by Grant, Pippa
Mom stops and looks at him. Then blinks, and is she going to cry? What in the world is going on? “That’s very sweet of you,” she says.
“Wait, isn’t that my line?” I ask.
“Only if you’re actually going to deliver it and snag the man, sweetheart. Come along. Let’s go make him rue the day he insulted your uterus by making him fall madly in love with you when we Cinderella you up.”
He has this unreadable expression on his face as I let Mom and Mackenzie tug me away.
But the weird thing is, despite all my panic last weekend at being sucked into his world and then outed for who I am and who my parents are, I think I’m actually glad he pulled my uterus into it.
Because maybe I should do a video blog. And maybe I should upgrade my website.
And maybe I should stop letting my past hold me back, and grab this unexpected opportunity to figure out who I’m supposed to be in this world.
Twenty-Six
Beck
I don’t hear from Sarah for hours.
Through breakfast, morning snack, second morning snack, lunch, second lunch, afternoon snack, and pre-dinner snack. Davis goes back home. Levi leaves to fly to Seattle for his weekend concert. Tripp takes his kids for some playdate at a library or something, where he’ll undoubtedly have nannies throwing themselves all over him, and everyone else goes to work.
Even Charlie abandons me.
But Judson doesn’t.
He and Cupcake hang with me all day, and when things get weird after I beat him in foosball and he challenges me to a gym-off—dude, don’t be like me and ask what that is, or you’ll regret it—I call Hank, Cash’s brother, who runs a small website design company.
And by small, I mean he specializes in clients like me, Levi, and Cash, who have big website demands, and that he employs enough people to keep everything running twenty-four seven for his small clientele, even though he could easily expand to being one of the big dogs in Internetlandia.
But even he abandons me after getting all the info he needs from Sarah to upgrade and tweak her website.
She’s texting him, but not me.
Still, he was enough of a distraction that now Judson’s chilling on my couch, Cupcake sprawled across his lap, watching golf.
And by watching golf, I mean they’re both sleeping.
Wyatt comes to my rescue just before I’m ready to dive into first dinner. He and Ellie have been supervising movers all day, without the paparazzi watching them, because the reporters all flocked to Shipwreck when one of my bodyguards took my car and drove out that way with the other one in the backseat covered by a blanket.
Heh.
“Barbecue at the Rivers house,” Wyatt says. “C’mon. I’ll drive you. Ellie’s already there with Tucker, who’s telling stories about the things his Beck Ryder doll did at summer camp today.”
I look at Judson.
Then back at Wyatt, who rolls his eyes. “Dude. He’s practically your father-in-law. You can’t just leave him there sleeping.”
“Ain’t nobody sleeping, boy,” Judson growls with his eyes closed. “This is called meditating on how I’m gonna gut your friend like a fish when he breaks my daughter’s heart.”
“Man, you know all the good party tricks,” I say to him. “You like brisket and baked beans?”
“You got a hollow leg to fit it all in?” he replies.
“He’s half-cow,” Wyatt supplies. “Four stomachs. Science experiment gone wrong.”
“Should’ve gone for four dicks,” Judson says. “Might’ve been able to fill out your briefs. Keep it away from my daughter or die.”
“You meet the best people,” Wyatt tells me.
“It’s a gift.”
We all load up in Wyatt’s SUV, including Charlie, who hasn’t had a single meal with me today, but did apparently get a massage and a facial and is feeling extra helpful with suggesting different ways Judson could torture me if I hurt Sarah.
Dinner’s a fucking awesome feast, because Ms. Rivers is almost as good of a cook as my mom. I say almost because I still remember who gave birth to me.
And it’s utter perfection being back in the old neighborhood.
