Everyone Else's Girl

by Megan Crane

  The mornings were the only time the temperature was bearable, and so I started running then, before the sun had a chance to do its damage. I thought longingly of the gym Travis and I belonged to in Atlanta, beautifully air-conditioned with treadmills all in a row. There was nothing close to cool on the New Jersey streets. The cicadas hummed, gearing up for the long, hot day ahead, and I picked my way through an obstacle course of landscaping trucks and trailers and the heavy, sweet smell of the linden trees.

  I did the short loop that I’d run when I was in high school and running was the only time I ever had to myself. I was walking a bit in a vain attempt to cool down when I headed back toward the house. As I approached it, I saw a car pull into the Sheridans’ driveway across from ours. Scott emerged and went around to the trunk to pull out some grocery bags.

  The thing was, I really didn’t like the way Jeannie had spun that whole prom story. I wasn’t the drama queen, I was the nice one. In fact, I’d made being nice my career.

  Also, he really was hot. Shockingly so, considering what he’d looked like at fifteen. On a purely biological level, it was fascinating.

  “Hi!” I said brightly when I came closer. He looked up, letting his eyes settle on me. I knew then that he’d seen me coming from a long way off.

  I kicked my smile into high gear. To match my heartbeat.

  “I make this amazing lasagna,” I said. “I made the sauce last night, because it takes a while, and letting it sit makes it even better. I’m going to serve dinner around seven. You should come by, if you feel like it.”

  Scott’s jaw worked for a moment, as if he might laugh.

  “Are you for real?” he asked finally.

  “It’s a lasagna,” I said. “No big deal. My brother and his fiancée are coming over. All very casual.”

  “You’re inviting me to sit down and have a cheery family meal with Christian McKay?” Scott asked, laughter threaded through his voice. “Christian McKay who was the bane of my existence from the age of five when we moved here until the glorious day of our high school graduation? Are you mentally ill?”

  Definitely a valid question.

  “He’s mellowed a lot,” I offered.

  Scott shook his head and laughed. It was real laughter, and it made his eyes brighten. I blinked.

  “Unreal,” was all he said. He looked at me, still laughing, and then he hoisted up his bags and headed toward his mother’s front door.

  I watched him go. When the door thudded to a close behind him, I turned and made my way across the street.

  And thought, What the hell are you doing?

  “Sorry we’re late!” Jeannie sang, pushing in through the door.

  She looked like an advertisement for something swanky yet laid back, in a cute little sundress and her hair in a casually chic up-do. I immediately felt grungy, in a pair of old jeans and a tank top liberally sprinkled with lasagna sauce. I grimaced at the hot oven and shoved my hair back from my face.

  “You’re not late,” Hope said from where she slouched at the table. “Ten minutes still counts as on time.” She looked past Jeannie pointedly. “Unless you’re anal.”

  Christian came in behind Jeannie, already frowning, and missed Hope’s dig. “Where’s Dad?” he wanted to know.

  “He couldn’t be bothered to engage in a family dinner,” Hope said dryly. She pursed her lips. “You go and argue with him if you want, but I don’t think he gives a shit.”

  “Nice language, Hope,” Christian said, and shook his head. Hope smiled sweetly and gave him the finger. He rolled his eyes and then frowned at me. “He’s really not coming down?”

  “You can go up and say hello,” I suggested. I leaned back against the counter. “Nice to see you, big brother. And since you’re here, Mrs. Van Eck thinks the grass needs mowing. I think that’s officially a guy thing.”

  “Yikes. Van Ick strikes again,” Jeannie murmured, amused.

  “My theory is she died in the last world war and this is just one of a series of clones,” Hope offered. “Those awful little yip dogs too.”

  “Yeah,” Christian muttered. He frowned at Hope and me in turn. “I’m going to go up and see Dad.” He left the room, and we could all hear him take the stairs two at a time.

