Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  I give her my best smile, ignoring Stephanie’s look of disgust. I haven’t seen Maddie in years, probably since that time she mentioned when I accidentally-on-purpose messed with the color tray. I seem to remember being irritated that my mom was having a “root crisis” on the same day as my basketball game and dragged me to the damned hair salon while the rest of my friends were headed to get pizza and soda.

  More than a decade later, my mom is still coming to Maddie for root crises. Too bad she hasn’t shown my dad the same loyalty she shows her stylist.

  I push the thought away. I’ve gotta stop dwelling on this shit, or I’m going to turn out all bitter and mean like Stephanie.

  “So, Maddie,” I say, “Stephanie here’s a low-maintenance kind of girl, but she said she wanted to spruce herself up. I think she’s trying to impress me,” I say with a little wink for Maddie.

  “Spruce myself up?”

  “So what are we thinking?” Maddie asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Well, to start, I was thinking we could get rid of the dark. Take her back to her natural color,” I say, hoping I’m using the right terminology. I’m pretty sure I am. Olivia had talked about her hair. A lot.

  But both Stephanie and Maddie are staring at me, so clearly I’ve said something wrong.

  “You know … lighter?” I say, feeling a little less confident

  “Well, if I’m not mistaken,” Maddie says, setting her mug aside, “we’re dealing with the real thing right here.”

  It takes a second to register, and I look at Stephanie’s hair in surprise.

  “That’s your real hair color?”

  Stephanie gives me a flat look. “I can tell you think it’s pretty.”

  “No. Yes. I mean, sure, but it’s so dark.”

  Stephanie glances at Maddie. “Do you have my purse handy? I’m going to see if I have a gold star in there I can give Mr. Observant here.”

  “Oh, calm down. I guess I just thought, given your penchant for all things dark and dreary, that you’d dyed it.”

  “A man without stereotypes. Refreshing.” Stephanie’s tone is light, but she looks pissed.

  Shit. Somehow I expected this to be easier. That Maddie would work her magic, turning this dark gremlin into a soft, blond sweetheart.

  “So, what are our options, Mad?” I ask, trying to ignore Stephanie.

  The hairdresser studies her client for a moment, picking up stray pieces of hair and letting them fall to the shoulders. “We should keep it long. It suits her. But some layers would do a world of good. Maybe add some long bangs to emphasize her eyes?”

  As if Stephanie’s eyes need emphasizing. They’re big and bright and blue.

  And not at all fucking relevant right now.

  “Okay, whatever you think,” I say, suddenly desperate for some space. “Sweetie, you good if I go grab us some coffees while Maddie does her thing?”

  “I’m good, love bug dumpling.”

  Her words are all sugar, but I know even after turning away that she’s shooting daggers at my back.

  I smile at the receptionist on the way out, and she gives me a smile that clearly invites conversation. I almost bite at the offer. She’s tall and slim, with wavy sex-kitten hair. Exactly the type of girl my parents would expect me to bring home. I need Stephanie to look like that, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a few face-framing layers. More like a personality transplant.

  This was your idea, dude.

  I still don’t know what planted the seed, or what compelled me to show up at her ex-boyfriend’s door like the perviest kind of stalker. I was changing my mind even as I knocked on the door. But she was looking all miserable and fifth-wheel, and I found myself wanting to stick around.

  Then I went and fucking kissed her, which mostly was meant to be a way of shutting her up for, like, five seconds, but instead it was kind of … hot. Not exactly what either of us needs.

  I take my sweet time getting the coffees, even pretending to window-shop on Fifth Avenue because it’s a lot less terrifying than the estrogen-filled monstrosity that is the hair salon. I have no idea how long these appointments take, so I duck into a bookstore for some air-conditioning, finishing off my coffee before I start drinking Stephanie’s just because it’s there.

  Forty-five minutes later I make my way back to the salon. Stephanie is sitting in the waiting area, clearly pissed that I’m late.

  “Check your texts much?” she asks.

