Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  She won’t last a day in my world. Everyone from my parents to my friends to my colleagues will talk about her behind her back. I can’t ask that of her.

  But neither can I ask her to change.

  I meet her eyes, and I know the second she understands. This isn’t going to work.

  But I want it to. Hell, I’m determined. Maybe she just needs to see that she doesn’t have to wear that shit. Maybe then she’ll get rid of it for good.

  And if she doesn’t … well, we’ll work it out. I think.

  I extend my hand. “Let’s go to brunch.”

  She looks surprised at the offer, and I feel a little pang that she thinks I wouldn’t want to be seen with her like this.

  And it hurts a hell of a lot more that for a second there, I actually didn’t want to be seen with her like this.

  “Ethan, are you … I can change.”

  For a second, I’m tempted. For her sake as much as mine. But her eyes are vacant and lost, and I know that if I ask that of her, she’ll be lost to me.

  I shake my head. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Stephanie

  Everyone is staring. I mean, I knew they would, but …

  It’s worse than I thought.

  Not that I have anyone to blame but myself. I knew when I’d dressed up like a character out of The Nightmare Before Christmas in this group that I’d be getting some looks. That I’d fit in about as well as a mutt among purebred poodles.

  But I needed to know. Needed to know how Ethan would react. If he’d even see the boots and the eyeliner, or if he’d see me.

  The answer was heartbreaking.

  He was holding my hand now, but the gesture felt empty. Cold. As though my black T-shirt with the name of some random rock band I don’t even like printed across the front was slowly erasing everything that happened last night.

  I give him credit for trying to pretend like we’re okay. I really do. But the words we exchanged when he first entered my room are hanging between us, and I know we’re both guilty. Me for not trusting him. For waking up this morning with the paralyzing fear that I’d just given my virginity to a real-life Pygmalion—a guy who’d fallen for his creation instead of the real deal. For testing him. And him for making me right. Because he did look at me differently now that I’m not dressed up like an Easter egg.

  Just like it’s as clear as day that he’s uncomfortable right now, holding the hand of someone who’s so clearly not one of them.

  “Ethan!”

  We both turn around, grateful for a distraction from the stares. From the silence between us.

  There’s a well-dressed older man whom I remember seeing at the bonfire but haven’t met yet. He’s wearing a white polo and khaki shorts. The guy is solidly middle-aged but looks more tanned and fit than most of my social circle of twentysomethings. In fact, the guy could be Ethan in several years. Or what Ethan might be if he quits hanging around me.

  “Hey, Pat,” Ethan says, giving the older man a friendly if slightly strained smile.

  “Just wanted to meet your new girl. Didn’t have a chance earlier in the weekend.”

  Ethan hesitates, not enough for Pat to notice, but I notice, and the tightness in my chest is back.

  “Sure. This is Stephanie Kendrick. My girlfriend.”

  I should feel mollified that he says it out loud, but there’s no enthusiasm there. Certainly no pride.

  “Pat Middleton,” the guy says, shaking my hand. “My daughter and Ethan grew up together.”

  I almost snicker. Sure. If by “grew up together” he means “had pretty much been betrothed.” I’d paid enough attention to last names enough to know that I was meeting Olivia’s dad. And although the man was nothing less than polite, his puzzled expression said it all.

  My daughter’s being passed over for her?

  “Well, we should get something to eat before we head out,” Ethan is saying.

  “Sure, sure. Good game yesterday, by the way. Maybe the four of us can head out next weekend for another round if it cools down a little bit?”

  “Sure, definitely,” Ethan mumbles before saying some sort of lame good-bye and pulling me toward the buffet table.

  I glance at his profile. There’s something else warring with embarrassment on his face now. Guilt.

  And I’m pretty sure I know what’s causing it.

  “The four of you?” I say casually as we begin mechanically heaping food onto our plates. Everything looks flawlessly prepared, although I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to eat a bite.

  “Sure, same foursome from yesterday’s round,” he says, taking way too long to select the right serving of eggs Benedict.

  “So you, your dad, Pat, and … Olivia?”

  He drops the spoon with more force than necessary. “Yes, I played golf with Liv, okay? It was hardly salacious.”

  Except you didn’t tell me about it.

  It’s not a big deal, really. I mean, golf isn’t the sexiest of sports, and their dads were there. And to be fair, I didn’t ask about his golf game. I was completely willing to buy that it had been a harmless round of the world’s most boring sport.

  Except …

  It was a sport that I’ve never played. Will probably never want to play. I’ll never be invited to join “his people” for a round of golf next weekend.

  “Well, have fun with Liv next weekend,” I say, hating the petty jealousy in my voice at the thought of the two of them in little matchy outfits with their clean-cut dads and probably some mesclun salad lunch to follow, but unable to change my tone.

  “Christ, Stephanie. Don’t pick a fight. Not about this.” Ethan heads to one of the vacant round tables and I follow, feeling like an outcast foreign exchange student. Except I’m not from another country, I’m from another freaking world.

  I let my plate clank to the table, delighted when a strawberry rolls off my plate onto the white cloth. Hope that shit stains.

