Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  The plan was supposed to be simple, and instead it feels more complicated than any real relationship I’ve ever been in.

  It’s as though …

  A lightbulb goes on. That’s it.

  “These characters have to fall in love.”

  Ethan freezes in his fidgeting. “Excuse me?”

  “Tyler and Kayla,” I say, referring to the names of our screenplay characters. “They have it too easy right now. They have to start to fall in love. Or at least one of them does.”

  He stares at me. “And that will give us conflict?”

  “Come on,” I say, giving him a look. “Let’s pretend it’s real life. Would the two of us falling in love create conflict?”

  The silence in the small study room is almost painful, although I’m not sure why. I mean, we’ve both seen the movies. We both know the Pygmalion story. We both knew at the start of all this what would need to happen in the screenplay.

  But I know we’ve both been avoiding putting real emotion into our screenplay for this very reason. Because it’s getting harder and harder to separate Ethan from Tyler, and Kayla from me.

  Our screenplay is supposed to be based on real life, but maybe we’re terrified that things will get reversed. That putting love in the screenplay will affect real life. And that’s so not in the cards.

  “Okay, I’m with you,” he says slowly. “So Tyler and Kayla—do we really have to go with those names? They sound too similar … Too many Ys?”

  “Change their names to whatever you want,” I mutter as I begin scribbling ideas in the notebook. I try to ignore him as he begins to rattle off alternative character names, although I cut him off when he gets to Woody and Ursula.

  “Okay, how about this,” I say, tapping my pen excitedly on my notebook. I forgot what a rush screenplay writing can be, especially when an idea clicks. “So far we have the two of them doing all of the things that we’ve been doing in real life—faking a kiss on the boat, faking a dance at a wedding—but they’ve always been on the same page. We need for them to get off. For one of them to throw the other off balance.”

  Ethan yawns. “I can tell you right now that no dude will go to this movie unless he’s fourteen and his mom drops him off so he can try to hold hands with his crush.”

  I give him a patient look. “This insight into your horny childhood is delightful, but I think it’s safe to say that dudes aren’t our primary audience here. We’re going for the tween girl crowd.”

  He brightens and starts to stand. “Sounds like your territory. How about you have at it, and I’ll go get us a couple of sandwiches.”

  I jab my pen at his chest. “Sit. Stay. I am not doing this alone.”

  He reluctantly drops into the chair. “Fine. I’ll bite. How do we throw our characters off balance?”

  Other than having one of them carry the other through Central Park under starlight? Other than having a harmless slow dance turn sexy? Other than that, you mean?

  But although I know both of those incidents happened, it’s becoming increasingly clear that they don’t matter. At least not to Ethan. Because just when I thought something was maybe happening, something other than the game, he went back to normal. He went back to a teasing, indifferent roommate.

  Which is perfect for real life.

  And exactly what isn’t working in our movie.

  “They need to have a romantic moment that’s not about their charade. That’s not about convincing everyone else that that they’re in love. It needs to be real, and just between them.”

  He gives me a blank stare. “Romantic. You mean like … flowers?”

  “Yes, Ethan. That’s exactly what I mean. Please bring me flowers.”

  His eyebrows creep up. “Who said anything about you and me? I thought we were talking about Tyler and Kayla.”

  Oops.

  “Well, it’s equally ridiculous with them,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the color I feel creeping up my neck. “We need to make it clear that they’ve crossed some sort of line.”

  “So when you say romantic, you mean sexual,” he says, his brown eyes glowing gold.

  My mouth is dry. “Um, sure, I guess.”

  He shakes his head. “It won’t work. Nobody will believe there’s real attraction between these two.”

  The flush that was creeping up my neck rushes to my face, except it’s no longer embarrassment. It’s anger. And maybe a little bit of hurt. Somehow I know he’s not talking about Tyler and Kayla either. He’s talking about us. Telling me that there can be no attraction there.

  Except he’s wrong. There is.

  Only apparently it’s one-way.

  Suddenly I can’t be in this room anymore. Not with this guy whom I both want and hate. Hate because he’s a superficial snob who can’t see beyond my eyeliner … who can’t accept the girl who hates pink. Want because … well, hell, I don’t know why I want him. But I do.

  I need to get out of here.

  “Got it, Price. You figure out what would work in this story and just let me know.” I shove my notebook into my bag and am moving toward the door before I’ve even zipped it all the way.

  I feel his fingers wrap around my arm seconds before I’m spun around and pushed up against the whiteboard, my backpack falling to the floor as he pins my hands above my head.

  His mouth comes down on mine, and it’s rougher than the two times we’ve kissed before. Of course, those were both blatant demonstrations for an audience. But for this kiss we’re 100 percent alone.

  His mouth moves insistently against mine, his tongue sweeping along my bottom lip once, twice, until I open for him. The kiss deepens and I try to pull my hands free so I can touch him, but his grip tightens, and he moves closer, using his body to pin me to the wall.

  I’m distantly aware that although the study room is windowless, it’s also a public space, and anyone could come in at any time.

  And I don’t care.

