Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  I don’t even know what the fuck she’s talking about. Trying so hard? Does she think I’m like a clown who picks and chooses his moods based on his environment?

  Being charming is easy—nobody looks too hard at charming. Nobody expects you to be anything other than flirty and a little funny. Figures that this sour little critter would be repulsed by that.

  “How’s your face?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Fine.”

  I narrow my eyes and study her. Her tone is flippant, and although she really does seem to be fine—there’s no red mark to signal an impending bruise—I get the feeling that she’d say she was fine even if she wasn’t. As though she doesn’t think anyone would care one way or the other.

  “Sorry about … in there,” I say, breaking yet another awkward silence.

  “You mean where you got all handsy?” she asks in that unperturbed voice of hers.

  “I didn’t get handsy,” I snap. “I was just making sure I didn’t knock your teeth out.”

  Stephanie gives me this big, shit-eating grin as though to say, See? All teeth accounted for, and I roll my eyes.

  But I’m smiling a little bit all the same. She’s so damned different from anyone I’ve ever met before, and oddly, I find my mood improving.

  “How’d you get dragged into this shit?” I say, gesturing toward the thumping house, where the back window reveals someone doing a keg stand.

  “What, you mean you don’t think I belong?” she asks, her eyes wide in mock surprise.

  I pat the wall next to me and give her an inviting smile. “Come closer. I can barely hear you.”

  “Don’t start that BS again,” she says with a withering glance. “I meant it when I said I didn’t like the charming pretty-boy version.”

  But she comes and sits by me anyway, and once again I feel that annoying hit of awareness.

  I meet her eyes. “What if that’s who I am? The charming pretty-boy version, I mean?”

  “Well, then God help your future Stepford wife, because you two will bore the crap out of each other long before your first anniversary. But it’s not my problem. It’s not like I’m auditioning for the role of BFF. Just keep your schmoozing to a minimum when we have to meet for the film project, and hopefully I won’t have to scare you away with my dead bird collection.”

  We’re back to where we started now on that first day, exchanging clichéd insults, and I kind of like it. Not as much as I liked her pressed against me, but her company’s the most enjoyable I’ve had in weeks.

  “You never answered how you ended up here,” I say, staring down at her pale profile.

  She stares straight ahead, fiddling again with her earrings. “I’m tagging along with a friend. Jordan Crawford. She’s one of you people.”

  “One of us?”

  “You know. Pretty. Popular. Perfect.”

  “You’re pretty,” I hear myself say.

  She turns her head then, blue eyes so bored they could freeze my balls off. “What did I just say about the charming thing? Turn it off.”

  “Why do you do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “What, you’re wondering why I don’t swoon?” she asks, lifting a leg to tuck a heel under her on the wall and turning to face me slightly. “You’re not my type.”

  “Is it the lack of tattoos?” I deadpan. “Do you want me to show you my penis piercing?”

  “It’s the lack of substance,” she snaps.

  I recoil a little bit at the accusation. I don’t know why her opinion even matters. She’s a friendless outcast, and I could have this entire party eating out of my hand if I wanted. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Or at least I shouldn’t.

  But her blatant dismissal of me hits a raw spot. Does she think I’m not aware that I’m a little too glib sometimes? This girl doesn’t know me. She can’t possibly understand that the charm comes on without me intending it to, even when inside I feel anything but charming.

  Does she really think I don’t look at my life—at the cushy apartment I don’t pay for, the classes that come a little easier than they should, the CEO position that’s just waiting for me—and feel exactly what she’s accusing me of?

  Substance free.

  It burns a little, because she’s right.

  Sometimes I think I’m nothing but a decent-looking package for other people to fill up with their garbage. From my parents, who spoon-feed me my future in exchange for a nice allowance, to my friends, who demand a ringleader.

  And then there was Olivia, who never put any overt pressure on me—never asked me to be anything other than what I put forward. But we both knew that what I put forward sure as hell better meld with the image of our families. That meant learning how to schmooze your father’s clients before you could ride a bike. It meant Saturdays spent on the golf course with family friends when all you wanted to do was play video games. It meant escorting your perfect girlfriend to her debutante ball. And it meant figuring out a way to get good grades, regardless of whether you actually learned anything.

  Hell, even when I rebelled I did it the right way. Even when I put my foot down and refused to do my usual summer internship at the company, I didn’t do so by putting on coveralls and working at an auto repair shop in Queens.

  No, my form of rebellion was a fucking film class with an Academy Award–winning screenwriter who went to college with my daddy.

  Stephanie Kendrick is right.

  I have no substance.

  And even worse, I don’t know the first place to start in actually acquiring any.

  Something soft touches my arm, and I realize that it’s Goth. Her slim fingers are on my bare forearm, her black nail polish against my tan skin is hot, and despite the fact that she’s pissed me off, I want to know what her fingers would feel like against the rest of my skin.

  I shake her hand off, and she lets me, but her blue eyes never leave my face.

  “Sorry,” she says simply.

  “For what?”

  “For saying you were substance free.”

  “Yeah, I can tell from your tone you’re really torn up about it. Zombies have more inflection.”