  Dad had had a rough day, which I thought had a lot to do with my mother’s latest call. It was probably hard to be upbeat about healing when your wife was having such a good time in Italy, but what did I know? As Mom continued to point out, I’d be lucky to still have a boyfriend when I got back to Atlanta. A boyfriend whose version of sending me clothes had involved the selection of the ugliest pieces in my wardrobe—but that was neither here nor there.

  Jeannie settled herself at the kitchen table and smiled.

  “This has been such a crazy week,” she announced. “You wouldn’t believe how ridiculous some of these wedding people are. It’s a complete racket.”

  Neither Hope nor I really responded to that, and Jeannie’s smile disappeared.

  “You look ragged,” she told me, her voice dripping concern. “I thought good little southern girls never let anyone see them sweat.”

  This was the kind of thing that Jeannie had done so well when we were younger. Somehow, she always knew what button to push. It was so close to what I’d already been thinking that I felt the urge to smack her. Instead I turned and fiddled with the stove until the urge went away. It took a while.

  “Not everyone has time to primp all day,” Hope was saying. In my defense? I slid a look her way.

  “You just can’t stop pushing, can you?” Jeannie asked Hope with a sigh.

  “You know, I can’t,” Hope drawled. “I wonder what it is about you, Jeannie, that makes it impossible?” There was a smirk in her voice, if not on her face. I bit back my own smile.

  “He’s not doing so well,” Christian announced, coming back into the kitchen. He had a definite edge in his voice. “What the hell, Meredith?”

  “Excuse me?” I was taken back.

  “I mean, what are you doing out here? He hasn’t even shaved!” He threw that fact out as if it was proof of neglect. Did you check him for bedsores? I asked him acidly. And silently.

  “You shave him then,” Hope suggested. “Because I’m not going near that man with a razor. But you knock yourself out.”

  “Please, Hope, give it a rest!” Christian snapped. “You couldn’t be bothered to help out—remember? You’re not involved in this!”

  Hope’s eyes narrowed, but she only shrugged.

  “I think he’s a little depressed,” I announced.

  “Depressed,” Christian repeated. As if he’d never heard the word and had to sound it out.

  “Wouldn’t you be?” I asked.

  Hope laughed. “Think about it,” she said. “It’s got to suck to know that romping around Italy trumps your broken leg.”

  “I’d be depressed about the leg alone,” I said.

  “Okay, but this is Dad,” Christian scoffed.

  “Dad probably has emotions too, Christian,” Hope said. “Just because no one’s ever seen them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  Christian ignored her.

  “This is all getting crazy,” he snapped at me. “You think Dad’s depressed but Jeannie said you were out on some date with Scotty fucking Sheridan the other day—”

  “Date?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or yell. I chose something a little closer to the latter. “I wasn’t on a date, I was out in town and I ran into him, and what does it matter what I was doing?”

  “You were out?” Christian’s voice was rising in both pitch and volume. “What does that mean? You’re running around shopping while Dad’s declining? What the hell are you doing, Meredith?”

  The timer buzzed loudly, as punctuation.

  Shaking a little bit, I turned and pulled the lasagna out of the oven. “Dinner’s ready,” I announced.

  “Fuck dinner!” Christian yelled.

  “Everybody needs to calm down,” Jeannie
said.

  “My family is falling apart, in case you haven’t noticed!” Christian barked at her. She flinched.

  He turned to me. “This isn’t supposed to be some vacation for you!”

  “Why don’t you stop yelling at me?” I asked him. Through my teeth.

  “And thanks for stopping by,” Hope added, with malice. “It’s nice of you to take time out of your busy yuppie life to check up on your sick father.”

  “Hey, Hope? The day I ask for your input?” Christian scoffed. “Is never going to come. Why don’t you shut up for once?”

  “Or what?” Hope retorted immediately, springing to her feet. “You’ll beat me down?” She stepped toward him, arms wide, like she was about to get physical. It clearly surprised Christian, who actually took a half step back.