  I pull out my phone, and sure enough, I have about fifty texts from her, all with increasingly violent threats if I don’t get my “preppy ass” back to the salon. But I’m having a hard time concentrating on the fact that Stephanie wants to kill me, because she looks … pretty.

  I didn’t understand crap about whatever Maddie had been mumbling, but the woman knows her stuff. Stephanie’s hair is still the shiny dark brown I’ve gotten used to, but instead of hanging like a shield around her face, it falls in tousled waves around her shoulders and is pretty much begging to be spread out on someone’s pillow.

  Not mine. But someone’s.

  And it’s pretty hard to tell with the glare and the raccoon eyes, but I think there might be a babe under all that angst.

  “No coffee?” she asks.

  I give a wan smile, and to my surprise she doesn’t throw a fit.

  “Whatever,” she says. “You always get my order wrong anyway.”

  True.

  I pull out a credit card and approach the curious receptionist. I didn’t have to do much coaxing to get Stephanie to let me pay. Not only does she not have the money, but if we are really going to turn our little adventure into a shitty screenplay, I have to be the one driving the makeover, Pygmalion style.

  Which isn’t a problem. I’m evolved. I can tolerate a makeup counter and a women’s dressing room.

  But I didn’t anticipate the extra hurdle of keeping my motivations focused. I’m here to create a version of Stephanie that will fool my parents. Not a version of Stephanie that appeals to me.

  I glance over at her as she’s punching something on my phone and give her a thumbs-up at the haircut. She narrows her eyes and gives this little head wiggle as if to say, What? before shooting me the bird.

  So … never mind. Guess I don’t need to worry about falling for this delicate little flower.

  “So what now, a couple’s mani/pedi?” she purrs after we head back into the late morning sunshine.

  “That’s nails, right?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, well … getting rid of the tar you’ve smudged on your fingers is a given. But not yet.”

  “Can we get a snack?” she whines as I drag her toward Bergdorf Goodman. A few Internet searches indicated that it’s the best bet for one-stop cosmetics shopping. And I’m all for one-stop shopping, not only for my own masculinity but also because Stephanie’s makeover stamina is proving to be dismal.

  “Aren’t you hot?” I ask, glaring at her baggy black pants as I hold the door open for her.

  She ignores me as she steps into Bergdorf’s. “I’m surprised they don’t charge an admission fee,” she says, staring around at the admittedly opulent decor.

  Something in my chest tightens briefly, and even though I wasn’t totally paying attention to those stupid movies, the similarities aren’t lost on me. Her overwhelmed expression isn’t unlike Eliza Doolittle’s or that of the Pretty Woman hooker. She’s out of her league and she knows it. And doesn’t like it.

  “Think of it as screenplay fodder,” I say, putting a hand on her back and guiding her toward the escalators. “Angry goth girl discovers Fifth Avenue.”

  “I’ve been on Fifth Avenue before, fool,” she snaps.

  She’s so lovely.

  We arrive in the beauty department, or whatever, and for a second I’m paralyzed. There are so many fucking options.

  “Scary, isn’t it?” Stephanie whispers, looking enormously pleased that she’s not the only one out of her c
omfort zone.

  I drag her toward one of the counters where a logo looks vaguely familiar, and I smile at the icy blond salesperson.

  “My sister needs a new look,” I say, showing her all of my teeth.

  “So it’s sister now, is it?” Stephanie mutters.

  “Just until you look presentable,” I say under my breath.

  Her head jerks just a little, like maybe I’ve hurt her, but she rolls her shoulders and smiles tentatively at the salesperson.

  Good girl. Do your part.

  Not that she’s doing it for noble reasons. She knows full well that she doesn’t get keys or even directions to my place until this day is over and she looks, well … Price worthy.

  The thought is so fundamentally dickhead that I hate myself for a second before reminding myself that it’s all part of the game. A game she’s agreed to.

  “Are we thinking just a new pop of color on the lips, or maybe a little bronzer, or …?” The salesperson is looking between the two of us.

