Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly #2)

by Lauren Layne

  Vaughn nods in agreement, and I resist the urge—barely—to knock them both over the head with the toolbox. Still, they’re my best friends, and they’re right about me being shitty company the past week.

  Jenny leaving was the best thing, at least in the long haul. The inevitable thing. I know that. But somehow it’s so much shittier than I ever imagined. I don’t eat. Don’t sleep.

  I can’t listen to the radio because it reminds me of her, can’t read because it reminds me that the last time I tried to read a book she burst out of the closet and tied me to the bed.

  I can’t even watch TV, because the girl’s everywhere. They just announced that she’d be singing at the Super Bowl halftime show next year, for God’s sake. Now the girl is even ruining football.

  I wait impatiently for Finn to do whatever he’s doing on his phone, and I’m a little surprised when he starts playing the opening notes of a quiet song.

  “You’ve heard this?” Finn asks me, giving a quick glance at Vaughn. Never a good sign.

  “No, why?” I say.

  Then I know.

  “Turn it off,” I say, the second I hear her voice.

  I try to move around them, but Finn’s hand finds the center of my chest, shoving me back, his face angry. “For fuck’s sake, man, just listen.”

  I do, because apparently it’s the only way to get out of this damned room, out of this house, but I try to shut myself off. From the sound of her voice, the strum of her guitar, and the memory of the way she looked when she played, when she sang.

  But as we’ve established, I’m physically incapable of blocking out Jenny Dawson. The song seems to seep into my very bones before she even gets to the chorus.

  I frown, realizing it’s a song I haven’t heard before, even though I thought I’d heard all of her new album.

  “Start it again,” I say, needing to hear it from the beginning.

  He complies, and it hits me why this song is so different. It’s sad. Haunting. Her other songs wavered between romantic and flirtatious, angry and sassy. But never sad.

  And this one…

  This one feels like Jenny’s heart.

  You tell me I can’t stay, that we’re better off this way…

  I bend, setting the toolbox on the floor.

  I’d’ve made a place for you, if just you’d asked me to…

  I cross my arms, trying to block it out. The song. Her. But I can’t. The lyrics keep coming, and it’s like a barrage. As though that damn beautiful voice is reaching through Finn’s fucking phone and trying to kill me.

  I didn’t need a ring. I’d’ve been happy with the swing…

  “I don’t get that part,” Finn whispers. “Sounds kinky, though.”

  Vaughn shoves his shoulder.

  “Turn it off,” I say gruffly.

  “You just told me to restart it.”

  “Off!”

  Neither friend complies, and my chest feels tight. I reach out to swipe the phone out of Finn’s hand, but he pulls it out of reach, though not before I catch the last bit of lyrics.

  You shoulda kissed me, ’cause I had something to say. You shoulda kissed me…I would have told you, and now you’ll never know. You shoulda kissed me…

  The song fades out, and I make another grab for the phone. “What the fuck? Where’s the rest of the song?”

  “That was the end.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It was the end!” Finn shouts back, turning the phone around so I can see. “Also, I thought you wanted me to turn it off.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Vaughn murmurs. “Preston—”

  “Noah,” I roar.

  He holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. Noah. I know you think you’re better off without her, but—”

  “What was she going to say?” I interrupt. “What the fuck kind of song ends on a damn cliff-hanger?”

  Vaughn sighs wearily. “I think you know full well what she would have said. Even dipshit Finn here can figure it out.”

  Finn nods. “I can think real good.”

  I ignore their antics, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Fuck you guys.”

  “Calm down. You would have heard it eventually.”

  He’s right. I would have heard it eventually, and it would have ripped my fucking heart out.

  You know how I said Jenny’s voice sounded like her heart?

  I’m wrong.

  Her voice sounds like my heart.

  And I want it back. I want her back.

  “Aaaannnd…there it is,” Finn says softly, holding out a hand to Vaughn, who irritably slaps a twenty in his palm.

  I point. “What’s that?”

  “We made a bet on how long it would take you to figure out that you’re in love with the famous girl.”

  “I’m not—”

  I break off abruptly. The denial doesn’t roll off my tongue like I think it will.

  “As we thought,” Vaughn says, pulling an envelope out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  He hands it to me, and I take it tentatively. “And this is…?”

  “Plane ticket.”

  My head snaps up.

  “To Hollywood,” Finn says.

  “LAX,” Vaughn clarifies, just to be a prick. “Hollywood doesn’t have an airport.”

  For once Finn doesn’t rise to the bait. He’s watching me. “The premiere’s tomorrow, man. She invited you, right?”

  Not one of my better moves, telling these two clowns about that. I blame the copious amounts of whisky consumed the night she left.

  “Yeah, but that was before all the shit went down. Pretty sure the invitation doesn’t still stand.”

  “Which makes it better,” Vaughn says. “You can surprise her.”

  I stare at him blankly. “Surprise her with what?”