Old trees. Houses built in the seventies. Sidewalks. Basketball hoops on garages. That missing limb on the oak at Wyatt’s grandma’s old house that we accidentally took out with a bottle rocket that we may have overfueled. The weathered picnic table we used as our makeshift stage when we decided that it was stupid for Levi, Tripp, and all the Rivers kids to have been forced to take music lessons for all those years if we weren’t going to somehow be famous, even though Davis, who never studied music a day in his life, had the best voice of all of us.
And ribs and cornbread and coleslaw and baked beans, and I’m really wishing I did have four stomachs by the time I’m done with the banana pudding my mom brought over.
But as perfect as it is to finally be back—I’ve been trying to keep the reporters from following me over here, so I haven’t dropped by since getting back to town—it feels like something’s missing.
And it’s not because Ellie and Wyatt are all touchy-feely, or because Tripp’s kids are making me mourn the family I’ll probably never have—Sarah’s not the only person with trust issues—or because Levi and Cash and Davis aren’t here, or because I’m getting all the ribbing over the video this morning and Sarah’s suggestion that my schlong is actually a schuh, because it’s missing the long part.
And Charlie’s report that the video has shot speculation about us sky-high isn’t helping either. Nor is hearing that Vegas is taking bets on if Sarah’s pregnant.
I mean, yeah, I feel bad that her life is so public again when she didn’t want it to be, but it’s not even guilt eating at me.
I can’t put my finger on it until my phone lights up with the text I’ve been waiting for all day.
I might look like a girl Saturday night, but I can’t promise to be happy about it.
Yep.
That’s exactly what’s wrong.
I wish she was here to have fun with my family and extended neighborhood family too, instead of being off shopping for a dress that she doesn’t want to wear for an event that didn’t have to happen if I hadn’t been a dumbass.
To see her dad making Cupcake do tricks in her tutu and challenging Wyatt to an arm wrestling contest. To watch Hank and Waylon making bets over if June’s new boyfriend will stick around after this. To listen to the mothers all chattering about wedding plans and Ellie insisting her wedding will be a small affair, thank you very much.
As if she has a choice in it.
I’m still grinning at my phone, debating what to reply, and I decide to send her a quick video of my view from the backyard instead.
“Hey, dinglehoppers, say hi to Sarah,” I call.
“You can do better than this guy,” Hank says.
“He makes terrible jokes,” Waylon agrees.
“Awful poker player,” Wyatt says.
“I’ll serve his eyeballs on a platter for breakfast next to his spleen if he hurts you,” her dad growls.
“Beck is a wonderful young man, and we’re so glad you tolerate him,” Ms. Rivers says.
“Mom, that wasn’t nice,” June hisses.
“But, honey, it’s accurate.”
“Love you, Beck.” Ellie blows me a kiss. “Sarah, if you taser him again, I want it on video.”
“Snickerdoodle vagina!” James yells.
“I want to see the tasering,” Tripp agrees.
“Be nice,” his mom chides.
Emma farts. Loudly. Cupcake pretends to fall over dead. And I kill the video and send it to Sarah.
“Aw, honey, you know we love you, right?” Mom says.
“Almost as much as we love Ellie,” Dad agrees with a twinkle in his eye.
Judson’s studying me through slit eyes. “You might be okay with this crew to keep you humble,” he growls. “But I still don’t trust you around the Euranians.”
“
Rightfully so, sir,” I agree.
My phone buzzes again with another text from Sarah.
I see where you get your sense of humor. Definitely from the pig.
She has her own sense of humor. And it’s fun to see it coming out. Because the woman I met Saturday morning who freaked out and tasered me isn’t the same woman who’s charming the world on a video we posted from my social media accounts this morning.
Mom used to talk about the year Ellie bloomed.
I didn’t get it.
But I feel like I’m watching Sarah bloom.
And it’s the greatest fucking thing ever.
Twenty-Seven
Sarah
No matter how many times I try to tell myself this isn’t a real date, I can’t stop my heart from pounding and my knees from knocking and basically everything from going into panic mode while I wait for Beck to arrive Thursday night.