  “I’m not picking a fight. I just want to know why you didn’t tell me that you spent most of yesterday with your ex-girlfriend.”

  He shoves a pile of some truffled potato shit in his mouth, and I have a sudden craving for diner-style greasy hash browns, just because it’s normal. “Probably because I knew you’d respond like this,” he says irritably.

  Ethan has a point. I’m acting like that totally immature bitch of a girlfriend from the movies, the one who always gets dumped. But I’m apparently a glutton for punishment because I keep going.

  “Was it fun?”

  “Was what fun?” He drops his fork on his plate, and we quit bothering to pretend we’re hungry.

  “Your little country-club expedition. Was. It. Fun?”

  “Sure …” he says slowly. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

  And then I know why he didn’t bother mentioning it. Maybe nothing sexual happened with Olivia, maybe not even anything flirty.

  But there’s something more dangerous than sex.

  Compatibility.

  Ethan and Olivia have it.

  Ethan and I do not.

  It’s the same reason he was freaked out this morning by my attire. Hell, it’s the very reason I put on these clothes; I just didn’t realize it. Because my subconscious knew what I didn’t. That although he cared about me—and I didn’t doubt for a second that he did—it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be happy on the outskirts of his world, when the rest of his friends were yachting and I was trying to drag him to some one-man off-off-Broadway show.

  He would miss out on golf games, tennis matches, and whatever other preppy crap because of me.

  And because I care about him too, I won’t let that happen.

  It’s why I have to let him go.

  I feel my lips curve into a gross semblance of a smile. “Guess we have the end of our Pygmalion movie, huh?”

  “What?” he snaps, looking exasperated.

  I tell myself to shut up and walk away, but my stupid mouth keeps running. �
��You know, all this time, I sort of thought it was going to be one of those trashy romantic comedy scripts. I’m actually kind of relieved that it’s real.”

  “Stephanie …”

  I keep going. “It’s pretty standard, actually. You, as Pygmalion, are forced to realize that what you thought you cared for was something of your own creation and not real. And I, as the subject, am forced to realize that it was too good to be true. That someone like you wouldn’t fall for damaged goods with multiple piercings.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “That sounds like a bunch of melodramatic babble.”

  “Give it time. You’ll see I’m right.”

  He frowns, his bored expression turning intense. “Wait—what are you saying?”

  You know what I’m saying. “We do what we always planned to do at the end of all this,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice that my voice cracks. “We go our separate ways. No harm, no foul.”

  My own trite phrase almost makes me wince, but throwing out clichés is easier than saying what I want to. That I’m hurt. That I’m scared. That I love him.

  “Stephanie, let’s talk about this. I know this morning has been rough, but maybe we can compromise.”

  I feel like he’s just landed a karate chop on my solar plexus. “Compromise? You want me to compromise who I am?”

  “Maybe this isn’t who you are!” he says, his voice rising enough to draw a few looks. “I’ve got nothing against the color black, but you’re just trying to prove some point that nobody cares about but you!”

  Wait, what? That catches me off guard.

  He thinks I’m doing this because I’m protecting myself? I’m doing it for him.

  Aren’t I?

  I push away the seed of doubt. “I’ve gotta go.”

  He tries to grab my hand, but I snatch it back.

  “Don’t leave me,” he says, his eyes pleading. “I just need a minute. Let me think for a minute.”

  I hold his gaze. “Think about what, Ethan? Whether you want your golf games and your country club, or me?”

  “Who says I have to choose?”

  “Because I don’t belong here! How do you think this will work, you doing your upper-crust shit on weekends and me doing my goth agenda on mine, and we see each other … when?”

  “We do go to the same school.”

  “A school with over thirty thousand students, Ethan. We don’t have any of the same classes, none of the same friends. We’re on opposite sides of campus.…”

  His hand reaches out for mine, but I snatch mine back, ignoring the pain in his eyes.

  “You’re pushing me away.” His voice is flat.

  Am I? Maybe.

  But staying isn’t an option. If I stay, I’ll become whatever he wants me to be. I know I will.

  And if the time I’ve spent with Ethan over the past month has taught me anything, it’s that I’m done letting other people shape me. Done getting piercings because I want to push away my dad. Done getting a tattoo because I want to separate myself from that foolish girl who was Caleb’s girlfriend. Done wearing all black because I want to be that troubled girl who just lost her mother.

  I’m not entirely sure what I want anymore. But I need to figure it out.

  And I can’t do that as Ethan’s puppet girlfriend.

  “I’ve got to go, Ethan.”

  “You mean like … you want to get back to the city? I can take you—”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I see the second he realizes it. His eyes turn from gold to black and his features are completely blank.

  He looks mad. But he also looks relieved. And that burns more than anything else.

  I stand, almost turning over my plate in my clumsiness, and hating that I can’t meet his eyes.

  “Stephanie,” he says hoarsely.

  I meet his eyes. Silently, I beg him to beg me to stay.

  He looks away. “You accused me of being Pygmalion … of falling for my own creation, or whatever.”

  I swallow. Nod.

  His eyes clash with mine again as he stands to tower over me. “You may be right, but that’s not the whole story.”

