Four Sides of an Attitude: A Cufflinks & Austen Novel

by Myers, Heather C.

  “And then he found us through Erin,” Kat says.

  “Erin has a Facebook?” I ask.

  “Maybe if you were on yours more, you would know that yes, even antisocial emo girls like Erin have a Facebook.”

  “And plus, he says he’s a friend of yours,” Megan put in. “That’s why we added him.”

  “That, and he’s fucking hot,” Kat says.

  I push her shoulder. “Watch your language, kid,” I tell her. “You’re only fifteen.”

  “Like you weren’t saying fuck when you were my age,” Kat says with a roll of her eyes.

  “Yeah, well I shouldn’t have,” I say. It’s starting to sink in that twenty-five-year-old college graduate George Thatcher is talking to my fifteen-year-old high school freshmen sisters. “And you shouldn’t be talking to this guy either, okay? He’s bad news.”

  “Who says bad news anymore?” Kat asks. “Really.”

  “You said yourself that high school boys never did anything for you,” Megan points out. “Well, this guy isn’t in high school.”

  “He’s not in college either,” I snap. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to get a hold of my conflicting emotions. “You know what, never mind. Have your fun. But please, I’m begging you, don’t run off with him or anything, okay? He’s not the greatest guy in the world and—”

  “All right, okay,” Kat says, shaking her head. “We get it. Now will you please leave us alone?”

  I ponder if strangling my sister is a justifiable crime, considering how annoying she’s being and that there’s another one just like her but a tad smarter when it comes to decision-making. Then I force myself to turn around and leave.

  Just who the fuck does George Thatcher think he is, friending my younger sisters—all under the age of consent, mind you—whom he doesn’t even know and has never met on Facebook? Is he trying to get at me? Does he know that I know the truth, or is his ploy reliable? I haven’t checked my Facebook in a while. Maybe he is just trying to get in contact with me since we never exchanged numbers.

  Even so, I don’t care and I don’t like that he’s talking to my sisters. That’s just weird.

  I head downstairs and successfully manage to avoid my mother’s friends for the rest of the party. I see that Taylor has made a couple of new friends, and there are even a couple of guys checking her out. Guys she doesn’t notice, of course. As the sun begins to set, the party officially ends with the three youngest sisters upstairs, my father in his study, my mother passed out on the couch, and Taylor, me, and my Uncle Walker and Aunt Janie sitting around the dining table.

  “How exciting for you Taylor,” Uncle Walker says, giving her an encouraging smile as he pushes his graying hair away from his face. “Graduating college. And with so many opportunities.”

  “Thank you,” Taylor says with a blush. “I start an internship next week actually, and then I head to UCLA for graduate school. I’m really looking forward to it, though I think Dad died just a little inside knowing I’m going to that place, as he so lovingly refers to it.”

  “I know I have,” I tease.

  “That’s great, honey,” Janie says, ignoring my comment. Her red acrylic nails match the shade of lipstick she’s wearing.

  “So how long are you staying?” I ask, tilting my head up to regard them. “I mean, you came all the way from Florida, so you can’t possibly be heading back soon, can you?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Janie says with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand. “Of course we came to see you graduate, Taylor, and we’re so proud of you. But, if we’re being honest, we’re also hoping to look at different real estate up here. You know Walker and I love real estate—we are from Florida, after all. And I just love looking at open houses and what people have done with them. It always gives me ideas.”

  “That’s not a good thing,” Walker says with a teasing glint in his blue eyes.

  “Well, we figure, while we’re out here, why not check it out?” my aunt continues. “Let’s face it; southern California has its own style, different from anywhere else. I would love to check out what you guys have cooked up since the last time I was here.”

  “It’s been a year and a half.”

  “Oh Walker, you never know. Trends change within seconds.” She waves her hand once again. “Men.” Then she fixes her green eyes on me. “And Ronnie, since you’re so familiar with the area, we were hoping you’d come with us. No offense to you, Taylor, but you have your internship.”

  “No offense taken,” Taylor assures them.