After Trent last year, I realized I’d never be relationship material. That I hold too much of myself back, and I was okay with that, because—well, probably because I was being really stupid. And afraid that no one could ever love me for all of me despite the complications of my life.
And now, here I am, about to go on a fake-real date with the guy who pulled me back into the limelight, who I’m getting more and more attached to by the day, who has a lot on the line if the media decides he’s actually the asshole his tweet made him out to be, and who I still trust anyway.
Despite my very nervous heart’s warnings that we take it slow.
Physical relationships never used to make me squirrely. Not until Trent asked if he could meet my parents. But getting attached to Beck and his goofball personality and that irresistible smile and his easy acceptance of who I am makes me quake, because I don’t have an easy out if I let myself fall all the way over the cliff and he really is just that good at acting.
This isn’t all physical.
Not even close.
I’m in a Mom-approved T-shirt—classic Rolling Stones gets her every time—and hip-hugging jeans that loudly proclaim to the world that I love dessert more than I love to exercise, but I’m not muffin-topping, so Mom doesn’t object to them either. I let her French braid my hair and agree to some Burt’s Bees lip gloss, but otherwise, I’m all me.
Right down to the plain cotton bra and RYDE underwear.
He’s right on time, and when he knocks, my dad doesn’t growl or threaten to feed his testicles to the pig.
I think they bonded over a one-armed push-up contest that my dad won yesterday. And the world will never know if Beck let him or if my dad is that much of a badass, because I’ll never get a straight answer out of Beck.
Who’s now smiling at me from my front porch like I’m the person who set the sun and moon and stars into their dynamic, beautiful dance through space. “Hey,” he says.
I smile back, and it’s not because I know there are photographers capturing my every move, but because it’s impossible not to smile back at him. He’s this unexpected combination of complete goofball and absolutely zero self-doubt, and he’s rubbing off on me.
“Have her home by ten,” Dad says in a less growly voice. “And call before you walk in so I can turn off the alarm.”
“Judson, honey, Serendipity knows the code now. And she’s an adult. Almost thirty even. She can stay out all night with a man if she wants to.”
“He’s not a man. He’s a beast hell-bent on taking my daughter’s innocence and flushing it down a sewage-filled vat of toxic sludge.”
“I hope your genitals are insured,” I murmur to Beck, because clearly that’s what Dad’s going to threaten next. Again.
Beck coughs, his eyes dancing. Mom grips Dad by the arm and tugs hard enough to uproot him and make him trip over Cupcake, who’s looking for Meda, who’s hiding from Cupcake.
Dad points two fingers to his own eyeballs, then to Beck. “I’m watching you.”
“I’m watching me too, sir.” Beck gives him a salute, and then tugs my hand. “Ready, Sarah? Don’t want to miss the show.”
“We don’t?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s gonna be awesome.”
I wave to my parents, equal parts curious about just how funny a comedy show can be and eager to put Dad’s death glare behind us.
And also grateful that I don’t have to dress up for this one like I will Saturday night, when there will be hundreds more eyeballs on me. “Don’t wait up.”
“I’ll wait up,” Dad growls.
“No, you won’t, Judson. One more night on that couch will throw your back out. Serendipity, sweetheart, we’re going back to our hotel. Are you sure Meda’s okay here by herself? Cupcake misses her terribly.”
“Cupcake terrorizes her.”
“Nonsense. They were cuddling while you were at work today. I have pictures.”
“Let them go, Sunny,” Dad growls. “The sooner they leave, the sooner I can disembowel this filthy piece of rat dung trying to compromise my daughter.”
“Looking forward to it, sir,” Beck says, and we’re finally off.
“You do know he’s sixty percent serious, right?” I ask as we dash to his car.
“Nah. He’s just making up for all those boyfriends he didn’t get to threaten since you left home. And I’m an easy target.”
