Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  “Not nearly as interesting,” he says as he inspects a pair of green polka-dot boyshorts.

  I don’t bother to stop him, sensing that it’ll be a losing battle. Ever since that night on the couch, the mood between us has alternated between easy and loaded with sexual tension.

  I’m still not sure what the hell happened. But I’m definitely sure how it ended.

  To borrow his friend Andrea’s words, we definitely did not consummate.

  He sits on top of the pile of clothes I’ve just finished folding and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word. Just studies me.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Do what?” I’m not proud of playing dumb, but sometimes it’s reflexive.

  “You know what.”

  I take a deep breath and spend way too much time folding a pale yellow cardigan so I won’t have to look at him.

  “I wrote an email,” I say finally. Quietly.

  “Good.” His fingers brush along the back of my hand, and I take a long, shuddering breath.

  “What if he doesn’t write back?”

  I meet Ethan’s eyes then, and they hold the same gentle understanding that was there when I told him my secret.

  That I don’t know whether or not I am a virgin.

  I didn’t mean to tell him, or anyone. But then I got lost in his kisses and I wanted—needed—him to know.

  And then I started talking …

  The real kicker is that I didn’t want to go to that stupid party in the first place. I wanted to stay in the hospital with my mom.

  But she wanted me to go. She was too weak to push the issue, but my dad wasn’t. He told me it was important to my mother to see me happy. To see me living my life, even as hers was ending.

  So I went. But I was mad, and sad, and lost. I had more drinks than I should have, but not so many that I didn’t realize the last rum and Coke tasted faintly bitter. I set the cup aside almost immediately, but it was too late. The dizziness followed soon after, and in those last lucid moments I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I just wanted to lie down somewhere. Anywhere.

  My eyes found Caleb, and I knew. Knew that he knew what was in my cup.

  I woke up in Caleb’s bed, barely managing to get my head over the side of the bed before throwing up all over his white carpet.

  I retched again and again as I tried to clear the cobwebs and piece together what had happened. Why I was naked. Why I was so hung over after a few drinks.

  Caleb came in then. I expected him to lose his shit over the fact that I’d thrown up on his bed, on his floor, but he didn’t seem to see it.

  Then I saw a phone in his hand.

  My phone.

  I raised my eyes to his face, and I knew. Knew that he’d answered my phone.

  Knew that it was my dad calling.

  Knew that my mother was dead.

  And then I retched again.

  It was the first time I’d talked about it. Ever. I’d never told anyone what happened. I mean, of course I was a zombie after it happened, and of course everyone noticed. I’d just lost my mother. I was entitled to be a zombie. Nobody suspected that there was anything else to it. That I’d lost more than Mom that night.

  Well, Caleb knew.

  It may sound odd, but I’d never really considered Caleb in all of this. On some level I suppose I hated him, but on another it was like he wasn’t even a person. He was just this demon in my past that had sort of been absorbed into the bad memory that was that night.

  But Ethan wasn’t inclined to let Caleb off that easily.

  After I told him the entire sick story, I expected him to give me a condescending hug and then tell me that it sucked and that it was time to move on.

  And he did give me a hug, but I didn’t expect the next words out of his mouth.

  You’ve got to find Caleb, Stephanie. Confront him. Get answers. You deserve answers.

  I guess it’s weird that I needed someone else to tell me this, to point out that the worst night of my life doesn’t have to be shrouded in mystery.

  Of course, there’s no guarantee that Caleb will remember, or that he’ll be honest with me. But deep down I suspect that he will. We cared about each other once. And I’m pretty sure that at one time he even loved me, before he heeded the siren call of booze and drugs.

  It took all of thirty seconds on the Internet to find him. He’s at Boston University, which I knew, of course. He sent me about a dozen messages our freshman year asking if we could talk, all of which I ignored. And he tried to get in touch through Jordan and the handful of other high school friends I kept in contact with. I ignored those efforts too.

  But this is the first time I’ve sought him out. I was expecting a rush of anger, but mostly I just feel curious. Jordan told me he’s clean now. That he’s reverted back to the “nice guy” he was before the Jack Daniel’s and pills and shit took over his life.

  If his online profile pictures are any indication, Jordan is right. Gone are the red-rimmed eyes and bloated face I remember from the end. Instead he’s clean-cut and handsome. Not unlike Ethan, actually—blond, blue-eyed, and totally preppy.

  I don’t know how long I stared at his smiling face, waiting to feel some sort of emotion. Mostly I felt relief. And a hope that maybe Ethan is right, that I can move on.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Ethan asks, yanking me out of memories.

  I give a little smile and shake my head. “I think I’m all talked out on that topic, you know?”

  He searches my face. “But when he writes back, you’ll tell me.”

  I meet his eyes. “I’ll tell you.”

  I don’t have a choice. Not if I want Ethan to touch me. Because he made it very clear that night when he gently set me away from him and slowly pulled his own T-shirt over my head to cover me that he won’t touch me again until I have closure.

  You deserve more, Stephanie. You deserve everything.

  And in that moment, whatever I was feeling for this all-wrong-guy exploded into something I absolutely, positively do not want to name. Can’t name.