  “We’re planning to head up to Malibu and Beverly Hills next Sunday,” Walker says. “We already did some open houses this past Sunday in Orange County and this one over here—” he thrusts his thumb at his wife “—was taking notes. Literally. Maybe if you tagged along, you’d help her keep her thoughts on track.”

  “Oh, Walker.” Janie shakes her head. “And we know you love that Joel McHale, sweetie. You never know. His house could be showing. That’s the new thing; celebrities and wealthy people let the public tour through their house to see what it’s like. Obviously they won’t be there or anything, but you never know….” She lets her voice trail off and gives me a conspiratorial grin. “What do you say, eh? Join us!”

  “We’re planning to head up north afterwards so it would really mean a lot to spend time with you.”

  Aw, shucks. They totally pulled that guilt trip from their back pocket, taking me by surprise. But I love my aunt and uncle and have no problem spending some quality time with them. They only come out to visit sporadically, so I really don’t get to see them that much anyway. Plus, the prospect of being in Joel McHale’s house is too big a thrill to pass up.

  “Okay,” I say with a nod of my head and a smile on my face. “I’ll come with you.”

  Chapter 16

  The following Sunday comes sooner than I expect. Because I’m going to LA, I throw on a cute pair of skinny jeans and a nice shirt, but I don’t bother with any makeup besides some gloss.

  As I slide into the back of my aunt and uncle’s rented car, I try to pay attention to their conversation just in case they suddenly decide they need my opinion on something. However, once we get on the freeway, I start zoning and I contemplate the rudeness of me sticking in my earphones and listening to my iPod. I probably should have brought a book or something.

  I wish I could say that I’m over Aiden, but I can’t quite claim that as fact. Jeesh. Look at me. Here I am, still thinking about a guy who has probably moved on from me. I feel like Bella Swann after Edward dumped her and the months went by and they were all blank to her because she couldn’t get him off of her mind. Not that I know that or anything. Okay, so maybe I glanced through the book thanks to the fact that I work in a far-from-busy bookstore and Kat and Megan just keep talking about it. Still. I never thought I would be that girl who gets so hung up on a guy that she lets months waste away because they don’t matter without him by her side.

  Well you know what? I’m not Bella Swann. I am Marion Bixby. I don’t need Aiden Shawe, or any other male for that matter, to make me happy. And I don‘t want my summer to waste away because he’s not around me or with me. I’m eighteen, for God’s sake! I should be living life, not stewing around for some Bruin. In fact, the first thing I’ll do when I get back from this trip is see if Taylor and Kelly can take some time off for a quick vacation to Vegas. I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to go.

  But…. As I gnaw on my bottom lip, my eyes flit out the window. It’s going to take some time to get over Aiden, I realize. Because planning and pretending are starting to hurt. Maybe I won’t let the months slip away from me, but I still can’t deny that I’m consumed, at least partially, by him. It’s only when I’m not doing something that his face pops into my head and I lose self-control; I can’t help but think of him in my moments of weakness. And a car ride to LA will no doubt be a moment of weakness.

  No, I don’t need Aiden to make life worth living, but I realize th
at I want him. As crazy and as ridiculous as it sounds, after everything he did to me and Taylor, I still want him. Because no one’s perfect. And I’m sure I haven’t been the perfect woman either.

  Oh, screw it. Rude or not, I need my music. Maybe that will somehow keep me focused on different things that aren’t what I want but can have.

  The drive itself isn’t as bad as I initially believe, and I feel myself relax as we get closer and closer to our exit. The day is beautiful, with perfect southern California weather; weather that we’re famous for. It’s a sunny day with a light breeze where you can smell the salt due to how close the ocean is, and when you breathe it in, you can smell freshness that takes over your senses and puts a smile on your face. Why wouldn’t people want to live here? The weather is on our side; the weather wants us to be happy.

  “So the first house we’re going to,” Aunt Janie says, pulling out a map with various circles and Xs scattered across the page, “is a place in Malibu. Some record producer owned it but he’s moving. What do you want to bet it’s to Florida? Everyone retires to Florida, you know. That’s the trend.”

