“Yes, dear,” Edie said matter-of-factly, settling back into her chair as if this were the most ordinary of dinners. “Now, let’s go on with our game,” she said, a bemused expression on her face. “Rhys, it’s your turn!”
“Hear! Hear!” Rhys loudly clinked his fork against his Baccarat glass. Riley followed suit.
Baby hollowly began clapping. Her mom and Remington were getting married? So much for never seeing these people again. Remington was going to be her stepfather. Layla was going to be her stepsister. And with her luck, she’d probably be the bridesmaid at Layla and Riley’s wedding.
Better than the flower girl.
bedroom stories
Jack strode across the marble lobby of the Cashman Lofts and stepped into the private elevator to the penthouse on Thursday evening, a woman on a mission. She hoped J.P.’s family was done with dinner, so she and J.P. could go upstairs and do it already.
Happy Thanksgiving!
She glanced at herself in the gilt gold mirror in the elevator and smoothed her hair. She tried not to be annoyed that all her careful planning had been foiled. Originally, she’d thought they’d get together tonight at her place, where she had everything set up to her precise specifications: Tocca candles at her bedside, a bouquet of freesias sitting on her rolltop desk, and a bottle of Möet in the Sub-Zero downstairs that they could sneak down and have afterwards. But then when her dad had unexpectedly announced this morning that the family was going to come back to the city after their Thanksgiving meal instead of staying overnight in the suburbs, she’d had to hastily rearrange plans.
Jack stepped off the elevator and rang the doorbell, hoping that J.P. would answer, instead of his flashy, former supermodel mom or overly friendly dad.
“Hey beautiful.” The door swung open, and revealed J.P. He was wearing a dark blue sweater and khakis. Just like always. “Perfect timing. My parents practically fell asleep at the dinner table,” he said, closing the door behind her.
“Good.” Jack followed J.P. through the labyrinthine hallways she knew so well and toward the stairs that led to his mini bachelor pad. It was a living area, bedroom, and bathroom that looked remarkably normal, all decorated with sleek black and gray Eames furniture, rather than the mishmash collection of antiques and ultra-modern pieces that populated the rest of the house.
“I’m so glad you came over.” J.P. closed the door, twisting its brass lock just to be safe. He dimmed the lights and pressed play on his Bose sound dock. The sound of Coldplay filled the room and Jack tried not to wince. Were they really going to do it to a crappy band that thirty-year-olds listened to?
Well, if it works for Gwyneth…
She blocked out the whiny sounds of Coldplay and the thoroughly unromantic track lighting. Who needed champagne and roses and all those other cheesy things? All she needed was J.P. Her boyfriend. Who was perfect.
There’s that word again….
“I’m glad we waited,” J.P. murmured into Jack’s auburn hair as he led her over to his California king horsehair-filled bed.
“Me too,” Jack breathed, even though she couldn’t help but feel a tugging suspicion that they sounded like characters in a very lame teen movie.
Jack sprawled out on J.P.’s bed, enjoying his gaze. She was wearing a demure silk DVF dress, her black lace La Perla boy shorts and bra underneath. It was underwear she’d worn before, and J.P. had probably seen it. All of the new bras, corsets, and garters she’d bought from La Petite Coquette were sitting untouched in her bedroom. In the end, it was probably better if she didn’t treat it like such a big deal. It was just J.P. They’d been together forever. It was more remarkable that they hadn’t done it, right?
“I love you so much. Always,” J.P. whispered earnestly as he stroked her bare arm.
“Kiss me!” Jack replied impatiently. Maybe it’d be better if he just didn’t talk. J.P. leaned in and put his lips on hers, his mouth tasting like eucalyptus. His slim fingers played at her back, where her dress was buttoned with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. He fumbled slightly.
“I’ll do it.” Jack reached around and undid the buttons, then rearranged herself on the bed, crossing her legs seductively at her ankles.
Just then, her cell beeped from her voluminous blue Balenciaga city bag.
Saved by the bell?
“Should you…?” J.P.’s eyes darted to the corner of the room, where her bag sat.