  Because a few days from now I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Ethan will have survived this stupid party and can move on with his life. Maybe get a real girlfriend instead of an impostor.

  My stomach clenches at the thought.

  “Okay, Goth, one more time. Why is your entire wardrobe on your bed? I did mention that this is just a two-night thing, right?”

  I swat at his hip until he shifts and I can pull a couple of now smashed bras out from under his ass. He doesn’t look twice. I can’t blame him, I guess. I mean, they’re some boring blue cotton affairs. But it’s another reminder that he hasn’t made a single romantic move since that night on his couch.

  I know why, of course.

  But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  Damn Caleb.

  And damn myself for being such a chicken for the past three years that I didn’t seek answers. Hell, worse than that, I actually avoided them. I was like those weird birds that stick their head in the sand.

  No more. I want my dignity back. I want my life back.

  I gesture toward a smaller pile of clothes on the desk chair in the corner of the room. “That is for the trip. I just haven’t put it in my bag yet.”

  He gestures toward the piles on the bed. “Then what’s this?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Figured while I was packing for the trip, I may as well start packing for good.”

  Ethan freezes in the process of inspecting my bras. (Guess he isn’t so immune after all.) “What do you mean, packing for good?”

  “Come on, smart guy, you’ve got this,” I say, keeping my tone light. I shouldn’t be glad that he sounds upset, but I am getting a little rush because he’s clearly not happy to get rid of me.

  “Fall semester doesn’t start for two weeks,” he says.

  “You’re on fire today with the observations,” I say, going to the closet and pulling
out the huge duffel bag I purchased a couple of days ago. I have about four times as many clothes as when I moved in, thanks to Ethan’s shopping spree, and he insisted that I keep them. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with all of them, unless I decide to take on a career as a life-sized Barbie, but I’m not ready to part with them either.

  Ethan’s all up in my face, taking the bag out of my hand and holding it out of reach. “I never said you had to move out as soon as the party was over,” he says. “Stay until the end of the summer.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but my housing crisis has come to a close,” I say with a timid smile. “Since I work in the dean’s office during the school year, they’ll let me move into the dorms early for no additional charge as long as I take on a couple of work shifts.”

  “You’re leaving this to move into the dorms early?”

  I feel my temper starting to spike at the condescension in his tone. “You want me to stay? As what, your whore?”

  His face goes furious. “It’s not like that and you know it.”

  “Yeah? What’s it like, Ethan? What is this?”

  His mouth twists in frustration, but instead of responding, he tosses the bag behind him like a petulant child, crossing his arms as I stomp over to retrieve it.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice calmer but no less cold.

  I throw my hands up in exasperation, abandoning all pretense of packing. “I thought I just did.”

  “Only because I asked.”

  “I don’t report to you, Ethan!” I say, fed up with his childish reaction. “You can pull the control-freak routine with your next girlfriend, but don’t you dare try it on me.”

  His eyes meet mine. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

  Exactly. I close my eyes briefly. “You know what I meant.”

  Ethan rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and I hate that I’m starting to adore that frequent gesture. “What about our screenplay?”

  “We’ll get it done. We don’t have to turn it in for a couple of weeks, and we have most of the major scenes laid out.”

  I haven’t told him, but I added the whole making-out-on-the-couch episode to the scene list—omitting, of course, the abrupt ending. In our movie, the heroine wouldn’t be damaged goods who doesn’t know whether or not she’s ever had sex. In the movie, Tyler and Kayla would consummate. Professor Holbrook had said he’d wanted conflict. And sex would definitely add conflict.

  I still don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that that particular plot development won’t be based on a true story.

  “What about the ending?” he asks.

  “Still open-ended,” I say more calmly, bending down to grab the bag and hoisting it onto the bed. “I thought maybe we could get some inspiration from this trip. Maybe have a big blowup with the ex-girlfriend or something.”

  He smiles at that. “You want me to get into a public fight with Olivia for the sake of a two-credit class?”

  “Well, we’ve got to have something good for our denouement.”

  “You act like I’m supposed to know what that means.”

  “The climax. The explosive ending,” I explain. “I know up until now we’ve been loosely basing it on our own experiences, but that won’t work for the final scenes. We can’t just have Tyler and Kayla go quietly into the night.”

  “As you plan to do,” he says.

  “As do you,” I say, giving him a look out of the corner of my eye.

  “Yeah, well,” he says, rubbing his neck again, “I suspect you’ll do it better. You hating the sunshine and all. Creeping in the night is just your style.”

  He’s trying to make me smile, but I find I’m not up to it. In fact, I don’t like that description of me at all, and that scares the crap out of me. I’d better not be losing my edge after a few short weeks of wearing high heels and short skirts.

  I feel his eyes boring into my back as I turn to load a pile of black shirts into the bag, and I will him to acknowledge what neither of us has mentioned: the fact we’ve now kissed twice for reasons that have nothing to do with pretending.

  I want him to tell me that the movie’s becoming true. That Pygmalion is falling in love with the girl he created.

  But he doesn’t.