  I bite my tongue from telling her that that’s always been a trend, and usually the demographic for that particular trend is people aged sixty and above. Not that that’s a bad thing, of course. I’ve never been to Florida, but I know it has Disney World, and even though Disney World has nothing on Disneyland, I’m sure it’s a lovely place.

  We pull into the record producer’s driveway, and I am so shocked by how big this place is that my mouth actually drops open.

  “Close your mouth, dear,” Janie tells me. “They’re going to be able to tell we’re tourists if you keep gaping like that.”

  “Aunt Jane, I’m from Orange County,” I tell her, bristling at the fact that she could call me a tourist. “I am not a tourist, even though I’m in LA. Just like someone from LA isn’t a tourist in Orange County.” I refrain from adding that her Target brand sweat suit would tell of her foreign status more than my open mouth.

  The day is spent much like this. Despite the fact that I continue to see houses belonging to three record producers, a movie director, and one actress, the size, shape, and design never fail to surprise me. I love it here. I love that every house is different. In Irvine, every house is practically the same but flipped around. They even have strict regulations on what color a house is allowed to be. But here, every house is a different color, a different shape, the architecture is different, even the chimneys are different!

  “How many more do you want to see Janie?” Uncle Walker asks as we pile into the car after coming out of a beach house. “We’ve got to be on the road in an hour if we want to skip traffic and check out the houses in Santa Monica. Plus, it’s getting to the point where the open houses might start closing.”

  “Oh nonsense.” Janie waves her hand dismissively. “And Walker, we’ve been through this before. No matter what, there will always be traffic in LA. But you’re right. I want to check out some homes in Santa Monica before they start closing. I only want to see one more, and it’s nearby, in Beverly Hills.”

  The drive is exactly twenty minutes, and because of the pressing time schedule that all open houses have to deal with, no other visitors are there. At least that’s what it seems like.

  We head out of the car, and once again, I’m amazed. Unlike all the other houses, however, this one is more old-fashioned. It’s rectangular, about two football fields long and one football field wide. There are two stories, and from where I’m standing, every other second story window has a bell-shaped balcony. The driveway is curved, and rich green grass is adjacent on either side of the house. For whatever reason, I grab a brochure, my first for the day and follow my family inside.

  “Welcome to the house,” a man with a heavy English accent says in greeting. “My name is Jefferson Barkley. Are you here for the open house?”

  As my aunt replies, my brain gets fuzzy. Jefferson Barkley…where have I heard that name before? I can’t quite place it, but I know I should know it. I feel as though it’s relatively important. A celebrity I kind of know? No.

  “Well, I’m glad you could make it,” Barkley continues. I pause my train of thought just in case he says something that can give me the clue I’ve been waiting for. “Now, the Shawes are relative unknowns in the States, but back in England, their family is one of the wealthiest families in the country. They come from a long line of Shawes…”

  Shit. Shit.

  We are in Aiden Shawe’s house? How could I have not seen this coming? I knew he lives in Beverly Hills; I just never thought he would ever allow his home to be explored by strangers.

  Oh God, he isn’t here, is he? I may have calmed down and began to understand his side of the story, but I don’t think I’m quite ready for a face-to-face just yet, especially if Hannah’s here too. Fuck.

  “Oh my,” Janie says in awe. “That is fascinating. And you say that both brother and sister are living out here now. Are they home?”

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

  “No, I’m afraid,” Barkley answers, and I release a sigh of relief I didn’t know I was holding. “They returned to England late last week, after Ms. Shawe passed her driving test, and aren’t supposed to be back for another few days.”

  “Hannah passed her driving test?” I ask without thinking.

  “You know the Shawes?” Barkley asks, and he seems kind of shocked.

  “Ronnie,” Janie chides me with a teasing smile. “I didn’t know you knew English celebs.”