  “Both of you, please calm down!” I cried, visions of a brawl dancing in my head. Hope whirled to face me at once.

  “Why don’t you defend yourself?” she demanded. “Why don’t you tell him to leave you alone?”

  “I told you to back off!” Christian shouted at her.

  “I’m not Meredith!” Hope shouted right back at him. “I’m not even a little intimidated by you! You want me to back off? You fucking try and make me!”

  “Christian!” Jeannie was up, pulling on his arm, but he was still moving toward Hope.

  “You spoiled little bitch—”

  They were primed to spring—

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Scott said from the doorway, his voice like a bucket of cold water. “I brought wine.”

  Chapter 6

  Scott and I stood in the kitchen, in the wake of all that shouting and near-violence. My gourmet lasagna sat untouched on the table, cheeses oozing sullenly. We both stared at it, as if it might offer some kind of explanation for the family implosion.

  “I lost my appetite,” I said.

  I heard Hope slam out of the front door, and winced at the noise. Christian and Jeannie had stormed away almost immediately, and by now were long gone, Christian no doubt shouting all the way down the Parkway. Lucky Jeannie.

  “Well, I’m hungry,” Scott said, unperturbed. He sat down at the table and began helping himself. I stared at him. He ignored that too.

  “You’re just going to eat?” I demanded. “Like nothing happened?”

  “Nothing did happen,” he replied easily. He looked up and his eyes laughed at me. “To me.”

  “I can’t figure you out,” I snapped, because what I wanted to do was laugh along with him. “Are you really this much of a jerk, or are you just putting on an act?”

  It felt kind of good to snap. It felt as if snapping was something I should do more of, it felt so good. And Scott didn’t seem in the least bothered. He just grinned.

  “That’s an excellent question,” he said. “Why did you invite me to dinner, Meredith?”

  If I was far more honest than I ought to be: because he was so surprisingly hot. He was hot, and he’d had a crush on me when we were young. And I practically owed him dinner after the Scotty Sheridan Sucks thing.

  I had a boyfriend, after all. It was just a meal.

  So:

  “Guilt,” I retorted at once.

  “Guilt,” he echoed. “The funny thing about guilt is that nothing helps get rid of it. It just sits there.” He forked in a bite of lasagna. “Cold lasagna can’t make up for thirteen years of torture from the McKay family.”

  It didn’t look like all that torture was interfering with his appetite, much less his grin. And he’d certainly ranted enough on the subject over coffee. I felt unsettled, and found that glaring at him made me feel a little bit better. So I kept glaring as I took a seat, and poured myself a huge glass of wine, which was guaranteed to do the rest.

  “You might consider getting over your childhood sometime soon, since you’re almost thirty,” I suggested. “You beat this subject into the ground already. And anyway, you’re exaggerating.”

  “Not entirely,” he said, snagging the bottle of wine. He filled his glass and toasted me. I made a face, and he only grinned.

  I watched him clear a plate, fill a new plate, and clear that too. I tossed back a couple of glasses of wine and opened the bottle he’d brought with him.

  “Are you going to eat everything in the house?” I asked.

  “I might,” he said, but pushed his plate away. I rose and reached for it. “Don’t”—he slapped my hand away—“clean up after me, Meredith.”

  “What would you like me to do? Leave it here for the kitchen fairies to take care of during the night?”

  “I’m not who you’re mad at,” he pointed out. “Although I guess it’s nice to see you actually get mad.”

  “What does that mean?” I demanded.

  “It means you barely react,” Scott said at once. Which meant he’d given it thought, before being asked. I blinked, surprised. “You just smile and try to make everyone else happy and let your whole family tap dance all over you. You did it when you were a kid and, from what I saw tonight, you still do.”

  “I do not,” was my mature response.

  “Okay.” He sounded amused.