“Ignore it,” Jack commanded. It was kind of fun playing the femme fatale and bossing him around. J.P. kneeled over her, undoing the buttons of his blue-and-white-striped Hugo Boss button-down. He leaned down again and kissed her.
“Harder!” Jack demanded. Usually, J.P. was so sweet and careful when they hooked up, as if afraid she’d break if he wrapped his arms around her too tightly. But now she wanted to feel how much he wanted her.
J.P. leaned toward her chest and kissed upward on her neck. She felt teeth against her skin. Was he biting her?
“Actually, not that hard,” Jack snapped.
“Sorry!” J.P. said breathlessly, quickly lifting his head up from Jack’s collarbone. The top of his head banged hard against her chin.
“Ow!” Jack exclaimed, tears pricking her eyes.
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Jack rubbed her smooth skin. It would probably bruise. “It’s okay,” Jack said, wishing J.P. would stop looking at her worriedly and get back to deflowering her. Injuries were so not sexy.
Just then her phone chimed again, ringing incessantly. Who on earth was calling her on Thanksgiving?
J.P. sat back on his heels, and Jack sighed, the moment clearly over.
“Are you okay?” J.P. asked, his brown eyebrows knit in concern.
Jack nodded. She was. She knew she could grab him and they could start making out again, ignoring her phone and doing exactly what they’d planned on doing. But all of a sudden, she didn’t really want J.P. to touch her. She felt a gnawing hunger in her stomach from skipping dinner, and she really just wanted to watch crappy TV and eat fattening desserts. “Maybe we should do this later,” Jack said wearily. She swung her bare feet around the bed and stood on the ugly gold-and-maroon Oriental rug. She hugged her arms to her chest, suddenly self-conscious even though J.P. had seen her in her underwear hundreds of times.
“Of course.” J.P. cast his eyes downward as he shuffled toward the bathroom. Jack sighed and picked up her dress from its puddle on the floor. She hated to admit it, but a tiny part of her felt… relieved at the interruption.
Jack stood and made her way across the room. She rifled through her bag and pulled out her phone.
OMG, my mom just got ENGAGED. It’s crazy but I’m happy for them. So much to report, talk soon. Wish you were here! Xo, Ave.
Jack smiled, thinking of her friend. She could tell how excited Avery was just from the text. She pictured Avery, and then Owen, in the middle of an island paradise, celebrating their crazy mother’s crazy engagement, raising champagne glasses in the air and having the kind of amazing, life-altering evening she’d hoped to have tonight.
Suddenly, she wished she were there too.
hey people!
young and in (long-term) love
So you’ve met that perfect guy or gal, and you’ve settled down. Long-term relationships can be great—hello, cozy dinners in, Tuesday-night snuggle sessions, and not having to wear makeup all the time!—and they can make you feel super grown-up. But getting too serious too soon can ruin a relationship. Cases in point: Reese and Ryan. Britney and Kevin. Nick and Jessica. First came love, then came marriage, and in some cases, a baby in a baby carriage. And after that? Divorce.
Of course, not every serious relationship dies a slow death. And I’m not advocating we all stay single forever. But why push a relationship to a place it’s not ready to go? Playing the field is so much fun, especially while we’re young. Don’t you want to get out there, meet new people, and then see if you’re still meant to be? I’m just saying, if i
t ain’t broke, don’t put a promise ring on it!
sightings
J in her father’s town car, being whisked to JFK. Headed to Paris to visit Maman, or has someone decided to take an impromptu trip?… J.P., walking his three puggles in the park, solo. Did somebody get left behind?… S.J., J, and G, coming out of hot spot 1Oak in the wee hours. Doesn’t anybody stay in on Thanksgiving anymore?… Lastly, swim team playboy H, cozily ensconced in a booth at Rose Bar with a very flirty French girl giving him some very flirty French kisses. Hope she didn’t notice him texting under the table! Who could be important enough to divide his attention?
your e-mail
q: Dear Gossip Girl,
So, I met this guy and we had so much fun, and we even made out. He took my number and said he’d call. But then he didn’t. It’s been a week and I haven’t heard from him, and I’ve hung around the spot where we met but still no sign of him. What gives?