  I’ve gone Christmas shopping with my parents enough to know what comes next, and I pull my wallet out of my pocket and slide out a credit card.

  “Everything,” I say firmly. “Whole new look. Something girlish and sweet. Less … dark.”

  “Is that what you want, hon?” the woman asks Stephanie.

  “Oh, yes. Girlish and sweet is just what I’ve always wanted.”

  But the salesperson is too enamored with the sight of my credit card and the promise of a full makeover to catch Stephanie’s sarcasm, and she’s already rummaging around in all of these tiny little drawers pulling out dozens of minuscule containers.

  “So, um, Kendrick …,” I say tentatively.

  “Go,” she says on a sigh. “But not so long this time.”

  I’m already sliding away, wondering if it’s too early in the day to grab a beer somewhere to get me through the rest of the day.

  “By the way, you’re a horrible Pygmalion!” she calls after me.

  What does she expect, that I’m going to weigh in on eye shadow colors? And besides, the guy in Pretty Woman just handed over a fat roll of cash for the transformation and told the girl to go shopping. My way is simply the updated version.

  I do one better than finding a beer. I find a sports bar that is actually open before noon, and get lost in some European soccer match that I don’t care much about, but which beats watching a makeup application.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket without taking my eyes off the television. I glance down at the text and wince.

  Stephanie has been done for five minutes and wants to know, quote, “where the fuck your fucking ass is.” Obviously I’m not the only one who needs a beer. I text her the location of the bar and ask the bartender for a food menu. Women always shop better when they’re fed, and we haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet: clothes.

  Stephanie agreed to the hair and makeup adventure but drew the line at allowing me to buy her clothes—a line I’m about to erase.

  A few minutes later I recognize a familiar smell of oranges, and am dismayed to realize that apparently I’ve come to recognize Stephanie’s scent. I know it’s her even before I turn my head.

  And then I do turn my head, and feel like someone has socked me in the stomach.

  The edgy, goth crone is long gone. But Stephanie isn’t pretty.

  She’s beautiful.

  Which is a good thing for my plan—this girl will absolutely get my mom’s stamp of approval. At least after we get rid of the earrings and the clothes.

  But the transformation isn’t so good for me. Because there’s absolutely no room in this plan for lust.

  And my dick definitely is into the new Stephanie.

  “So?” she asks, sliding onto the barstool next to me and reaching for my beer. “Do I pass?”

  I turn back to the TV, ignoring the fact that my pulse is a little jumpier than it was a minute ago. “You’ll do.”

  She snickers. “Please. I totally look the part. Did you know this boring beige eye shadow is actually called Gentle?”

  “Any chance of that seeping into your personality?” I ask, gesturing for another beer since she’s commandeered mine. We seem to have quickly adopted a habit of helping ourselves to each other’s drinks. It’s oddly comfortable, yet weird because it’s comfortable. I’ve only known the girl for, what, a couple of weeks?

  I slide a food menu her way, feeling her eyes on my face.

  “What?” I say.

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I feel a little …”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence, so I turn to glance at her, and … ah, hell, she looks vulnerable. Those wide blue eyes are silently begging me to reassure her that yes, she can pull this off, and yes, she’ll be okay without her black-eyeliner defense against the world.

  “You look beautiful,” I say softly.

  Despite the fact that she has a shopping bag stuffed full of girly crap, there’s nothing in-your-face about her makeup. I remember once I complained about how long Olivia took to get ready, and she told me that looking natural takes a good deal more skill than looking made up.

  If that’s the case, I apparently picked the right salesperson. Stephanie looks glowing, pretty, and fresh, but not obvious. Her eyes are all sparkly but not glittery, and whatever stuff is on her lips is pink and kissable.

  “You’re staring, Price,” she says with a little half smile.

  “Just trying to make you feel better. You know, you being so scowly and all.”

  “At least I’ve still got the boobs,” she says, giving them a little jiggle.

