I look to see that Father’s out of sight before turning back to her, whispering, “Bec, what was that?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds genuinely confused. “Do you think he found out we went to the bar last night? Maybe he just isn’t happy to have me spending so much time with you? You know how they like to dictate how you live your life.”
She’s throwing some of my own words back at me, reminding me she listens and absorbs more than I give her credit for. It’s times like these where that little voice in my head tells me not to trust her. More and more she acts like one of the family more than I ever could, giving me the feeling that they’d rather have her as their daughter or granddaughter than me. I’m once again thankful for trusting my gut and never telling Becca of my plans to leave. Or anyone for that matter.
Becca and I travel separately to breakfast because she doesn’t want to come to the hospital with me afterwards. Today she says she feels a cold coming on and doesn’t want to get the kids sick, although she doesn’t have the slightest sniffle or cough. One of these days, I’ll learn to stop asking. I’m convinced she’d much rather find creative, new ways to spend her parent’s money. And, really, if her heart’s not in it, the kids will pick up on that, and they don’t need that. What they need is to be surrounded by people who care for them like they were their own.
“So, how do you think Eric’s feeling this morning?” I say as I eat a bite of scrambled egg white. I almost choke; I’m trying so hard not to laugh in her face. But seriously, she threw up on the guy. Who does that?
“Ugh, please Christina. I don’t want to talk about it.” But it’s too late. We both break out in hysterics, causing everyone in the restaurant to stare, and we couldn’t care less. Because we both know, this is one for the books. Becca’s done some crazy, stupid shit in the past, but this one? This one tops them all. I will never let her live last night down.
She doesn’t peel her focus from her food as she says, “So, I think I’m ready. I’m going to make the appointment.”
“Bec …” I narrow my eyes at her, waiting for the moment she looks back at me.
She finally lifts her chin my way, in defiance. “No, Christina, don’t try to talk me out of it. You’re just like my parents.”
I set down my fork and respond, “That’s because you don’t need it. You’re perfect the way you are.”
“Hmph. That’s easy for you to say. And by the way, when I do go, you’re coming with me.” I roll my eyes and take a bite of my food.
Becca talks incessantly about getting a nose job and can’t understand why her parents forbid it, even if she is legally an adult. My guess is, the Rover is only one of the ways they’ve bribed her in order to buy time, hopeful that she’ll eventually change her mind. But I know Becca well enough to know that she won’t back down. All because of a small bump you can only notice at the right angle, and only if you’re looking for it. It’s definitely nothing worth going under the knife for. And every time she brings it up, she reminds me that I have to come with her so she can show the surgeon my nose because she wants one just like it. I always tell her to be happy that she’s healthy and leave well enough alone, but it goes in one ear and out the other. Besides, she knows that the plastic surgeon’s office is not my favorite place to visit.
“Excuse me, Ms. Harcourt, could you come with me, please?” I’m at the plastic surgeon’s office with Grandmother while she gets her stitches out from her recent facelift. Maybe she actually needs me to hold her hand? Ha. That would be a first.
The office manager leads me back down a long hall, but when she opens the door, I’m not led into Grandmother’s exam room, but an office with thick black binders lined in a row across a desk. The woman directs me to a chair while she takes a seat opposite me and starts flipping through the first binder. I manage to catch a glimpse and see that it’s filled with photos. Finally, she finds what she’s looking for and turns the binder my way, pointing at the first photo.
“Now, these would like nice on you. Oh, or these. What size are you currently?” She is pointing out before and after pictures of women’s breasts. Fortunately, there are no faces. Just pages and pages of boobs. Big boobs. Little boobs. Asymmetrical boobs. Dark boobs. Pale boobs. So many that, instead of seeing nipples, it looks like a bunch of googly eyes looking back at me.
“I’m sorry, but there must be some confusion. I’m not a patient. I’m here with … ” Just then the door opens and Grandmother walks in.
“So, have you made a decision?” She takes the seat next to me, commandeers the binder in front of me, and begins turning the pages as casually as if she’s reading a magazine. I can’t help but stare at her like she’s lost her last marble.