  “Oh.” I blush and shake my head. If Hannah was here, she would laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement, that she is viewed as some sort of celebrity. Aiden, on the other hand, would probably raise that damn eyebrow of his, give me that knowing look and say, “Oh, I’m aware.” But now isn’t the time to be musing. “Well, Hannah’s my roommate.”

  “That’s the girl you’ve been talking about?” Uncle Walker asks. “Why would she live in that apartment you share with Taylor when she could live here?”

  “Certainly it’s obvious, Walker,” Janie says. “It’s closer to UCI.”

  “Shall I show you around?” Barkley asks, interrupting the flow of the conversation. “I expect no one else is coming—again, the Shawes aren’t really known here—and it’s always nice to see interested house enthusiasts.”

  I want them to say no, to turn around and head to Santa Monica. But they don’t. I really don’t want to be here. I came to escape thoughts of Aiden in the first place, not to walk where every footstep is probably one he’s taken a hundred times.

  And yet, I would be lying if I say that I’m not interested in exploring. So when Barkley turns and starts explaining the concept for the entrance way, my feet decide to follow. Not closely behind, but they follow. And my eyes, my eyes take in everything. Even though I’m supposed to be avoiding all thoughts of Aiden, my eyes are looking for him. Not him, as in the person, but his memory, his style, his touch on the house he lives in.

  From what Barkley says, there are sixteen rooms in the house. Half of them are bedrooms while others are thematic. The room I’m currently standing in is what Barkley calls a sitting room, but what I would call a living room. Without the television. Apparently, there’s only one television in the entire place, and that’s in the game room. But there’s an L-shaped couch, a large fireplace with a mantel, a lovely piece of art, and a coffee table with various reading materials. I don’t know why I’ve stopped to check out this room. To be honest, it looks like a typical living room, just without a television. And yet, something tells me to stay.

  Maybe it’s the piece of art. It’s a painting of New Orleans at night, with the colorful lights and the glowing moon. Maybe it’s the fact that there are no pictures on the mantel when there should be some. Mantels are not supposed to be left empty. Or maybe it’s because for a sitting room, it doesn’t seem like anyone has sat in it recently.

  He must be lonely in this big house. At least H
annah has moved back in, even if it is just for the summer. But still…. I wonder what he does when Hannah’s living with me and Taylor.

  It’s then that two things happen: I hear a piano begin to play in the next room. and I realize I’m very far behind in the tour of the house. I don’t want to appear rude, so I stand up and head over to the door. My aunt Janie is probably showing off her piano skills on a what is most likely the best piano on the market, though it does surprise me that Barkley’s letting her touch it—

  Except it’s not Janie on the piano.

  It’s Hannah.

  And next to Hannah is her brother.

  England, my ass. They are here. As in, right in front of my face.

  Luckily, their backs are towards me, and since this piano room—besides shelves of books, a love seat, and the grand piano in the center of the wood floor, nothing else is housed here—has no door, just a doorframe, there have been no revealing squeaks, and I can scurry out to the car before either of them realizes I’m here.

  Except now, my feet have decided that they want to stay put. And my eyes, having found what they’ve been searching for, are fixed firmly on Aiden’s back. He’s not wearing anything special, just jeans, a long-sleeved collared shirt that’s nearly the same color as his eyes, and a pair of Dockers. Jeez. Can’t the guy ever wear a T-shirt? Is that impossible or something? I always feel so underdressed when I’m around him. The guy doesn’t even know I’m here and already he’s got me acting aloof.

  I snort.

  What else is new?

  Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have snorted. Even though Hannah is absorbed in her very talented musical piece, I see Aiden’s back stiffen. He’s heard me. Maybe if I step behind this pillar and dash outside, he won’t see me. I decide to put my plan in action, and just when I think I’m free, I’m not.

  I’m out back, and Aiden is right behind me.

  “Marion,” he calls. “Marion.”

  I stop and ponder if I should turn. I don’t want to see him and yet I do, and it would be rude if I don’t acknowledge him. I am eighteen years old, after all. Bella Swann might be able to get away with running from her problems, but I’m an adult, not a fictional character.