat that kind of food.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t! I haven’t had a cheeseburger in…god, years.”

  He shakes his head. “So skip the bun and the soda. Just…live a little. Loosen up. Enjoy a fuckin’ burger and fries, man. Once isn’t going to kill you. You’re not going to eat one burger and a handful of French fries and suddenly wake up looking like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Woman. Whatever. It will be fine. It’s the habits that get you, anyway.”

  We’re at the order box, and he orders…I don’t know. Probably a giant burger with everything on it. He looks at me, expectant.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Just order something for me. No onions, no tomatoes. And no bun.”

  He places an order for me, and we pull through, pay, and get our food. Instead of pulling into a parking space and digging in, though, he leaves the lot. I don’t ask, this time. Try to just enjoy the ride, Delia, I tell myself.

  We drive another ten or fifteen minutes, and then he pulls off into a little roadside park overlooking the ocean. There are picnic tables under old pine trees, a little abandoned playground with rubber-seat swings and a rusted yellow merry-go-round. He exits the car, carrying our bag of food and tray of drinks over to a picnic table.

  The food, as he pulls it out of the bag, smells admittedly delicious. I honestly don’t remember the last time I ate fast food.

  Freshman year, maybe?

  Tentatively, I nibble the end of a fry, and Thai just watches me. “Ohmygod.” I eat the rest. “This is why I quit eating this shit—it’s too fucking good.”

  “It really is. I only eat it once in a great while myself.” He rips the wrapper off a straw and shoves it into his paper cup. “This, right here, this is my Achilles.”

  “The soda?”

  “Dr. Pepper.” He takes a swig, and sighs. “So fucking good. Absolutely horrible for you—pure cancer in liquid form. But damn—so good.”

  He watches me eat another fry.

  “These are my weakness,” I say. “God, I can’t believe you talked me into this. I’m going to gain literally five pounds from this.”

  “So what?”

  “So…you don’t have a clue what it takes to keep it off. No clue. None at all.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve been blessed with the metabolism of a jackrabbit and incredible genes.” He takes a huge bite of a burger. “But.” Another bite. “I do work hard to look the way I do. I know it’s not the same. I just know, once in a while, you have to do something for you. You have to just…kick off the—I don’t know—the bullshit. The rules and rigid, dogmatic formula for success. Take your hair down, take the bra off, and put your feet up.”

  I don’t answer—I’m too busy inhaling the burger. He got me unsweetened iced tea—and it’s amazing. Everything is amazing.

  “Yeah, I don’t do that,” I say, wiping my lips with a napkin. “The hair down, bra off, feet up thing. It’s not in my repertoire.”

  “I know,” he says. “Thus…” he gestures vaguely, at himself, at me, at the food, the car. “All this.”

  “Thus, prickly and uptight.” I eat the fries more slowly, savoring them.

  “Hey, you said it, not me.” He grins as he says it, though, and while the truth of it stings, I know somehow that he doesn’t mean anything unkind by it.

  Perhaps the opposite.

  Maybe.

  “I know we didn’t come all the way to San Francisco for some Jack in the Box.”

  His grin widens. “Nope. Not even remotely.”

  We finish eating, and there’s more of the conversation that just winds and twists and rabbit trails until I don’t even remember where we started out. Back in the car, and into downtown.

  To a mall.

  I laugh when he parks the hideously expensive car way in the back, away from any of the other cars.

  “A mall?”

  He shrugs. “When was the last time you bought something for yourself, just because?” When I blink and try to remember, he laughs, and pokes the front of my shoulder. “Exactly. Now come on, we’re going to go spend a colossal shitload of money.”

  He’s so freaking good at manipulating me—we’re at the mall for over two hours, and he’s the one dragging me into a bazillion stores, shoving things at me to look at and try on…until I finally give in and let the feeling wash over me.

  He pays for everything—a new leather coat, Louboutin sandals, a skirt, earrings and a matching necklace. Not only does he pay for it all, he refuses to let me look at the prices, and covers my eyes when the total comes up on the register. It becomes a game—see if I can get a peek at how much I’m spending.

  It’s honestly intoxicating.

  And through it all, he’s funny. The mean-spiritedness I thought was his trademark is nowhere to be found.

  After the mall, we shop more near Union Square, and he continues to coerce me into buying shit I don’t need.

  At some point, I stop him. “Thai. You better not be trying to…make up for…for anything.”

  He just laughs. “There’s not enough money in the world to make up for the past, Delia.” He says this without a trace of irony or humor, just matter of fact. “This is for fun. You need fun, and this is fun. Is it not?”

  I can’t help the smile on my face. “Yeah, it is. But you don’t need to spend all this money—”

  “I thought you understood—I’m fuckin’ rolling in it, babe. This? It’s not even pocket change. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “But you haven’t gotten anything.”

  He waves a hand. “It’s more fun this way. The one time a girl dumped me, and it actually hurt? Her name was…um. Claire? See, I’ve already forgotten. But anyway. We’d been seeing each other for a while, junior year at Yale. Couple months. It wasn’t serious, but I liked her. We had fun, we clicked. And then,
apropos of nothing, she just told me she was bored of me and that was it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I caught a jet to Paris and spent a week buying everything in sight. I mean, it was legit crazy. Tens of thousands of dollars every day.”

  I shake my head. “Crazy.”

  “My point is, that shopping spree meant nothing. Not a dent. And I’ve got more now than I did then, because investments.”

  “You just…hopped a flight to Paris.”

  “Yup. Why not? I was pissed. Irritated, more than hurt. Like honey, don’t you know I’m the one who’s supposed to dump you? You can’t out-asshole me, asshole.”

  I laugh at that. “But she did. For no reason?”

  “Right. Said she was bored. I’m not boring! I know I’m not. I’m a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  He sees a store, and his eyes light up. “Here. Come on.”

  Hermès.

  “No, uh-uh, no way.”

  He laughs, grabs me by the hand and hauls me in. “Yes, uh-huh, yes way.”

  I have nice things. I do treat myself once in a while, but never anything crazy. My most expensive purse is a Louis Vuitton.

  A Birkin is…not even on the same planet.

  Yet here they are, in all their glory.

  Oh god.

  He grins at me. “Pick one, or I’ll pick for you and then you’ll be stuck with the one I picked.”

  I grin. “This was your idea, and I’m not comfortable with you buying me freaking Birkin, so you pick. If I hate it, I’ll tell you…” I look around. “But pro-tip, you can’t go wrong.”

  He peruses. He’s followed by a store clerk, and there’s a flurried exchange of whispers, and then the clerk vanishes. Returns with a bag in hand. I only get a brief glimpse of it—

  This is no ordinary Birkin. This one…

  Oh my.

  It probably costs more than a nice car.

  There are waiting lists.

  Celebrities can’t just go get one.

  This one was in the back, and is clearly…

  Thai eyes me, and his smile goes megawatt. He hands the clerk a heavy-looking black card, and the clerk whisks away before I can really examine the bag any further.