I shake my head and find my voice. “No, I haven’t made a decision. Because there is no decision to be made. Why are we even having this discussion?”
“Christina, please. You’ll never get a suitable husband with a body like that. You look like a twelve-year-old boy. Flat chest, no hips. It’s embarrassing.” Grandmother gives a flippant wave of her hand, continuing to peruse the photos.
“Grandmother, there’s nothing wrong with the way I look. Does Father know you’re doing this?” I’m gripping the arms of the chair, trying to keep my cool.
“Please, not the drama Christina. And yes, he knows. It was at your father’s urging, actually. He thinks you’ll go further in life with a better body than a silly social work degree.” She sees a photo she likes and points it out to the office manager. The two of them begin discussing me like I’m not even there.
I look around the ceiling of the room, certain there is a hidden camera somewhere nearby, because normal people simply don’t do things like this. When I don’t find one, I speak up. “Well, I’m not doing it. I’m only twenty years old, and I like my chest the way it is. There’s nothing wrong with my size.” The two of them continue on as if I haven’t spoken a word. Next thing I know, I’m ushered into a second office where “before” photos are taken, and Grandmother and the office manager decide on the appropriate size. They’ve even gone so far as to schedule an initial doctor’s appointment as well as the surgery itself, over my upcoming spring break.
I follow through with the first doctor’s appointment, letting them think I’m on board this crazy train, but the surgery never takes place. The day before I’m scheduled to go in, in my greatest act of defiance to date, I buy a last minute ticket to Mexico and spend a few days alone on the beach. From there, it was directly back to my apartment at Stanford. Not a word was mentioned after that. I still quietly live in fear for when the blowback will strike.
Becca’s phone rings, bringing me back to the present. Leaning over, I read the caller ID and see “Eric.” “You gave him your number? I thought we agreed to never give out our numbers? And why in hell would he want to call you, anyways? Is he a glutton for punishment? Oh my God, Becca—maybe he’s into that sort of thing!” I start choking on egg again.
She gives me the stink eye as she answers her phone. All I can hear from her side of the conversation is a lot of giggling, a few “okays” and finally, “Okay, see you then.” She sets down her phone and goes back to eating her meal, purposely avoiding the subject.
“Rebecca Lorraine Thompson, tell me you did not just make plans with the guy you threw up on last night.”
With a wicked look on her face, she leans over the table. “No, we just made plans. With both of them.”
Crap on a cracker.
Eric and CJ are expecting us for an early dinner before CJ has to fly back home to California. Just the thought of seeing him again gives me butterflies. No, that’s not right. I’ve felt butterflies for a guy before. This is different. It’s more like a swarm of bees that are both pricking me with their stingers then soothing the burn with their wings.
But since I know his ass, albeit a sweet one, will be on a plane and out of my life by the end of the day, I agree to go. After spending a few more hours at the hospital than anticipated, I finally pack
up and head over to Walt’s Ale House, a family-owned restaurant and bar that specializes in all local and organic produce and meats, along with an extensive IPA selection that Becca figured the guys would like.
Before we walk through the door, Becca and I remind each other of our “bar names” as we head inside to find Eric and CJ already seated. And that’s when I realize seeing someone, even up close, in a dark, crowded bar is very different from spending time with them in the light of day, stone-cold sober. It suddenly hits me that this was a terrible, awful, bad, bad, bad idea. Because even sitting down, partially hidden behind a table, he somehow manages to be better looking than he was last night.
He stands to greet us and appears, not only better looking, but taller. Is that possible? Now that I’m in flats, I realize he towers a good six inches over me. But there’s one fact I definitely did not get wrong. Those damn ocean blue eyes that are deeper and darker in the light of day. I get a chance at an extreme close up when he moves in to give me a hug. Just when I’m about to give his back a light pat and step back, he catches me off guard when he leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You smell … clean.” He face lingers by mine a moment before pulling back.
