Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  I’m blushing now, because he kind of has me there. Not that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about, uh, him. My quick response to his stupid game was simply due to the ridiculousness of his suggestions. But even though I haven’t thought (much) about his more manly bits before, because of this conversation I’m definitely thinking about them now.

  I shift in the leather seat of the car he borrowed from his parents. I didn’t think anyone in New York actually owned a car, but of course the Price family would have a fleet of sexy-looking vehicles just waiting for the golden boy to take one on a whim.

  “Your mom had a miscarriage?” I ask, half wanting to steer the conversation away from his crotch and half genuinely wanting to know.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter. “They’d just barely found out they were having twins, so it’s not like she even had a chance to really register the loss, but she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “And they never wanted to try again?”

  He shoots me a look and grins. “Guess they decided I was enough.”

  “Or too much,” I mutter.

  “There you go, thinking about my big wang again.”

  “Ethan!” I know I’m blushing now, but he merely grins and takes mercy on me by changing the subject. “What about you? Only child, right? Or do you have a whole fleet of siblings hidden in your vault of Stephanie secrets?”

  “It’s just me,” I say. “Well, and my stepbrother. But I didn’t even meet the guy until I was eighteen, so I don’t really think of him as family.”

  Which really isn’t fair to say. I liked Chris well enough on the few occasions we’ve been forced into each other’s company. It’s not his fault his mother’s a man-eater. A widower-eater.

  “Okay, pull your weight, Kendrick. We’ve got a couple more hours before we get there.”

  “Tell me again why we’re driving five hours to the middle of nowhere.”

  “Because it’s my only chance to see Andrea before she heads back to California. Usually she comes to the city over break, but this year her family rented a summer cabin, so she’s staying there.”

  “And she’s a high school friend, right?”

  “No. Grade school through middle school. She went to a public school instead of the academy with the rest of us.”

  I dig a couple of waters out of the cooler he brought, and hand one to him. “You were friends with public school hooligans?”

  “Just the one,” he says with a smile. “We had, like, every class together in eighth grade and got pretty tight, so I guess I stayed in better contact with her than everyone else.”

  “Did you date?”

  “Nah. I seem to remember a couple of awkward spin-the-bottle kisses, but nothing serious. I guess even back then, I sort of knew Olivia was the one.”

  I glance at him in surprise, and I can tell he’s just as surprised as I am at the admission. He hardly ever mentions his ex unless it’s with a scowl. I feel something sour in my stomach and try to tell myself that it’s not jealousy, but I know better. It’s not that I have feelings for Ethan or anything. But I’ve been spending so much time with him that I’d be lying if I said it’s not a little easy to forget that it’s fake.

  Apparently I’m destined to be a jealous fake girlfriend. Odd, considering I’ve never before been a jealous real girlfriend.

  “Okay, definitely your turn,” Ethan says, looking slightly embarrassed. “Here I am getting all deep, and you’re not doing your part.”

  I laugh a little and take a sip of water. “You, deep? Come on, Price. Somehow I don’t think there’s a whole lot of depth hidden under all that polish.”

  He doesn’t say anything back, and I glance over at his profile, expecting his easy grin, but he’s not smiling at all. In fact, he looks a little … wounded. It’s the same look he had on his face that night at the frat party when I told him he had no substance. It was an unfair thing to say back then, when I didn’t even know him.

  Now that I do know him, I know it was unfair and bitchy.

  And completely untrue.

  “Hey,” I say quickly, reaching out a hand to touch his arm in apology. “I didn’t mean …”

  Ethan lifts his water bottle to his lips before my fingers can make contact, and I pull my hand back. “Sure ya did, Goth. And you’re right. Nothing but money and jokes coming from this side of the car.”

  His tone is self-deprecating, and I want to tell him that it’s not true. That I only said he had no depth because I don’t want to get deep. I don’t want to see beyond his money and jokes because over the past few weeks I’ve been catching glimpses of what’s beneath all that pretty-boy stuff, and I don’t think I can handle much more of the kinder version. I’m too worried I could fall for that version of Ethan Price.

  But neither do I want him to hide from me.

  You can’t have it both ways, Stephanie.

  “So, two truths and a lie,” I hear myself say, desperate somehow to make amends. To make us even. To share with him the way he just did with me about Olivia, his mom’s miscarriage, and even his friendship with this Andrea girl.

  “One: When I was seven, my parents took me to the emergency room with what they thought was a ruptured appendix. Turns out I was just majorly constipated. Two: There was a girl on my old soccer team that got struck by lightning, and I still get scared to death in thunderstorms, even though I know it’s stupid. Three … My high school boyfriend put a roofie in my drink the same night my mom died.”

  I say that last one so quickly that all the words run together, as though I’m rushing the punch line of a joke.

  I only wish it were a joke.

  I hold my breath for several seconds, not looking at him. I can’t.

  The tension in the car is so thick I can’t breathe, and then Ethan breaks it.

  “Goddamn it, Stephanie,” he says, slamming his palm against the steering wheel before gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Tell me that last one is the lie. Tell me.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

  “Goddamn it,” he says again, quieter this time.