  I sat there, scowling, as he picked up his plate and took it over to the sink.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I continued. “You hate my whole family, so you aren’t exactly the best judge of them. So what do you know?”

  “Why do you let your brother talk to you like that?” Scott asked mildly. “How come you came all the way up here to ‘help out’ when both of your siblings already live here?” He slapped the water off, and turned around to watch me. “And don’t you get sick of being so well-behaved and reliable?”

  “No.” I glared at him. “This is who I am. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You certainly don’t.”

  We stared at each other. The kitchen fell away, and there were only those eyes of his, for a moment that went on too long.

  I took a deep breath, and poured another glass of wine.

  “You’re not going to find any answers at the bottom of a glass,” Scott told me. “I would think you’d know that already.”

  “I’m not looking for answers,” I shot back. “I’m looking to get drunk.”

  He let out a laugh.

  “I can get behind that,” he said.

  “So,” I said, a long time later, when I was buzzing along nicely and we were sitting out on the back porch surrounded by the hot night. “How do you live in this town?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “High school is everywhere,” I said with unnecessary melodrama. “Don’t you get sick of it?”

  “High school is everywhere for you, maybe,” Scott said. “But let me assure you that the county prosecutor doesn’t really care what happened to me in high school. And neither does anyone else.”

  “If you say so.” I looked at him. “You’ve brought up high school a few times, for someone who’s so over it.”

  “Because it’s the last time I saw you, I guess,” he said, tilting his beer toward me in a sort of toast. “And besides, it’s not like we had the same experience in high school. I went through the usual soul-crushing misery. You’re one of the aliens who enjoyed themselves in high school.” He laughed. “You people scare me.”

  “I felt like an alien half the time.” I still did sometimes. “Doesn’t that count?”

  “Nope.” He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “You were happy. It violates natural law.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What’s your problem with me, anyway? I never beat you up.”

  “Neither did Jeannie Gillespie,” Scott pointed out. “And believe me, I bear her some ill will. You remember,” he said when I just stared at him blankly. “You know the kind of mouth she has on her.”

  Did I ever. Jeannie wasn’t a subject I wanted to get into, even with an almost-stranger I knew would take my side over hers in an automatic reaction to his adolescence.

  “I
guess,” I conceded. “But wasn’t everyone horrible as a teenager?”

  “You weren’t,” Scott said, but he didn’t sound particularly complimentary. He was propped up lazily against the back door, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

  “Why does that sound bad?”

  “You made it your job to be the nice one, and you were nice. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “And again, it sounds bad when you say it.”

  “I used to wonder how you could be so nice when everything was so terrible,” Scott said, looking at me in a way that made me shiver.

  “Maybe I’m not that nice,” I said, although I had always wanted to be. I rubbed at the goose pimples on my arm. “Maybe I wasn’t then, either.”

  “I just wonder what you were so afraid of,” Scott said. He sat up, which brought our faces closer together. “Your brother? Jeannie? What are you afraid of now?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything!” I didn’t quite look at him. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  “I can see that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I took a swig of my drink. I was feeling bold and brash. “You grew up cryptic.”

  He muttered something that sounded a whole lot like, At least I grew up.

  I chose to ignore it.

  “You still haven’t told me why you hate me,” I reminded him.

  “Who says I hate you?”

  “You want to hate me, anyway.”

  “Are you a little tipsy there, Meredith?”

  “I guess I am.”

  I looked away from him and up toward the stars, where it was less dizzying. I decided it was time to stand up, and wandered out into the backyard. I could feel the grass beneath my bare feet, and it made me feel young again.

  “I had a crush on you, growing up,” Scott said quietly from the porch.

  I could feel him watching me. I didn’t turn back around, because what I knew was one thing, but his saying it out loud made it something else. Something perilous.

  “Pretty little Meredith McKay. Never a bad word to say to or about anyone.” His tone was mocking, but whether it was directed at him or at me, I couldn’t tell.