We get strapped in and we head out of the neighborhood, security behind us, paparazzi behind them. My neighbor at the end of the street, out watering her flowers, does a double-take at the car, squints to see in, and then flips us off.
“I don’t know what virus is going around town, but it’s giving people a horrible case of rigid digits,” he says. “Better wash your hands good. Often.”
“Is that your real story?” I ask, a smile creeping up at his ridiculously optimistic version of what’s going on. Mackenzie’s been filtering what I see, and by filtering what I see, I mean she stole my phone and removed my social media apps and installed a filter on my computer that won’t let me access the sites either, and she’s sending me regular screenshots of nice things people say.
“It helps.” He cuts a glance at me at a stop sign. “I’ve learned my lesson. Promise. And I’m still sorry I dragged you into it. Mostly. But only for the painful parts. You’re pretty awesome. I like hanging out with you.”
“You’re not half-bad yourself, despite your questionable judgment in fashion advice.”
He grins. “I’ve been saying that for years, but people keep being all, No, Beck, you’re brilliant, take our money.”
“Obviously they feel bad that you have to carry around those ape arms all the time and are trying to make you feel better about yourself.”
He grins wider.
I twist to face him. “Do you ever get offended? Because that was really mean of me.”
“Sit back and let your seat belt do its job, and yes. I get offended. I get offended when people are assholes to my family. Or when that jackoff on Twitter said Persephone was an ugly twat.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Said Jagger—her baby daddy—probably threw up after he fucked her. Charlie had to throw my phone in the toilet to keep me from replying, because she’s gorgeous. Persephone, I mean. Were you watching today? She licked the camera. It was gross and adorable at the same time. Do you know giraffe tongues are like eight feet long?”
One day.
I want one day of being as happy about life as Beck Ryder is.
“What?” he asks as I stare at him.
Oh my god. I’m falling for Beck Ryder.
Hard.
“Is it working?” I ask, because informing him that giraffe tongues are not eight feet long will make me feel even more of a frumpy stick in the mud than I am on a normal day, and I don’t want to just be a frumpy fact-spouting geek.
Not that I’m about to be much better.
“Is what working?”
“This. Us. To keep your foundation on track.”
I might be staying off the internet and letting Mackenzie only give me the goo
d news while on temporary social media hiatus, but I did go to work today.
And I heard the whispers.
She’s probably just doing it so she can say she bagged Beck Ryder.
Do you think she’s planning on jumping ship and going to work for Ryder Consulting when this is all over?
How much did she have to pay those impersonators to pretend to be Judson Clarke and Sunny Darling?
Can you imagine how much he’s paying her?
Holy shit, look at that picture. She’s eating giant dick. CLEARLY eating giant dick.
The weird part was that they rolled right off. Mom used to say you learn real quick who your friends are.
I’m having gut instincts confirmed.
And it makes me wonder if this fake blooming relationship is actually doing what it’s supposed to.
He stares at the cars in front of us at a stoplight as he slowly nods. “Yeah. It’s working. Vaughn’s a good guy, and he’s about ready to stick up for me. Looks like we’ll still be on for launching the foundation on schedule. And that should clear up the rest of my reputation.”
“That’s…great.”
His brow twitches like maybe it’s not so great. “I guess. Sucks that so much of the world has to be wrapped up in labeling you all good or all bad based on one night of your life or one little tweet. I mean the generic you. Not you you. But…all of us.”
Did I say falling for Beck?
More like plummeting through the atmosphere with a rocket strapped to my back without a parachute.
I stop myself when I realize I’m reaching for his thigh just to touch him, because despite that oh my god kiss in the stairwell yesterday—that he stopped—I don’t actually know what our boundaries are. “So your life will go back to normal soon.”
“Sounds like it.”
“And you’ll have to quit eating so much?”
His shoulders relax, and his grin comes back. “Maybe I’ll take another few weeks off before normal. I’m getting an itch to spend some time out in Shipwreck. You ever been?”