  I shrug and take a long swallow of water as though the bomb I just dropped is no big deal. Which of course it is.

  But I’ve had a few years to adjust to what happened, so what’s really weirding me out is the fact that I said it at all. To him. Confiding a few childhood secrets does not warrant me throwing something so huge into a car ride that still has a good two hours left.

  I’d give anything to take it back. Anything.

  Especially since Ethan looks pissed.

  My throat feels a little tight as I realize the magnitude of my misstep. He doesn’t want to know those types of things about me. Nobody wants to know those things about somebody else. Jordan knows, of course. That’s what best friends are for. But that kind of baggage should be saved for friends, therapists, and diaries, not happy-go-lucky fake boyfriends.

  “Kidding,” I lie, trying to break the silence. “Made that one up. The third one was the lie—”

  “Don’t, Stephanie. Just don’t,” he says quietly.

  I let out a small breath. He’s right. Trying to take it back will only make things worse. Instead of backpedaling, I go for plan B: pretending it didn’t happen.

  “So you mentioned that Andrea met a boyfriend at college in California. Have you met—”

  “What happened?”

  My ears begin to ring. “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  If he said it like a know-it-all jerk, I would have ignored him. But his voice is kind, and I don’t want him to be kind. I don’t want him to be anything other than a shallow mama’s boy who can’t tell his parents that precious Olivia has a trampy streak.

  But the way he’s looking at me now, he doesn’t look like some superficial frat guy. He looks like a friend who cares.

  And what can I say? Othe
r than Jordan, it’s been a while since I’ve had one of those.

  Correction: it’s been a while since I let myself have one of those.

  And apparently I’m going to start with Ethan Price.

  “His name was Caleb,” I say, exhaling a deep breath and staring out the window. “Or I guess I should say his name is Caleb. He’s still alive, as far as I know.”

  “That’s a shame,” Ethan muttered.

  I allow myself a tiny smile. “Yeah, I sometimes feel that way too. Anyway, we started dating the end of sophomore year. And although it kind of pains me to say it now, I really, really liked him, you know? I mean, I don’t know if it was like you and Olivia, where we were destined and all that, but we had fun together. He treated me well. Right up until …”

  “Right up until he didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a little laugh. “Looking back, I guess the change didn’t happen overnight. It’s not like he went from being some perfect guy to the jerk that gives his own girlfriend the date-rape drug.”

  Ethan swears under his breath, and I wonder if I should stop, but I find I can’t. It feels good to talk about it.

  “He’d been weird for a while. Hanging out with his brother’s friends from college. He went from being a valedictorian candidate to not really giving a shit, you know? It’s like all he wanted to do was drink and smoke and have sex …”

  Ethan runs a palm over the back of his neck but doesn’t interrupt me.

  “But I barely noticed,” I say, my voice going quieter. “I mean, on some level I knew, of course. Knew that he was changing, and not for the better. But my mom was sick. So sick. And I just couldn’t deal. I heard rumors that he was messing around with other girls, and I didn’t even care. Didn’t ask him. I figured it was my own fault for not sleeping with him when he asked me to.”

  “Stephanie …”

  “Don’t,” I say. “I’m not saying I was right or smart back then, but that’s just how it was. Everything was about my mom and my family, and I was just grateful to have someone whose house I could go to when the last of my mom’s hair fell out, or who would hold me when I cried when the doctor came back with that final ‘one month or less’ diagnosis.”

  I glance down at the empty water bottle in my hands, surprised to see that it’s a crinkled, flattened mess.

  “Then what happened?” he asks softly.

  I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t come out. To my utter horror, tears fill my eyes, and I realize that although it feels good—so good—to talk to someone, I’m not ready to go there. Not yet.

  “I can’t talk about that night,” I say finally, unable to meet his eyes.

  He shifts his hands on the steering wheel and glances at me, and for a second I think he’s going to push me. But then his face changes again, and he lets himself become the other Ethan.

  First, though, he puts a hand on my cheek, and I lean into his palm for the briefest of moments. Then he pulls back, and just like that, he’s back to being the funny, cocky, mellow guy I met on the first day of class.

  “Okay, so it’s my turn, right?” he says, as though we haven’t just taken a trip down my land-mine-filled memory lane. “Two truths and a lie.

  “One: When I was in seventh grade, I went camping with a friend and his parents and tried to light my fart on fire and singed off all the hair on my ass. Two: I was a total porker as a kid. Like seriously fat. In fourth grade I ate most of the cupcakes that some girl’s mom had brought in for her birthday, and tried to blame it on the class hamster.…”

  I turn my head to watch him as he launches into some ridiculous story, and I’m not thinking about whether this is one of the truths or the lie. I’m thinking that Ethan Price is putting on a damned good show in an effort to cheer me up. In an effort to make me forget.

  But mostly I try not to think about what I’m feeling.

  Because what I’m feeling has nothing to do with our charade.

  What I’m feeling seems real.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ethan

  “So how long have you and Stephanie been together?”

  I glance at Andrea, trying to figure out if it’s just a casual question or if she’s on to us.

  I don’t see Andrea much—maybe once a year when she comes home from UC Santa Cruz. But she’s one of those people-reading types who just seems to skip over whatever you say to figure out what’s really going on.