  “Jesus.” Vaughn rubs his forehead. “Here’s your plan, and if she ever asks you, you thought of this all by yourself. You use that plane ticket that your good friend Vaughn bought you. You arrive at LAX, where a car will pick you up and take you to a hotel, also paid for by your good friend Vaughn. A tux will be waiting. Convenient, actually, that you got your measurements taken for the wedding before actually calling off the wedding. You’ll be driven to the premiere in another car, which Vaughn paid for—”

  I hold up a hand, looking over at Finn. “What did you pay for?”

  Finn points to Ranger. “I’m watching your dog.”

  “Yeah, because that’s even,” Vaughn says.

  “Have you smelled this dog’s farts?” Finn asks. “Trust me, we’re even.”

  “So what happens at the premiere?” I ask, feeling both ready to puke and like I could take on the entire world just from the sheer possibility of having another chance.

  “Okay, some of this has to be on you,” Vaughn says, exasperated. “I won’t be there to hold your hand. I connected with Jenny’s friend Amber—who sounds hot, by the way—who connected me with Jenny’s publicist, who is thrilled at the thought of you making a surprise appearance. She says that whichever way it goes, it’ll be front-page news.”

  Definitely leaning more toward the barf side of things now.

  “The publicist will take care of all the coordination. All you have to figure out is what to say when you see her.”

  “You got that part figured out, right?” Finn says, clamping a hand on my shoulder.

  I stare down at the plane ticket. Los Angeles.

  Fuck. I must really love this girl.

  “Actually,” I say slowly, “I think I do.”

  Jenny

  “Jennifer Ann Dawson, would you sit still?”

  “Amber Kelsey Fuller, would you stop pulling my hair?” I retort.

  “Sure, sure, because I’ll just let you go on the red carpet looking like a hobo,” Amber says, winding another piece of my hair around a curling iron.

  I roll my eyes, hoping I don’t dislodge one of the fake eyelashes in the proces
s.

  I look back at my reflection.

  The girl—no, woman—looking back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like a hobo. She looks both elegant and youthful, poised and playful, artfully made up but also all-American.

  She also looks sad. But only if you look at the eyes.

  “I can’t believe you’re not coming tonight,” I tell Amber glumly.

  Ever since my first awards show, Amber’s been there. I fly her out and buy her In-N-Out that she bastardizes by getting the cheeseburger with lettuce instead of the bun, and then she proceeds to show me about nine million makeup options.

  With approximately a trillion makeup artists in Southern California, it may seem like flying out my best friend is overkill, but Amber doesn’t just do my makeup and hair; she’s also my date.

  Except tonight I’ll be flying solo, courtesy of some bug she picked up on the airplane.

  “I know, I’m sorry I’m not feeling well,” she says. I narrow my eyes, because she doesn’t really look all that sorry, but maybe that’s because she’s approaching my hairstyle with the same attention a surgeon would give a brain transplant.

  “You’ll be fine, though,” she says. “You just have to smile and wave for the red carpet part, and then the rest of the time is sitting and watching a movie.”

  “That I’m in for five minutes.”

  “As a scene stealer.”

  “I’m pretty sure that whoever made up that rumor has never actually seen the movie.”

  Amber drops the strand of my hair and then bends her knees so that her face is beside mine, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Sweetie, I love you to death, and it’s because of this that I can be perfectly honest and tell you that this cynical, bitter routine doesn’t look good on you.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but she shakes her head. “I get it. You had your heart broken and that sucks, but happiness is the best revenge. If you want this Noah guy to suffer, the best possible thing you can do is put a smile on your face and look happy.”

  “But what if I’m not actually happy?”

  “Fake it long enough and it’ll come.”

  “Says who?” I ask skeptically as Dolly comes over, putting both paws on the leg of my robe and blinking up at me until I bend over to pick her up.

  Amber doesn’t answer my question but steps back instead to trade the curling iron for her hair spray.

  “Close your eyes,” she orders.

  I cover Dolly’s face with the lapel of my robe and cover my own face with my hand as Amber shellacs my hair. Then she checks her watch. “Dress time!”

  I try to muster some enthusiasm. I used to love this part: the prettifying, the anticipation.

  “Shouldn’t I be over him by now?” I whisper. “I didn’t even know him that long.”

  “It works that way sometimes, I think,” she tells me sympathetically. “The faster the fall, the longer it lasts.”

  “Okay, stop with the weird motivational quotes,” I mutter. “Did you buy some self-help book or something?”

  “I’m just wise, honey. Now be a good girl and go change into something pretty.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in a strapless dress in a color called “pool water blue” and Amber is applying yet another coat of hair spray before dabbing lip gloss onto the center of my bottom lip and then dropping the tube into my clutch.

  “Do you feel beautiful? You look beautiful.”

  “I do.” I smile, but mostly I say it because she put so much work into making me Hollywood-worthy. It’s not that I don’t feel beautiful; it’s just that I feel a little sad.

  “You still want this, right, babe?” Amber asks, chewing her lip and studying me.

  “Want what?” I ask, turning to look at the backside of my dress, making sure there are no panty lines.

  “This whole thing,” she says, waving around at the opulent hotel suite. “The fame and the movie premieres and the concerts and the Super Bowl.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve been asking myself that same question a lot lately. Nonstop. On repeat. And I’ve come to the conclusion that…

  I do want it.