  I choke on my beer. “Can you not do that?”

  At least not in public. Back at my place, on the other hand …

  I push the thought aside, and we order our lunch as she chatters on and on about next year’s Tribeca Film Festival, and I make a mental note to ask Martin how difficult it is to get tickets. There are definite perks to having a godfather who’s won an Oscar.

  “So I’ve packed up my stuff at David’s,” she says, pulling a tomato off her club sandwich and discarding it before taking a huge bite of the sandwich.

  I shake some ketchup on my plate and dunk a fry. “How’d he take you moving out?”

  “He seemed a little appalled that you were his replacement. Kept calling you a bleached gym rat.”

  “As opposed to an unshowered art rat?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, he gave me all sorts of warnings about ‘dating out of genre,’ but mostly he was cool with it.”

  “So you didn’t tell him it’s fake?”

  “Nah. The guy made me live with the girl he cheated on me with. He hasn’t earned my honesty.”

  I nod. “What about your family. Did you tell them?”

  I feel her stiffen. “No, I haven’t told them.”

  Her tone makes it clear it’s the end of the discussion, but I’m curious. The girl never talks about her family.

  “But you at least told them that you’re moving, right?”

  She snorts. “My dad still thinks I’m subletting my cousin’s place. Since the cousin is on my mom’s side, he’s not likely to find out otherwise.”

  “Your parents are separated?” I ask, putting the pieces together.

  “Can we not do … this?” she asks, wiggling her finger around, as though to encompass our entire conversation.

  “ ’Kay,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “But if you’re posing as my girlfriend, I’ll at least need to know the basics about it.”

  She’s silent for a few moments. “I really don’t like to talk about it, Ethan.”

  Her voice is dead serious, and I immediately feel like crap for pushing, even though I’m curious why she acts like a cougar in water every time her family comes up in conversation.

  “Sure.”

  We sit in companionable silence for a little longer as we finish our lunch, me watching the last few minutes of the game while she scrolls through her phone.

 
“So when can we go get my stuff from David’s?” she asks as I pay the bill. She insists on stuffing a twenty into my wallet to pay for hers, and I let her. I’ll just drop it back in her purse later.

  “Only a few more stops,” I say, signing the bill. She wrinkles her nose suspiciously. “What kind of stops?”

  “We need to get you new clothes,” I blurt out.

  Stephanie scowls. “I already said no to that. I tolerated the bubble-gum lipstick, the snobby perfume, and the overpriced haircut, but I want to stay in my own clothes.”

  As much as I love those tiny tank tops and her endless supply of tight T-shirts, her current wardrobe isn’t going to cut it.

  “Picture our situation as a movie,” I say. “You really think a half-assed makeover is going to cut it? We need the full deal.”

  She chews her lip, and I know she knows I’m right. “Okay. A few things, but I’ll only wear them when we’re around your people. At home I get to wear whatever I want.”

  Home. Which we’d be sharing. I tear my eyes away from her mouth.

  “That sounds fair,” I say.

  “And no pink.”

  I hesitate, picturing Olivia and the rest of my upper-crust female friends. “There might have to be a little pink.”

  “Ethan …”

  “It’ll look pretty on you.”

  Wrong thing to say. She looks pissy.

  “Do I look like the type that cares about being pretty?”

  Actually, yeah. She does. I think she cares a hell of a lot more than she lets on.

  “How about we leave it up to the salespeople?” I say, hoping for a truce. “If they suggest pink, you’ll consider it. If they don’t, I won’t push it.”

  “No pink,” she mutters again, scooting off her barstool and grabbing her shopping bag and purse. But she waits patiently for me to finish signing the bill, and lets me lead her in the direction of Bloomingdale’s.

  “I bet you’re regretting not finding a more biddable ivory statue to participate in your charade,” she says as we weave through the usual midtown crush.

  I glance down at her shiny brown hair and newly fresh face.

  Oddly, I don’t have any regrets at all.

  Chapter Nine