  The fact that Andrea has always been able to sniff out my lies from a mile away is one of the reasons I dragged Stephanie here for a spontaneous weekend trip. Actually, it’s the primary reason, because I don’t even really need to pretend around Andrea. She doesn’t give a shit if I’m with Olivia or not. She never said so out loud, but I don’t think she ever even liked Olivia. I could have come up to the cabin alone and simply told her I was single, and she wouldn’t have batted an eye.

  But this weekend is the ultimate test. If we can fool Andrea into thinking we’re together, then we can absolutely take on the rest of my family and social circle, who are a good deal less observant.

  “Been together about a month,” I reply finally, resisting the urge to elaborate. I figure the less detail, the better. It keeps the charade easier to maintain.

  “Huh,” Andrea says.

  Shit.

  “Huh what?” I ask, fishing a beer out of the cooler.

  She shrugs and lets her hand drape over the side of her parents’ boat, her fingers skimming the cool lake water. “A month? Really?”

  “Just spit out whatever it is you want to say,” I say, tipping the beer back and preparing for the onslaught. Might as well figure out Stephanie’s and my acting weaknesses while we’re here, before the real show starts.

  “Well, you’re just strange around each other,” Andrea says. “I mean, on one hand, you’re totally comfortable with each other. Like, you’ll answer a question before she asks it, or you help yourself to her potato chips and she barely notices.”

  “And on the other hand …?”

  “On the other hand,” she says, grabbing a beer for herself, “you guys completely stink of sexual tension. She leaped a mile when you brushed a bug off her arm. And every time you look at her, I think you’re going to set her on fire. The whole thing seems very unconsummated for a one-month relationship.”

  Andrea’s boyfriend rolls over onto his stomach from where he’s been lounging on the back of the boat, half listening to our conversation. “Lay off him, Andi. Maybe Stephanie doesn’t put out on the first date like some girls we know.”

  Andrea reaches back and tries to roll him into the lake. “I did not put out on the first date, Brian Barlow.”

  Brian tips his sunglasses down so he can meet my eyes before mouthing, “She totally did.”

  This earns him another slap on the head. Brian and Andrea met in college, and she brought him out last summer to hang with her family, and again this summer, so I’m guessing they must be pretty serious. I’m glad. He’s a good guy.

  “So what’s the story, Eth?” Andrea asks, turning back to me.

  “No story,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I mean, we’ve been taking it kind of slow, but we’re not totally ignorant of each other, if you know what I mean.”

  “Translation: they’ve been doing everything but the thing that can actually make babies,” Brian supplies.

  Andrea studies me. “Is it true?”

  I stand up and stretch. “Christ, what’s with the interest in my sex life?”

  She shrugs. “Just happy you have one is all. Thought maybe you couldn’t get it up after ending things with Princess Olivia.”

  I grunt. “I can get it up.”

  “Good,” Andrea says, digging around in her bag for more sunscreen. “I like Stephanie. She’s normal. And pretty.”

  My eyes go to the bow of the boat, where Stephanie’s been sunning herself for the past thirty minutes, blissfully unaware of the inquisition I’m getting back here.

  “Yea
h. She’s pretty,” I say, my eyes taking in the absolute fucking miracle that is Stephanie Kendrick in a bikini. I was a little nervous when she insisted on going swimsuit shopping alone. In my experience, a guy’s opinion is always a good thing when it comes to clothing consisting of string. But she did well. The swimsuit is a tiny white net concoction—what did she call it? Crochet?—and it does really amazing things for her even more amazing rack.

  She turns around then to see where I am, giving me a shy little smile when she realizes I’m watching her. I can’t see her eyes through her big sunglasses, but I know she’s holding my gaze on purpose. Giving Andrea and Brian a show.

  “I’ll be up front,” I say, grabbing a beer for Stephanie and heading her way.

  “Uh-huh,” Andrea says. I feel her eyes on my back, and I can’t tell if I’ve fooled her or not. I’m thinking not, but that could just be my own paranoia. Because Andrea’s right about one thing: Stephanie and I are not acting like a couple who’ve gotten used to each other’s physical presence yet.

  Time to fix that.

  Stephanie’s lying down again by the time I get to her, and I let my eyes linger on her tiny waist, perfect hips, and, well … those breasts.

  I tell myself that I’m staring because Andrea’s probably watching, but the truth is, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. How the hell I’m supposed to sit by her and not peel that bikini off is beyond me, but here goes nothing.

  “I think Andrea’s on to us,” I say, settling beside her on the oversized towel.

  She flings an arm over her face to shield her eyes and turns her head toward me. “What do you mean, she’s on to us?”

  I set our beers on top of the book she was reading earlier and stretch my legs out beside her, noting that mine extend several inches beyond hers. I always forget how short she is.

  “Says we’re too comfortable around each other and also too on edge.”

  “What does that mean?” she asks.

  I shrug, although I kind of know exactly what Andrea means, and I suspect Stephanie does too. Being roommates has taught us how to be relaxed with each other. But then there’s something else simmering there. Something that is absolutely not relaxed. And it’s been growing.