  Louisiana may have changed my perspectives on a couple of things, but I’m still me. I’m still the Jenny Dawson who wants to see her name alongside Dolly Parton’s and George Strait’s and Garth Brooks’s someday.

  And if that means playing the fame game a bit longer, I’m going to make it work.

  “I still want it,” I tell her gently.

  “But…?” she prods, knowing me well.

  I shrug. “I guess I just realized I want other stuff too. I hate that I have to choose.”

  She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. “It will get better. Promise.”

  I nod. “You’re sure you’re not feeling well enough to come?”

  “I really just want to rest,” she says. “But I want to hear all the details.”

  I take a deep breath and pull back. “Absolutely. I’ll get out the second I can and come back and we can eat junk food and gossip.”

  “Ooh, I have these delicious dark chocolate açai berries!”

  I mime a gagging motion.

  The premiere’s actually within walking distance of the hotel, but apparently no Hollywood starlet would be caught dead walking up to the red carpet, so I have to go through this whole dumb process of getting into a limo and driving exactly ninety seconds, during which time Candice fires off frantic instructions about what I’m allowed to talk about if an interviewer stops to question me.

  The gist: don’t talk about food, do talk about the movie, definitely don’t talk about infidelity.

  Got it.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve mastered the art of the red carpet, but I’ve done it enough times to know the basics.

  Check for lipstick on teeth before emerging from vehicle.

  Keep your knees together when getting out of the car.

  If you forget to shave your armpits, watch that your waving arm doesn’t lift too high.

  Smile wide, but not too wide.

  Try not to faint even though you haven’t had anything to eat all day.

  I’ve got all that down, and yet the lights are still blinding as heck the second my high heel hits the ground.

  I grit my teeth and take a big breath before standing and greeting the screaming crowd with a wide smile and enthusiastic wave (I did shave my armpits).

  The funny thing about being an international strumpet is that people don’t really seem to like you any less. I missed that the first time around. Sure, you get the occasional judgy woman in the grocery store or the leering married man at the gas station, but mostly people seem pretty willing to forgive you almost anything—the things you did do, and the things you didn’t.

  My publicist instructed me to make a couple of stops along the line to sign autographs, take selfies, that sort of thing, but really, she didn’t need to remind me. I like this part. I love it.

  This is what it’s all about for me. Not the money or the awards or the fancy dress, but the people whose day you make just by making eye contact.

  I move down the line, laughing at both the good jokes and the bad ones, pretending not to hear the questions about my personal life, all while repeating the name of my particular shade of lip gloss over and over again.

  A glance behind me tells me things are starting to back up, and I’m just about to move on when my eye catches on a little girl trying desperately to get to the front row, waving Just for Now frantically as she struggles to squeeze through. The case is cracked, as though it’s been well loved, her Sharpie marker has leaked on her fingers, and there’s no way in hell I’m moving on without talking to her.

  The people behind me can wait.

  I reach out a hand toward her, and she freezes for a moment, until other people get the idea and move out of the way so she can get through.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask, gratefully accepting someone else’s offered pen rather than he
r leaky one and reaching for the cracked case.

  She shoves her glasses higher up on her nose and grins the biggest grin I’ve ever seen with a mouthful of braces. “I’m Paula. You’re beautiful. I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and I’m going to grow up to be just like you, a singer and a good dancer and a good actress, and really pretty.”

  I laugh as I hand her back the cracked case. “I have no doubt, Paula.”

  Paula’s no longer looking at me.

  Instead her eyes are round—nearly as round as her mouth, which is a comical O shape—as she looks over my shoulder.

  Everyone else seems to be looking too, and there’s a new urgency to the buzz.

  I turn around, expecting to see that one of the actual stars has arrived, perhaps wearing some scandalous dress or with a date who wasn’t the anticipated significant other, or….

  Noah.

  Noah is here in Los Angeles.

  Wearing a tux.

  Noah is walking toward me.

  I put all the pieces together:

  Noah is in L.A., wearing a tux, and he’s walking toward me.

  I blink.

  He’s still there.

  I pinch my arm, hard. Wake up, Jenny. Not the time for a breakdown.

  He’s still there. His eyes are warm as they approach me, his smile just a little bit cocky.

  I can’t breathe.

  “Oh, Ms. Dawson,” I hear Paula squeal. “Your boyfriend’s even more handsome in person.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, but nobody seems to be listening.

  Nobody except Noah, who’s now a foot away from me.

  “No?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  “No what?” I ask, too addled to think straight. I’m sort of aware that the lights are flashing all around me, much as they were before, except this time they’re all on me. On me and Noah.

  “No, I’m not your boyfriend?” he says huskily, taking a step closer.

  Holy cow, he really does look amazing in his tux. His hair looks different too. Good different. Still messy Noah, but deliberately messy, as though someone styled it.

  Amber. I bet you anything my best friend got him all fancy for me.

  I knew that bitch wasn’t really sick! God, I love her.

  “You don’t want to be my boyfriend,” I blurt out.