  “No?” My voice is pathetic. Barely a whisper.

  He leans in slightly, bracing his arms on the table. “I may be the Pygmalion in the story, but you’re the statue. All that black shit you hide behind? That’s just your version of ivory. You have the chance to come alive, Stephanie, and you’re choosing to be a lifeless piece of rock.”

  I feel the color drain from my face.

  Is he right? I know he’s right. Yet I still can’t speak.

  Because being the statue is easier.

  He straightens, and right before my eyes, I watch my Ethan fade away. His expression is blank, his eyes vacant, and just like that, he’s the don’t-give-a-shit jock I met on that first day.

  Before I can run the other way to lick my wounds, he catches my eyes and flays me with one more cut. “I’ll be in touch about the screenplay. I’m thinking we might have to reconsider the female lead. God knows we can’t base her on you. We need someone with guts. Someone not afraid to bleed a little. So go back to being the statue, Stephanie. But don’t expect me to be the one to bring you back to life next time. I’m done.”

  And then he walks away.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ethan

  I’m dimly aware of making small talk with a handful of people after I walk away from the table—walk away from Stephanie.

  Every instinct is screaming at me to turn back. To take her in my arms and tell her that we will find a way to make this work.

  But I don’t.

  She’s fucking bailing on me. On us.

  After everything, after last night, she’s ready to call it quits because I didn’t swoon over her boots and her creepy makeup.

  So I walked away first, thinking it would hurt less that way.

  But I’m wrong. Because turning away from her feels like I have a knife in my chest.

  And probably in my back too, if I know Stephanie.

  Although I’m no longer sure that I do. That scared, indifferent creature isn’t the feisty, gutsy girl I know. I meant what I said to her: she really is turning into the statue. I mean, I know why, of course. To protect herself and all that shit.

  But does she really think she has to protect herself from me?

  Well, you did flip your shit because she had more earrings than you’d prefer. Why the hell should she trust you?

  I rub a hand over my face. I’m an ass.

  A really, really confused ass.

  I don’t even realize where I’m headed until I’m there, climbing onto my father’s sailboat and heading toward the bow.

  It had always been my getaway when I needed space from my parents during the summers. A chance to gather my thoughts, or escape lectures, or just have a break from people. Later I’d shared my getaway with Olivia, and it had become a place to make out under the stars.

  I freeze when I catch the familiar sight of dark blond hair. As though I’d conjured her up with my memories, Olivia is there. I’d recognize her slim back and shoulder-length hair anywhere. She’s sitting in my spot with her legs thrown over the ledge, staring out at the water.

  I mean to back away slowly, find another place to be alone, but she senses my presence. Her eyes aren’t the least bit surprised when she turns around to find me, and it’s as though she knew it would be me.

  Almost as though she’s been waiting for me.

  I don’t know that I’m ready for this conversation, but suddenly the timing feels right. Maybe I can get Olivia and Stephanie completely out of my system and go into my senior year with a fresh start.

  Maybe find a girl who won’t cheat on me. A girl who’s real rather than pretending.

  She scoots over as I walk toward her, and I sit next to her. Before, I would have sat so close our hips were touching, but today there are inches between us, and I know the space isn’t just physical. It’s e
motional too.

  “Where’s Stephanie?” she asks softly.

  I’m impressed that she uses her name. I’d always imagined ex-girlfriends as sneering Where’s your new girlfriend? or something even more derogatory when it comes to their competition. But Olivia’s never been catty.

  Unfaithful, yes. Bitchy, no.

  “Waiting for the jitney, I presume,” I reply, referring to the bus that shuttles dozens of Hampton-goers to and from the city.

  “Without you?”

  “Yup.”

  She glances down at her legs swinging above the water. “Want to talk about it?”

  It’s not what Olivia and I should be talking about. We should be talking about us, and yet Olivia and I don’t seem to be the important part here.

  When Olivia and I ended, I was pissed. Humiliated.

  But I don’t remember feeling this crippled. Like I didn’t know what my next steps were supposed to be.

  So yeah, I guess I do want to talk about it, and she’s here …

  “Stephanie and I … we’re different,” I say, not knowing where to start.

  Olivia glances at my profile. “Different how?”

  I stare out at a distant yacht. “She’s not like us, you know?”

  “Snobbish, you mean?”

  I glance out of her at the corner of my eye, surprised to see that she’s smiling. “Are we? Snobbish?”

  “Ethan, we’re sitting on a luxury sailboat outside a mansion in the freaking Hamptons, and I don’t think either one of our current ‘casual outfits’ cost under five hundred dollars.”

  I wince. When she puts it that way …

  “But it’s not a bad thing, you know. To have money. It’s not evil.”

  “Noooo,” she says, drawing the word out. “But it can be toxic when we let it become our bubble. When we’re not willing to go outside it.”

  Her words are like lemon juice on a paper cut. Is that what I’m doing? Hiding like a scared child inside a bubble that cares more about class and appearance than substance?

  For the first time, I wonder what my dad will do if and when he learns of my mother’s affair. Will he brush it under the carpet to maintain appearances? Will he pretend it didn’t happen in order to maintain his working relationship with Mike?