by Lauren Layne
“Getting snippy with my father on the phone isn’t acting out, it’s just a part of being alive.”
“I’m not talking about this conversation. I’m talking about your little rebellion—”
Oh, here we go.
“—you know, the hair, the piercings, the … black.”
“Not a dirty word, Dad.”
“I miss my little girl.”
“Well, she’s gone,” I snap. “She up and left when you got married six months after we buried my mother and you moved me to the land of fried chicken and Bible groups two months before high school graduation. Your little girl bailed when her whole life fell apart.”
I don’t even bother mentioning Caleb’s name. My dad doesn’t know that part of the puzzle, and never will. Not a conversation you have with your father.
“Steffie …”
“I’ve gotta go.”
I hit the end button and let my hand fall to my side. And he wonders why I so often let his calls go to voicemail.
I get up to go get my laptop to start that stupid film project with Pretty Boy, even though all I really want to do is curl up on the bed and cry.
I exit the bedroom, and I’m about to thank David for giving me privacy when I see her.
The same redhead who totally turned my personal life upside down is currently trying to swallow David’s tongue, and his hands are all over her huge ass.
I gape at them for a second, though neither is aware of me.
“Seriously?” I finally manage.
“Hey, Steph,” Leah says with a friendly smile, and I kind of want to spit in her eye because she screwed my boyfriend.
“Seriously?” I say again.
Ethan runs a thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping away the smear of plum lipstick that Leah McWhore has marked him with.
“Steph, you remember Leah.”
“I remember Leah’s bare ass,” I say, folding my arms over my stomach and hoping I don’t puke.
“Well, she’s kind of got a housing crisis of her own, and I said she could crash here. But don’t worry, she’ll be sleeping with me, so the living room’s all yours.”
Oh. Hell. No.
I twirl my finger in the air, gesturing at our awkward little powwow. “You want to live together? All three of us?”
David shrugs a little, and I try to remember that I was the one who begged him to let me stay here, but what I really want to do is punch Leah in the ovaries.
“It’ll be fun! Modern roommates.”
Yeah. Fun. Like Pap smear fun. Like paper cut fun. Like PMS fun. Like …
I can’t believe the thought is actually crossing my mind, but suddenly hanging out with Ethan Price all summer isn’t sounding so bad in comparison with watching David paw at his new toy.
Then I remember that, gorgeous or not, Ethan Price is the type of guy who probably waxes his chest and irons his Gucci underwear.
I think I’m better off with my ex.
Chapter Six
Ethan
“Ethan, are you even listening?”
I pretend to jolt awake from a deep sleep as I look up at my pissy-looking film partner. “Hell, no,” I say, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “You’ve been babbling about old movies for the better part of an hour. Honestly, I don’t think a vegetable would still be listening.”
Stephanie gives me one of those long drawn-out breaths that only girls know how to do and slowly puts the cap back on her dry-erase marker before putting her fist on her hip like an irritated teacher.
Although I can’t really remember any teachers who wore tank tops the way she does.
“What the hell have you been doing if not listening?” she asks.
I shrug. “Counting your earrings. It looks like you have eight in your right ear, but I feel like that can’t be right because your ears are creepily small.”
She stares at me. “You think I have small ears.”
I give her a sympathetic smile. “You do. But on the plus side, those babies,” I say, gesturing at her boobs in as non-pervy a way as possible, “are blue-ribbon worthy.”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “I’m trying to give you a crash course in cinematic history, and you’re checking out my ears and my tits?”
“Mostly just the ears,” I lie.
I’m fully prepared for her to lose her shit at this point. It’s the third day in a row we’ve reserved one of the private study rooms in the library, and most of the time has been spent with her listing movie after director after screenplay while pointing at some scribbles on a whiteboard. My interest level was maxed out five minutes into the first day.
To be fair, it isn’t just because Stephanie is a horrible lecturer, although she’s pretty bad. Mostly it’s because, despite making every effort to spend the summer away from my parents and my normal social life, I’m finding that my mind doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Instead of concentrating on Stephanie’s movies, I’ve been focusing on my own private movie.
Even leaving Olivia out of it, learning of my mother’s affair was enough to turn this summer completely to shit.
My pulse gives an angry jump at the memory. It’s bad enough that I’ve seen my own mother in a situation in which a mother should never be seen by a son. Ever. So much worse is the fact that I saw her with a man not my father. (Not that her with my father would have been any better—both images require industrial-strength brain bleach.) Throw in a couple of flashes of my dad’s ignorant and happy face, and you have your basic horror film, playing over and over in my mind. Stephanie’s lectures are simply not cutting it as a distraction.
Desperate for something—anything—to get my mind off home, I opt to turn my attention toward someone else’s troubles.
“So, how’s living with the ex?” I ask.
“Oh, you know,” she says slowly, lowering herself into the chair across from me. “It’s actually been awesome.”
“Really?” I ask, a little thrown off balance.