  I give myself over to the kiss, and he seems to know the second I relent, because the kiss becomes softer. As though he’s seducing me instead of claiming me. I want him to be seduced too.

  The room is silent except for the soft, wet sounds of our mouths moving against each other, and I’m really, really wishing that we were home. Or at least some place with a door. Because I don’t want to stop at kissing.

  My eyes go wide at the realization, and I struggle against him, frantically trying to tug my hands free. Ethan seems to sense my panic and pulls back immediately, even as he gently cups my elbows to steady me.

  We’re both breathing heavily, and I wonder if my face is as stunned as his at what just happened. Probably.

  But I’m not just stunned. I’m terrified. For the first time since before my mom died—since before Caleb freaking drugged me—I want to be intimate with a guy. I mean, I really, really want Ethan Price. I want to be naked beneath him, want to see him above me …

  I give my head a little shake and push against his chest. “What was that?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just runs a hand across the back of his neck. I’ve come to realize that he only does that when he feels out of his element, and it should make me feel better that he’s as off-balance as me, but instead it just pisses me off.

  How dare he kiss me if he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing!

  He reaches down to pick up my bag and hands it to me. I snatch at it without saying thank you. I want it to be very clear which Stephanie he just kissed. It wasn’t the sweet, biddable fake Stephanie. It was the cranky, angry real Stephanie.

  The one he can’t possibly be attracted to.

  I tell myself to walk away with my dignity intact. Because I’m pretty sure there’s nothing he can say that I want to hear. But I hear myself asking the question anyway.

  “Was that real? Or was that some sort of warped experiment that we can use in our screenplay?”

  His eyes dart away from mine, and it’s pretty much all the answer I need.

  �
�Got it,” I snap.

  “Steffie—”

  “Don’t call me that.” I move around him, giving him a wide berth so that there’s no chance of physical contact.

  “Wait, just give me a minute, all right? I don’t know—”

  “Well, figure it out, Ethan.”

  I’m out the door, closing it behind me before he can say anything else that will just make it worse.

  I lean against the door for a second, trying to catch my breath. To sort out my thoughts. But the only thought that comes to mind is the realization that I want to cry, which doesn’t make sense. I haven’t cried—haven’t wanted to cry—since that day I found out my mom had cancer.

  And I hate that some superficial, gorgeous rich kid who’d walk away from me without a second glance was the one to make me feel desire and pain—two emotions I thought were long dead inside me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ethan

  If I was sort of dodging Stephanie after our too-friendly night at my cousin’s wedding, I’ve been all-out avoiding her after that kiss in the library.

  A kiss that wasn’t about the game, or the movie, or anything other than the fact that I wanted her.

  And she wanted me too.

  At least I’m pretty sure she did. But then she totally flipped out and ran.

  I don’t know what to think, or what to say to her. So I’ve been doing what any twentysomething dude with some common sense would do: I’ve been giving her a wide berth.

  She seems to have had the same thought, because in the few words we have exchanged, she mentioned that she’s taken on a couple of extra shifts at the coffee shop. For my part, I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of time at Price Holdings, considering I’m not even an official intern. I’m getting no school credit and no pay (not that I need the pay), and to be honest, I don’t know that I’m contributing much. Mostly I’ve just been shadowing my father, listening in on conference calls, observing the way he handles everyone from the staff to hotshot investors.

  I keep waiting for the moment when it all freaks me out and I decide that I want to trade in my bespoke suits for hemp necklaces and linen drawstring pants and go be a tour guide in Costa Rica. In other words, I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and rebel against the expectations—and advantages—that have been heaped upon me since I was a kid.

  But it hasn’t happened yet. It’s like I told Stephanie during that stupid two-truths-and-a-lie game: I really am excited about my legacy, or whatever. I may have signed up as a business major because it’s what my parents encouraged, but I’ve stayed there because I like it. I like the way numbers fit together if you work them just right. I like the way business is all about the balance between people and money.

  And call me superficial, but I even like the whole modern high-rise scene that’s waiting for me.

  Price Holdings fits me. Just like Olivia fit me.

  Just like Stephanie, with her cargos and scowls, doesn’t.

  Case in point: this morning when we exchanged a few curt words over coffee, I saw that she has some little skeleton decals on her nails. Skeletons.

  Is it any wonder I’ve been hiding out at my father’s office? Why the hell didn’t I do what I’ve done every other summer and intern there officially, instead of getting some wild hair up my ass to take a film class?

  Then I exit the elevator into the Price Holdings lobby and see him.

  And I remember exactly why I’ve been avoiding the office.

  “Ethan! Hold on a second!”

  I roll my shoulders and debate exiting the lobby like I haven’t heard him. But there are enough eyes on us to make that obvious, and I must have just enough of my mother in me to care what people think.

  So instead I turn and face the man who’s boning my mother.

  But I don’t smile at him the way I would have a couple of months ago. At one time he was like a second father. Now he’s only the man who’s trying to replace my father.

  “Mike.”

  He extends a hand, giving it the old man-to-man pump. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, son. Your dad tells me you’ve been busy with a summer school class?”