—hoodiegirl
a: Dear H,
I’ll keep it short, but not so sweet: Sounds like he’s just not that into you. Sorry!
—GG
the parent trap
Finally, it’s come to my attention that some people are missing their basic manners when it comes to behaving themselves appropriately while being hosted by another family. Yes, it can be weird to hang out with parents who aren’t your own. But think of it this way: If they decide you’re a good influence on their offspring, you’ll be showered with college recommendations and cool presents and receive a carte blanche invite to their house. So keep your eye on the prize and follow these three ultra-simple rules.
Flatter the mom. Ask her who her stylist is. Tell her how young/tiny/amazing she looks, even if she’s obviously squeezing into a way-too-small size four and has highlights circa Memorial Day.
Don’t get drunk at dinner. There are plenty of opportunities to do that sans the parents, so don’t just chug their vintage 1980 L’Evangeline bordeaux. Especially since you probably participated in drinking that other bottle they think they misplaced.
Stay out of their way!Remember, most parents don’t really want to do the intergenerational bonding thing—they just want to make sure their children act suitably appropriate and are entertained. Prove that you’re entertaining and appropriate, and they’ll be more than happy to keep their distance.
And, for extra credit—or if you’re trying to score that seventeenth-birthday Mercedes—try using these rules on your own parents. After all, your own parents deserve the same kind of respect that you show to Muffy and Jim from the club, don’t they?
As if it weren’t easy enough already.
You know you love me,
gossip girl
pooling resources
Rhys tossed and turned on the yellow Egyptian cotton sheets as the sky outside the window changed from gray to gold; the sun was just beginning to rise. He was tired, but for the second night in a row, he couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the heat.
Or maybe it was the fact that Avery was probably only sleeping five feet away, separated by the thin bamboo villa wall.
“Bro, you ready?”
Rhys squinted one eye open at Owen, who was wearing a white T-shirt and cargos. He looked impatient. “I want to leave before Remington knocks on the door and suggests family bonding activities,” Owen explained.
“Okay, give me a second.” Rhys sighed as he swung his feet onto the cool stone floor. The whole engagement announcement had really messed with Owen’s head. He’d been quiet at the dinner last night, just drinking more and more until he pretty much passed out in the villa.
“Don’t obsess over your clothes,” Owen ordered as he flung open Rhys’s closet, surveying his clothing options. “Those British girls I was telling you about are looking forward to meeting you, and they don’t give a fuck about what shirt you’re wearing. I did the heavy lifting, bro. You can thank me later.”
Rhys wished Owen had forgotten about Hugh’s dumb challenge. But given Owen’s current state of mind, the least Rhys could do was pretend to go along with his plan. “Did your mom pack for you?” Owen scoffed as he surveyed the neatly hung button-downs and folded piles of board shorts.
“No,” Rhys said shortly as he grabbed a pair of cargos and a blue linen button-down shirt. His mom totally would have packed for him if they’d had more time. She had even slipped a cheesy card into his duffel as he was leaving, as if he were a four-year-old heading to his first day of nursery school at All Souls.
Rhys walked into the bathroom and surveyed himself critically in the mirror. Not bad. Not bothering to shave, he splashed some Acqua di Parma aftershave lotion onto his face.
“Dude, come on!” Owen knocked on the door impatiently. Rhys suppressed a sigh and mussed his hair up slightly.
He closed the bathroom door and followed Owen out of the villa’s sliding glass doors. They walked along the winding path to the main resort. The sun was making its way higher into the sky, casting patterns of light against the sand-covered path. Birds were chirping in the trees as if they were part of an ambient music CD, and a light breeze made the heat feel inviting, rather than intolerable. It would be totally romantic with the right person, Rhys thought, instead of with a moody male buddy. Owen was kicking the seashells in his path almost violently. Rhys knew he was thinking about Remington and his mom.
“Dude, you okay about everything?” Rhys asked. They could see the resort now, the orange-and-cream-colored structure seemingly jutting out toward the ocean.