“Totally. The only trouble is, I can’t decide what the best part about the whole situation is. Is it sleeping on a couch that smells like pot and beer while I listen to his new girlfriend scream that she’s going to ride her private hipster cowboy? Or is it having said girlfriend ask if I have any ‘spare birth control pills’ she can borrow?”
“Sounds dreamy,” I say, oddly charmed by her thick sarcasm.
“Well, if you wanna change places, just let me know.”
“And let you borrow my silver spoon? I think not.”
Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head a little and looks at me. For a second it’s as though she gets me. Like she knows I’m full of shit and my life is one big mess beneath all the luxury brands and trust funds.
Neither one of us has mentioned that weird night at the party. It’s like it never took place, which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think too often about what she felt like against me. About the way she looked at me and saw me.
Jesus, Ethan, I think, rubbing a hand over my neck. You’re a uterus away from turning into a complete chick.
I break eye contact first, before I do something stupid. Like spill my guts to a complete stranger.
Instead I jerk my chin toward her notebook. “So all that movie stuff you’ve been rambling about. You’ve got it all written down there, right? The whiteboard presentation is just an ego boost?”
She fiddles with one of her billion earrings. “You caught me. There’s nothing I like better than having to explain basic story structure to a spoiled brat who’s staring at my boobs.”
“And your ears,” I add, gesturing. “And if you don’t want the ta-tas ogled, maybe you should cover them up.”
Stephanie shrugs, doing fantastic things to the twins in question. “It’s the middle of summer. And I’ve got better things to worry about than horny frat boys.”
I shoot a finger pistol at her. “That you do. Like worrying about horny hipster cowboys whose privates went a-wa
nderin’ with a girl who now wants to share birth control.”
Without a single change in expression, she closes her notebook and moves to put it in her backpack. “Well, this has been a great session. A good use of my time, and fun.”
“Hey, hold on,” I say, reaching out to grab her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention—I just can’t concentrate in here, ya know? Libraries and summers do not go together.”
“They do when you sign up for a summer elective course. What else would we be doing right now?”
I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She totally is.
I shake my head. “You know, for a creative arts student, you have zero imagination. You hungry? Let me feed you in exchange for the riveting discourse on films of the eighties.”
“I could eat,” she says. “But don’t even think about taking me to one of those uppity multi-course, tiny-plate monstrosities.”
I roll my eyes. “No prob. I’ll just cancel all the dozens of reservations I made in hopes that my film partner would want to go to an elaborate ten-course meal at four in the afternoon.”
“You’re very sarcastic.”
“Me?” I ask. “Honey, your sense of humor is drier than astronaut food.”
Her eyes drop to the table, and too late I realize that I’ve been holding her wrist for waaaay too long. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that her skin is really soft, and that she smells kind of good. It still takes me a full ten seconds to finally remove my hand.
I’m annoyed to realize that my fingers feel hot, and the way she snatches her arm back makes me think I’m not the only one getting ridiculously worked up over a little chaste physical contact.
Ten minutes later, the two of us are walking across campus toward the Slaughtered Lamb, which is one of my favorite restaurants near the university. Plus it has a sort of kitschy, zombie-type vibe, so my mini-Morticia buddy will fit right in.
“Ugh, I hate New York in the summer,” Stephanie mutters, plucking at that tiny tank top. I start to suggest that she pluck just a tiny bit harder, to see if those straps can do their designated job, but then I remember that I got a near-boner from touching her arm. The last thing I need right now is to see her boobs.
Even if I am becoming embarrassingly obsessed with them.
I push the thought away.
“So why’d you stick around, then?” I ask, opening the door and ushering her into the pub.
“What?”
“Why not go home for the summer? Or is the class that cool?”
“I’m excited about the class.”
She says it with all of the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, and I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Excited enough to put up with this shitty-ass weather? Excited enough to be living on your cheating ex’s couch?”
Stephanie rolls her shoulders and pinches her lips together in the universal girl language for I don’t wanna talk about it.
The place is mostly empty this early, and we find a table in the corner where we can spread out all of her boring notes, should it come to that.
Except, oddly, I’m finding I don’t really care about the project at the moment. Maybe it’s just that misery loves company or something, because I find myself continuing our conversation.
“So where’s home?” I ask.
She buries her face in the menu, and for a second I think she’s not going to answer. Finally she says, “I’m from Rhode Island.”
Progress. Although I don’t know why I care. “What’s that like in the summer? Better than here?”
Another beat of silence. “It’s been a few years.”
I bat the menu out of her hands so I can see her face. A little cavemanlike of me, perhaps, but it’s not like she’s facing hard menu choices. It’s nachos or chicken wings. “You haven’t been home in a few years?”
“I guess it’s not technically home. Not anymore.”
I’ve had more rewarding conversations with a doorknob, but I press on anyway. “So home would be …?”
She lets out a huff. “My dad lives in North Carolina now.”
“So … North Carolina’s your home.”
“No.”
“Ah,” I say. I let the word carry a good deal of meaning. As though I know what she means by it. And, strangely enough, I think I might. Maybe the whole home-is-not-actually-home thing is part of what’s made her so grumpy.