My faces squeezes in distaste. “I smell like hospital.” Becca wasn’t wrong on that point. After a few hours at the hospital, I always walk away with a bit of an antiseptic smell stuck to my clothes and hair. However, that’s not what I’m worried about at the moment. I just told him something about myself that is the truth, and I’ve never made that mistake with a man before. This is why I don’t meet someone more than once.
He feels me tighten with panic but misinterprets it as something else. “The hospital? Are you all right? Is someone sick?”
I try to think of the best way to answer, but I’m starting to confuse even myself with all the lies I’ve told in the last twenty-four hours. I decide to stick with the truth at this point. What harm can it do? He’s going home soon and I’ll never see him again. “No, I volunteer at the local children’s hospital so I went in for a few hours today. All good.” I smile weakly as I move to settle in my seat, ready to move on to a new topic of conversation. But CJ’s not ready yet. He lightly grabs me above the elbow, drawing me close.
“Really? You work two jobs and still find time to volunteer? That’s amazing.” He’s got a proud smile and a spark to his eyes showing me he really means it. Making me feel it. His admiration, his respect, and for one short breath, I have an idea what it’s like to feel full.
I step back and take my seat, quickly changing the subject. CJ takes the seat next to me. “This place is great. You can’t go wrong with anything here.” I raise my menu and take a few deep breaths. Between my slip-up with the hospital and being in such close proximity to him, I need a moment to get my head together.
I overhear Eric ask Candy if she volunteers at the hospital, as well. She answers without hesitation. “Oh, God no. That’s not for me. Too many germs.” I peek over my menu in time to catch Eric’s face fall in disappointment. Does Becca not realize how elitist she sounds? They’re sick kids for Christ’s sake. I’d put money down that he’s thinking the same thing. I do my best to give him an apologetic smile. I guess I don’t have to worry about him ever calling Candy again after today.
Oblivious, Becca leans into Eric, smiling. “So, Courtney, Eric here only lives eight blocks from me. Isn’t that great!”
He inches his shoulder away from Becca. “Well, I work a lot. Like around the clock, all the time.” Eric nervously takes a sip of water. “Seven days a week. Except for today, obviously.”
She completely misses Eric’s brush-off and continues to ramble on. “Oh, well, that’s okay. I don’t work at all, so I’m free all the time.” She says this like it’s a happy coincidence. I’m so embarrassed for my friend right now, I grab CJ’s knee under the table without thinking. He doesn’t hesitate to place his hand atop mine. I immediately lock eyes with him as he gives me a slight squeeze in understanding.
I need to break the tension, and quick, so I look Eric’s way and change the subject. Sliding my hand out from under CJ’s, I ask, “So Eric, CJ tells me you’re working at a distillery here in the city. Is that where the old water treatment plant used to be?”
Eric smiles in relief. “Yeah, it’s a great space. We’ve been up and running for six months now.”
I rest my elbows on the table, entwining my fingers together in genuine interest. “What do you produce? Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Well, we’re an expansion of our main distillery in California, where CJ works.” He gives a nod to CJ and continues, “We produce Black Flag Bourbon, Rebellion Whiskey, and Gray Matter Gin. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”
“Yes! In fact I’ve seen them at …” all of my family homes. “At the store, restaurants.” I lean back in my chair, and bite my cheek at my close call.
CJ turns to me and joins the conversation. “Yeah, well we’re pretty much everywhere. Over the last five years we’re leading in every market.”
“Wow, that’s phenomenal. You sound more like a sales person for the company than someone who drives a forklift.” I bump his shoulder with my own, teasing.
“Well, Eric and I both have our MBA’s. We’re actually working our way up to corporate, but the company requires you to work in every department so you have a solid understanding of each role and its importance within the company. It really helps us to appreciate all of the employees at every level.” The satisfaction on his face is evident with each word.
“Wow. I’m impressed. Really. Not only that you’ve got your MBA, but that you work for a great company with strong values. In this day and age, that’s hard to come by.” When I say these words to CJ, his smile fills his face and the pride I saw earlier is now tenfold.