  Instead he wanders to my nightstand and picks up a picture. “Your mom?” he asks.

  I don’t bother looking up. I have the photograph memorized. It’s my parents and me the night of the homecoming game. I’d just been crowned the sophomore homecoming princess, and they were proud. I remember thinking that nothing in my life would ever feel as good as that moment.

  So far I’ve been right.

  Ethan isn’t saying anything, and when I turn to make sure he’s not up to his elbows in thongs, I see him still staring at the picture.

  “You were a cheerleader,” he says.

  “Good eye,” I mutter, resisting the urge to rip the picture from his hands.

  “And a tiara.”

  I say nothing. I know what he’s thinking: What the hell happened to you? Except he already knows.

  “Some guys have a thing for cheerleaders,” he says, his voice easy.

  I roll my eyes as I start tossing socks into the bag. “Let me guess. You want to know if I still have my old uniform.”

  He sets the picture back on the nightstand and moves toward the door. “Nah. Not my speed. But I think I could develop a thing for girls in combat boots.”

  I spin around in surprise, wanting to see his face, wanting to know if he means what I think he means.

  But he’s already gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ethan

  I’m on a boat with Stephanie again. Only this time the boat is actually an enormous chartered yacht, and the tiny little swimsuit she wore last time would absolutely not be appropriate.

  My parents aren’t exactly the type to break with tradition, and they kick off their Hamptons weekend spectacle the same way they do every year: a “black and white” cocktail party on a pimped-out mansion of a boat, in which everything from the food to the requested guest attire is—you guessed it—black and white.

  I grab two flutes from the champagne fountain, only to realize that I’ve lost Stephanie in the crush. I told her I’d be right back with the bubbly but was stopped by about a dozen of my parents’ already tipsy friends, and I’ve left her alone for a good fifteen minutes now.

  Weaving through the crowds, I keep my eye out for her shiny dark head. She’s wearing heels, which means she won’t be quite as minuscule as usual, but she’s still short. A good deal shorter than say, Olivia, whom I’m also keeping an eye out for, but not in the excited-to-see-you way.

  My father warned me that she’d be here. I already knew, of course. Although her family isn’t an official co-host, they always host the clambake and bonfire extravaganza that follows this fancy cocktail party. My only consolation is that my mom muttered something about Michael having a conflict. She’d asked me for details—like I’d know.

  But at least it’s looking like I’ll have to face only one demon this weekend. Although the thought doesn’t seem as heinous as long as Stephanie is by my side.

  The crowd parts briefly and I finally see her, my breath hitching a little in a way that annoys me. If forced to choose, I prefer the swimsuit version of Stephanie on a boat, but this version is pretty spectacular.

  Her dress is strapless and white, but there’s a black belty thing just under her boobs to keep it from being too boring and bridal. And I don’t have a foot fetish or anything, but I’m digging the white sandals combined with the black toenail polish. I know the black polish is for the sake of this evening’s theme, but it also reminds me of the dark polish she wore when we first met, and I love the subtle nod to the real Stephanie that’s lurking beneath the good-girl dress and makeup.

  She’s talking to some dude our age I don’t recognize, and I can tell from the way his gaze keeps dropping away from her face that I’m
not the only one who appreciates her primping effort. A stab of something hot and bitter creeps up my back, and I recognize it as the same emotion that went through me when I walked into our apartment and saw her and David together.

  Jealousy.

  I slide up beside her, putting a hand on her back. She glances up at me as she accepts the glass of champagne, and I can sense the amusement there. She knows exactly what I’m doing: I’m claiming.

  “Hey,” she says softly.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  The other dude’d have to be a moron not to get the hint.

  Our eyes hold for a beat longer than necessary before she puts on what I recognize as a society smile. It’s the same one I’ve seen on my mother and Olivia countless times, and I don’t know whether I’m proud or annoyed that Stephanie seems to have mastered it.

  “Ethan, this is Austin. He goes to NYU too.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, extending a hand. “What major?”

  “Econ,” he answers as he shakes my hand. He’s friendly enough, but I can tell he’s lost interest after learning that Stephanie’s taken, and after a few minutes of stale chitchat about favorite professors and what’s next after graduation, he moves away, leaving Stephanie and me to ourselves.

  She clinks her glass to mine before turning toward the water and bracing her forearms on the railing. “I’ll give you this, Price, you filthy-rich kids certainly know how to do a party right.”

  “You don’t think it’s pretentious?” I ask, turning to mimic her posture.

  Stephanie snorts. “Of course it’s pretentious. But it’s also pretty damn nice.”

  Her voice is devoid of scorn, and I’m oddly relieved that she can hang in this world without feeling disdainful of all the opulence. Because even though it is opulent, and completely, disgustingly over the top, it’s also my world. It’s my future. One day it’ll be me hosting Hamptons parties on behalf of Price Holdings.

  I drain the rest of my champagne, letting the flute dangle from my fingers by its stem over the water. “You know, now that I’m here, I feel a little foolish that I was so scared to face this alone. I don’t know why it was so important that I have a girlfriend. There’s no shame in a twenty-one-year-old coming to his parents’ party alone, you know?”