“What are you, a psych major now?” she snaps.
“Nope. Just seen all the classic teen movies. Parent-related angst is a given,” I say, standing to go fetch us a couple of beers and something to eat.
“Well, those are apparently the only movies you’ve seen!” she calls after me.
Since my back is to her, I don’t have to bother hiding my smile. Everything about Stephanie Kendrick should be a total boner killer, but I kind of like it.
Or when you need a reminder that perhaps somebody else’s life sucks worse than yours and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.
“What’s up, Price?” the bartender says as we do one of those elaborate handshakes that I hope to God we’ll grow out of sooner rather than later. “Who’s your new girl?”
“Not my girl,” I say, pulling out my wallet and removing a few bills. “School partner.”
Steven’s eyes roam back to Stephanie and linger. “Not your type, but I’d hit it.”
My fingers tense briefly and I give him a stiff smile. I hate guys like this. “How about two Brooklyn lagers and some nachos?”
“You want chicken on the nachos?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say. I still haven’t figured out if Stephanie’s a vegetarian, and I don’t want to risk a lecture about animal cruelty along with another lecture about Clark Gable and those two Hepburn chicks.
“I’ll bring the food over,” Steven says, pushing two beers across the bar at me. His eyes are still locked on Stephanie.
“Yeah, I bet you will,” I mutter, heading back to Stephanie, who’s gone and brought out her godforsaken notebook again.
I try to listen as she explains something about the three-act structure of a screenplay, I really do. But while I had my back turned, she apparently put something shiny on her lips that makes them look suspiciously … appealing.
Knock it off, Price. She probably has Kill them all tattooed on her ass or something.
I’m actually half relieved when Steven comes over with the nachos, but the relief is short-lived, because the rock-star-wannabe bartender totally has his ass in my face as he gets all up in Stephanie’s business.
“Hey, darlin’, I haven’t seen you around here much,” he says.
“Really?” she asks, eyes wide. “That’s weird. You haven’t seen me in here with my sorority sisters? I normally love the frat-boy scene.”
“You’re in a sorority?” Steven asks, Stephanie’s brand of humor sailing right over his greasy head. “You know, there’s another place around the corner … a little less crowded. I’m off on Thursday night, if you and your girls wanna …”
She makes a little sound of dismay. “Ugh, this is totally awkward, but I’m actually kind of with someone.”
“You are?”
Steven and I ask it at the exact same time, except I didn’t mean to, so instead I stuff a huge wad of nachos in my face and hope Stephanie didn’t notice I chimed in.
“Yeah,” she’s saying, “it’s kind of a new thing, but I feel really good about it, so …”
Steven flexes his inked-up arms ever so not-subtly. “He doesn’t have to know.”
She takes a sip of beer, licking some of the foam off her lips, and now they’re shiny and beer-flavored and I’m inexplicably hot as hell.
“Actually, he would know,” Stephanie says, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Seeing as he’s sitting right here.”
I probably could have played it off if I wasn’t eating the nachos five chips at a time in an effort to keep from looking interested in this girl’s love life.
But as it
is, I am stuffing my face, and her casual declaration catches me by surprise. A little chip breaks off awkwardly and lodges itself somewhere in the back of my throat. I down half the beer before the tickling sensation subsides.
They’re both staring at me, Steven in surprised irritation and Stephanie in serene innocence.
I narrow my eyes slightly at her. You. Will. Pay.
She shrugs.
It’s either play along or deal with Steven hitting on her. Since the second option sucks, I find myself giving him a tepid smile. “Sorry, man,” I say. “The lady’s taken.”
He hitches his thumb toward the bar. “But you said she wasn’t your girl.”
Stephanie’s palms slam down on the table as she half rises out of her chair, giving me a look of death.
“I knew it,” she hisses. “You’re ashamed of me, Ethan Price. Because I don’t wear pearls and can’t afford Chanel, and can’t ride dressage.…”
I involuntarily lean back in my chair trying to escape the scorned non-girlfriend on steroids.
And what the fuck is dressage?
“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” She’s still going. “I knew those lavender bath bubbles weren’t for your ‘special relaxation time.’ You’ve been screwing someone else!”
“Dude,” Steven says quietly. “Lavender bath bubbles?”
I look up at him in desperation, and we’re suddenly on the same side. “You want her?”
“Hell, no, dude. But you better talk her down before she scares off the other customers.”
Steven gets back behind the bar in double time, and Stephanie slowly lowers herself back into the chair.
I stare at her in wonder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m starting to get why your ex is an ex. You’re a nightmare.”
She gives me a cheeky smile. “I know, right? Acting’s never been my passion, but it’s always been fun.”
I shake my head and shove the nachos in her direction. “Whatever. Just leave me out of your little charade next time. I thought you were going to cut my balls off.”
She’s gone perfectly still, her eyes fixed on me without really seeing me.
“Are you having another episode?” I whisper, leaning forward.