I wish I could feel the same for my family’s various corporations. We’re involved in a few different industries, but our largest producer by far is that of plastic packaging, including restaurant to-go containers, trash bags, and cosmetic packaging. Even all the plastic cups and lids for a little coffee company based out of Seattle. Our plastic products are everywhere. But unlike CJ’s employer, there’s little concern for employees work-life balance.
When a warm hand grabs my thigh, I look up and find that CJ has leaned in so close I have no problem hearing him whisper. “You all right?” His eyes show true concern, and it squeezes my heart because the more time I spend around him, the more I realize he is a great guy, and any girl would be lucky to have him. That girl just isn’t me.
“Yes. Of course! I’m just debating between the chicken and, well, the chicken,” I say with a forced smile. We place our orders, and I excuse myself to run to the washroom. Of course, Becca has to jump up to join me. I may be the only female in America who hates when women all have to go to the bathroom together. Maybe because I like to take care of business and get out, or, like now, I only want a minute to myself. Either way, that’s not happening today. Becca has something on her mind, and she needs to share it.
She’s on me before the door gets a chance to close behind us. “So, eight blocks. How great is that?”
I have my back turned to Becca. Her ignorance and immaturity are more than I can handle right now. “Mm-hmm.” I begin to wash my hands, knowing any eye contact with her in this moment will give away my true feelings. But she sees through it.
“My God, Christina. I like him. Can’t you see that? Or do you not want me to be happy? A gorgeous guy likes me, and you’re making it about you. Why is everything always about you?”
We’re having this discussion in the expansive wall mirror hanging over the dual sinks, speaking through our reflections. Her hands to her hips and legs slightly parted, she’s ready for a fight. I shut off the water and look at her impassively through the mirror. “Bec, you can do whatever the hell you want.” I dry my hands and walk out, leaving her speechless and slack-jawed.
After dinner, we walk toward Eric’s apartment so
it’s easier for him to get his car and take CJ to the airport. Eric and Becca are walking ahead of us, Eric’s hands firmly in his pockets as Becca talks non-stop, wildly gesturing with her own as Eric gives an occasional nod in return.
There’s an uncomfortable silence between CJ and I, and I’m struggling with how to amend that. I’m running through current events, trying to determine a good topic to end on because I’m suddenly not looking forward to saying goodbye. To either of them. Eric is a good guy and CJ is, well, CJ is a good guy. Talkative. Funny. Charming. Attentive. His family may not own a professional sports team, have a private jet at their disposal, or earn enough money to buy a third world country, but what he lacks in finances he more than makes up for in every area that actually matters.
I’m looking away, deep in thought, searching for something funny and light to end our time on, when I step on his toes and crash into his chest. I jump back and stumble a step or two but he grabs my forearms and straightens me before I can fall.
“We’re here.” He watches his own hands travel the short distance up to my shoulders before looking down into my eyes. “You’re way too serious over here. Everything okay?” I let myself enjoy the feel of his strong hands on my body as I examine the straight line of his nose and the small, white scar above his lip.
He jostles my shoulders a fraction, forcing my attention on him. “Yeah. Sure. A-okay.” A-okay? Who says A-okay? I inwardly groan but CJ is still in front of me, toe-to-toe, hindering me from moving forward. He barely tightens his hold on me, it’s enough though that tells me he has no intention of letting me go quite yet. As he leans in closer, my eyes reflexively close as he kisses me. When his lips touch mine, I don’t hesitate to open my mouth and give him what he wants. Because I want it, too. One last taste. One last touch. One last shared breath.
At the sound of Eric clearing his throat, we finally break from the kiss. My hands are planted flat on his chest as I look into his eyes for the last time, determined to forever memorize their shade of blue. Still holding on with one hand, he raises the other and pushes the hair away from my forehead with a finger, then places a soft kiss there. This one small, light touch speaks to me louder than the deepest kiss we’ve shared. Than any kiss I’ve ever experienced. It makes me feel cared for and, more importantly, it makes me feel … beautiful.
Beautiful Lies Page 4