  She tilts her head a little as though I’m a puzzle. “Would it be better if I fluttered my eyelashes? Maybe added a couple of adverbs? I’m soooooo sorry, Ethan, you absolutely must forgive me.”

  I laugh a little in spite of myself, because she sounds exactly like every other girl I know, but coming from her scowling face and black-rimmed eyes, it’s all wrong.

  “I don’t know that I like you,” I say, surprised to see that my hand has gone out to tug a piece of her hair.

  She looks a little startled at the gesture, but her eyes seem to soften slightly and she gives me a tentative smile. “I’m shocked. I thought for sure you were going to ask me to be your tennis doubles partner.”

  “Price, you out there?”

  We both turn toward the sound of my name being called, and I recognize Joe and Gary walking toward us. Joe’s got that stupid grin on his face that tells me he’s way past sober, but Gary merely looks puzzled, and that’s worse.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Gary demands. “Isn’t this supposed to be your party?”

  It’s only “my party” because I pay for the beer—always—but I don’t argue. And I don’t blame Gary for being confused. Sitting out in the backyard during a party isn’t typical behavior for me. Sitting out in the backyard with someone who looks like she belongs in The Addams Family is even less typical.

  He gives Stephanie a curious glance, but at least he doesn’t ogle and then ignore her; instead he reaches out a hand. “I’m Gary.”

  “Neat,” she says snottily, as though daring him to question her presence. I don’t know if she smokes, but if she pulled out a cigarette and blew smoke in his face, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. The scene had that kind of feel.

  “Sorry to steal away your Golden Boy,” she says, pulling her hair back in a ponytail, a gestu
re that attracts undue attention to her cleavage. Joe’s practically drooling, but Gary and I are made of classier stuff and barely sneak a glance.

  Okay, a long glance.

  “So, you guys are … friends?” Gary asks.

  I feel a little clutch of panic. How the hell do I explain this? I can’t say that she’s just a tagalong with a great rack, marking her as one-night-stand material—they’d eat her alive. But if I brush her off altogether, I’ll look like a dick.

  Stephanie solves the problem for me.

  “Not friends,” she says succinctly. “I just stopped by in hopes of scoring a free drink, and he told me to scram.” She’s already moving back toward the side of the house, ready to make her escape. “Don’t worry, your boy Ethan here would never slum it with someone like me.”

  Now hold on just a goddamn minute. Who said anything about slumming it? Sure, her presence is a little uncomfortable. And yeah, I don’t exactly want everyone to know that I’m hanging out with the film nerds for the summer. But my social group isn’t that snobbish.

  Well, okay, maybe they are.

  But I’m not.

  I reach out to grab her arm, and it’s so skinny, my fingers can wrap all the way around her bicep. “This is Stephanie Kendrick,” I say, ignoring the way she tries to tug her arm free. “We’re friends.”

  She lets out a strangled sound at that. “Oh, God, no.”

  “Good friends,” I say emphatically, just to annoy her.

  “Um, okay,” Gary says with a shrug. “Well, how about you and your friend get inside so we can finish off this school year right. The beer’s waiting.”

  “Gosh, I’d love to,” Stephanie says sweetly, giving me the eyelash flutter she threatened me with earlier. “But I’ve gotta go. Lots of cats to kill tonight.”

  She looks pointedly at my hand on her arm, and I realize I’m being ridiculous by holding her here. Boorish, really. But still I take my sweet time letting her go, letting my fingers brush the soft skin of her inner arm.

  I think I hear her give a sharp intake of breath, but that’s probably wishful thinking, because her eyes never lose the look that says Go ahead and die before she wrenches free and backs up several steps.

  “See you around, friend,” she says, discreetly lifting her hand and flipping me the bird.

  I can’t help it. I smile.

  And suddenly the next few months don’t look so shitty after all, because I know exactly how to keep myself occupied all summer.

  I’m going to figure out what makes Stephanie Kendrick tick.

  Chapter Five

  Stephanie

  “Hey, babe.”

  Don’t call me babe. Don’t call me Steph. Actually, don’t call me anything at all, you cheating turd.

  “Hi, David.” I push past him into the familiar apartment. I’ve lived on campus for all three years of college, but David moved off campus after freshman year to a tiny one-bedroom in the East Village. His semi-famous musician dad pays for it, and although it’s small, it has a classic coolness about it that I’ve always loved.

  “That’s all the stuff you have?” He looks in surprise at my backpack and one suitcase.

  “Yeah. Camille was planning to leave most of her stuff behind when she went to Phoenix, so I put mine into a storage unit.”

  A storage unit whose fee was nonrefundable, leaving me with the option of having to find a cheap furnished place at the last minute (impossible) or eat the cost of the storage and try to pay rent in a new place (also not possible).

  David grabs a beer from the fridge and gives me a kind are-you-okay look. “I was surprised to hear from you. I thought pigs would fly before you’d ask to move in.”

  Me too. I throw my backpack on the couch and wheel my suitcase into the corner, shaking my head at the beer he offers. “I’m only here until I can work something else out. And I’m not moving in, just sleeping on the couch for a couple of days.”