“I will be. I just need to hook up,” Owen repeated. He was starting to sound like a broken record, but Rhys decided that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to point out. “And you do too.”
“I know. Hugh reminds me every fucking hour,” Rhys said, annoyed. Didn’t Hugh have a family to distract him?
They walked silently over to the large pool area, collecting dark blue embroidered towels from a bored-looking girl at the towel hut.
“There’s Elsie. I guess that must be her friend.” Owen directed his gaze over to two girls in the pool. One had long, peroxide-blond hair and the other had short curly brown hair. From a distance, it didn’t look like either girl was wearing a top.
“Owen!” one called in an accent. “’Ello love. Won’t you come ’ere!” Rhys cringed. Was Owen serious about these girls? She sounded exactly like his cousin Archie’s wife, Nicola. Nicola wore pink Juicy sweat suits and gold hoop earrings and always got drunk on Diet Coke and vodkas at family functions, even though she was technically the Duchess of Kent. It was one of the many scandals in the Sterling family.
And probably not the last.
“And that’s your mate, innit? Bring ’im over, let’s ’ave a look, now!” the blond girl called shrilly. Rhys wished he could head back to the villa.
“Did I hook us up or what?” Owen eagerly peeled off his shirt and waded into the shallow end of the pool as he swum over to the brunette. Rhys paused a moment, then took off his own linen shirt and folded it into a neat pile. Maybe by the time he was done folding it, they’d be gone.
“’Ello!” the blond girl said, wringing out her hair and dripping water all over Rhys’s Reef sandals. Her ugly silver-and-gold triangle bikini top barely covered her enormous boobs. She smiled, revealing extremely crooked teeth. Kelsey had had a slightly crooked incisor that middle-school orthodontia hadn’t helped, but on her it was adorable. This girl looked like she’d never seen the inside of a dentist’s office. “Me mate, Elsie, over there told me she’d met your man yesterday, innit? Glad you’re here. I’m Isobel. Well, that’s me proper name and all, but me best mates and even me mum all calls me Issy. And who are you?” Issy looked Rhys up and down expectantly.
“Rhys.” He stuck out his hand. Issy shook it enthusiastically. She had four-inch bright red acrylic nails. “I guess, then, we might as well go over to your, um, mate?” Rhys asked, wading into the water. He headed toward the swim-up bar on the other end of the pool, where Owen and Elsie were already ordering drinks. H
e really didn’t want to be left alone with Issy.
“Hi!” Rhys said abruptly, wedging himself between Owen and Elsie at the submerged bar.
“So, you met Issy, then? I’m Elsie.” The girl with the curly brown hair glanced away from Owen. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” Issy and Elsie? How was he even going to keep them straight? Rhys turned to the bartender. In order to get through this, he needed a drink. “I’ll have a mimosa.”
“Can I ’ave one?” Elsie asked, sidling up beside him.
“Uh, sure.” Rhys didn’t want to be rude.
“Actually, can I have a Sex on the Beach?” Elsie locked eyes with Issy and the two of them began howling with laughter. With the perfect palm trees swaying in the breeze, the crisp morning air and the turquoise water, Rhys felt like he’d been dropped into some bad vacation movie.
Weekend at Elsie’s?
“You got it, my man!” The dreadlocked bartender winked at Rhys like they were sharing a joke.
“So, um, where are you from?” Rhys began. He took a large gulp of his mimosa. It was nowhere near as strong as he needed.
“Essex.” Elsie—Issy?—said proudly.
Rhys cringed. From what he remembered his cousins telling him, Essex was sort of like the Queens of England. In fact, that was where his cousin’s wife Nicola was from. Why were these British girls here over an American holiday weekend, anyway? It was like they’d come here to prey on unsuspecting American boys on their vacations, just when they were at their weakest.
Not a bad supposition…
“Her mum ’ad an affair with some footballer bloke, but she’s well hacked off ’e’s always off playin’ and never round, so ’e sent ’er on ’oliday until she felt sorted. So Elsie brought me, which is blindin’ good! Bunch of duffers here, innit?” Issy asked. She took the pink drink in front of her and easily polished it off.
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