  “Just sort of a fun elective course,” I hear myself mutter. I hate myself for not having the balls to tell him that I’ve been trying to avoid him. And his son.

  But then, perhaps the fact that I’m doing just that is the proof that I don’t have balls.

  “And a new girlfriend, I hear,” he says, keeping his voice low, as though we’re co-conspirators. I want to punch him.

  “How’s Michael?” I ask instead.

  Mike senior blinks, a little surprised that I’d be asking about his only son. Not so long ago, he’d probably have been asking me how Michael was. Back when Michael and I were inseparable.

  Mike senior has to have noticed that I’m not over there every other day anymore, but he doesn’t say anything about it. I wonder if Michael’s fessed up about banging Olivia.

  “He’s good, he’s good,” Mike says, shifting his briefcase to his other hand. “Been interning over at my accountant’s firm, actually. Thought it would be good for him to get some hands-on experience with managing books.”

  Tell him you saw him with Mom, a voice inside me prods. Tell him you don’t care that he and Dad are business partners, that he should stay the hell away from your family. Instead I just give an awkward little nod, as though I give a flying fuck what my former best friend is up to these days. “Well, I’ve gotta get going.”

  “Sure, sure. You’ll want to beat the worst of rush hour. See you around, son.”

  Don’t call me son. “Sure. See you around.”

  For about five seconds after walking away from Mike, I debate stopping by my parents’ house to confront my mother. Rip off the Band-Aid and all that, because the shock of realizing Mom’s having an affair is wearing off and now it’s just getting … sad.

  But I keep thinking about how stressed she’s been with this whole Hamptons party next weekend. It’s pretty much the biggest thing she takes on all year, and it has professional and personal ramifications. And the Hamptons weekend is also important to my dad. At the very least, I owe it to him to wait until it’s all over before I risk blowing up our family.

  Plus, selfishly, I’d rather do it when I can escape back to school full time. Where I can lose myself in the jam-packed fall semester ahead and, I hope, a bevy of girls who have been look-but-don’t-touch the past three years because of Olivia. Now I’ll be able to touch if I want to.

  I head home. Stephanie will be there, but then that’s my own fault, isn’t it? My brilliant idea to bring a big-boobed roommate into my home.

  Of course, I didn’t know then that she’d be a fantastic kisser. Or that under all that ill humor there’s a funny, sweet side. Didn’t know that I’d feel like she knows me better after three weeks than Olivia did after a decade.

  I owe her an apology. For my moods, for the kiss … for letting her think that day in the library that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—be attracted to her.

  Because while I still don’t think a girl like her and a guy like me are headed to the altar or anything, the attraction is definitely there. And maybe it’s time we do something about it.

  I let myself into the apartment, in the best mood I’ve been in for days, only to stop short at the sight in my living room: Stephanie’s douche bag of a boyfriend is on my fucking couch, and his hand is on Stephanie’s leg. They both jerk when they see me, and I don’t have to be Einstein to know I’ve interrupted something.

  I don’t say a word as I set my bag down, but my eyes never leave Stephanie’s. She looks guilty at first, but after studying my expression, the guilt is replaced by something that looks like stubbornness.

  “What’s up, man?” I say casually, tearing my eyes away from Stephanie and glancing at David.

  “Elliot,” he says, giving a little nod.

  I don’t bother to hide my eye roll as I grab a beer from the fridge. The fake messing up of
the opponent’s name is the oldest trick in the male handbook.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Just brought Steph’s DVDs back over. You know how she is about her movies.”

  I see his hand move a little higher on her thigh as he says it. A thigh that’s covered in cargo fatigues.

  Belatedly my eyes skim over the rest of her, and I see what I didn’t notice when I first came in: the boots, the tough-girl pants, one of those trademark tiny tanks, and the gray shit on her eyes. She’s been dabbling with pieces of her old self for the past few days—the boots, the nails, the pants—but apparently she decided to go all out tonight, because it’s the full-goth Stephanie.

  It should make me want her less. It should remind me that it’s David who’s her type, not me.

  But mostly I want to tell him to get his hands off her.

  I take a sip of my beer and keep my face perfectly blank. “Stephanie, you have all your DVDs?”

  Her eyes narrow at my casual tone. It’s like I said—she knows me. “Yeah.”

  “Excellent,” I say with my best smile before turning to David. “Get the fuck out.”

  David may be a skinny artist type, but he’s apparently not a pushover, because he stands to face me and his expression is pissed.

  Can’t say I blame him. I’m being a dick, but it’s my house, and this asshole’s hand was on Stephanie when he has another girlfriend—

  Shit. At least I hope he has another girl. What if he broke it off with that Leah chick and wants Stephanie back?

  The thought makes my beer taste like piss.

  “Dude, can you give us a minute?” David asks, doing a far better job with manners than I am.

  “For what?”

  He ignores my question and turns to Stephanie. His eyes go sappy and pleading, and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s coming. The guy’s realized that he threw Stephanie over for a skank, and now he wants the good one back.