  Please, God, let it be just a couple of days. Still, it’s nice of David to let me crash here. Especially since I’m pretty sure that the last time we talked, I told him I’d deep-fry his balls if he came near me again.

  And how pathetic is it that my cheating ex-boyfriend is my only option for a last-minute housing crisis? For the millionth time, I wish Jordan wasn’t picking this summer to go home to Rhode Island. She did her best, exhausting every possible option in her vast network in an effort to find me a place. But few college students are crazy enough to stick around New York in the summer, even if they can afford it. And the ones who are going to be here already have like a dozen too many roommates. So that leaves David. The guy who cheated on me. Something I’m still not sure I care that much about.

  “What do you wanna do for dinner?” he asks.

  I gape at his casual tone, as though we’re going to go back to the way we were when we were a couple. “Look, David, I really appreciate that you’re letting me crash here, but we’re not even close to getting back together.”

  He runs a hand through his too long sandy-brown hair and gives me his signature hooded look, which I’m pretty sure he knows is sexy as hell. David is gorgeous in the sulky, slacker kind of way. He’s lanky, with smoky hazel eyes and this impossibly good skin. He’s an engineering major, although he could easily be an art major or a deep philosophy guy, or pretty much anything you want him to be.

  Including a first-rate man-skank, apparently. Although I didn’t see it coming, and that sucked.

  Oddly, though, I don’t find him nearly as attractive as I once did. Not that I was ever hot for him. I haven’t been truly turned on by a guy since … before. But after being away from him for a few weeks, I don’t even find him good-looking in an objective kind of way. He’s too skinny, too greasy. His shoulders are too narrow, his eyes too dark, and …

  Oh, shit.

  I realize that I’m inadvertently comparing David to Ethan Price.

  David’s definitely in second place. A distant second.

  “I know we’re not together, Steph, but there’s no reason we can’t at least be friends,” David is whining.

  I raise an eyebrow. “I walked in on you and Leah going at it like rabid dogs. Not so sure I want to be friends with that.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t point out that he doesn’t have to let me stay here, but his lips are pressed together in the way that usually means he is disappointed at my lack of understanding.

  My phone buzzes from my back pocket, and I hesitate before pulling it out. Honestly, the thing’s brought me nothing but bad news for the past week. A lot longer than that, actually.

  The name on the screen isn’t welcome, but neither is it a surprise. It’s also the tenth time it’s come through in about two days.

  “Hey, can you give me a few minutes?” I ask, feeling awkward about making claims on his home, but wanting my privacy all the same.

  David shrugs and pulls out another beer. “Sure, you can talk in the bedroom.”

  I nod and head to the all-too-familiar bedroom as I pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

  “I was expecting your voicemail. Again.”

  I try to tell myself that it’s just a typical parent guilt trip, but his voice sounds a little hurt, and it makes my stomach twist.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly. “It’s been crazy busy moving out of the dorms and starting summer classes.”

  I’ve intentionally let my dad think I’m taking classes, plural, not just a two-credit elective class that will barely even be in session. It’s the only way I could talk him into letting me stay in New York for the summer.

  Not that he’s providing much financial assistance. I’ve already gotten the whole I’m not going to pay for you to live in New York for the summer when you can live in North Carolina for free speech. Don’t get me wrong—he’s paying my regular-year tuition, for which I’m completely grateful. But he’s not exactly excited at the prospect of paying additional for me to be in New York over the summer. I don’t want to push my luck and risk him w
ithdrawing my tiny for-emergencies-only allowance.

  “School’s good?” he asks.

  “It’s great,” I lie. “The screenwriting guy’s a big deal from Hollywood, and it’s so cool to meet someone who’s actually been there, done that.”

  “But you hate Hollywood.”

  I sit on the side of David’s bed, trying not to remember that the last time I saw the bed there was a trampy redhead writhing all over it with my boyfriend.

  “I don’t hate Hollywood. I’m just more into the indie artistic scene than the blockbuster stuff.”

  “And thank God for that,” he grumbles. “It was hard enough to see you go off to NYU, much less UCLA.”

  “So how are things down there?” I interrupt before he can go on about how I nearly moved across the country and left him behind. Never mind that he didn’t hesitate to leave me behind in every way that counted.

  “Home is good, really good,” he was saying.

  Even after all this time, I hate that he calls North Carolina home. But I let it go, since it’s not a fight I’m ever going to win.

  “Things have been slowing down a bit at the firm,” he continues, “so I’ve had more time to spend with Amy and Chris.”

  I flop back on the bed and lock my eyes on the ceiling. I know he’s waiting for me to ask about my stepmom and stepbrother, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  The silence grows and grows until he finally breaks it. “You’re too old for this, you know,” my dad says softly. “It’s been three and a half years since we’ve become a family, and the only one holding out is you.”

  “Oh, has it been three and a half years already? I guess that makes sense since we just passed the four-year anniversary of Mom’s death.”

  My dad is silent on the other end, although I don’t know if it’s because he’s mad, hurting, or just plain fed up with his “struggling” daughter. Eventually he says, “Your anger was fine when you were eighteen, Steffie, but seeing an adult woman continue to act out is ridiculous.”