Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7)

by Miranda Kenneally

  “Well, this conversation just got weird.”

  Oliver snorts.

  “Jenna had a guy over—he’d spent the night—and Dad was pissed.” I lower my voice and do an imitation. “I don’t pay for this condo so you can entertain boys here. Grrr.”

  My brother laughs hysterically. “Dad really said that?”

  “Yep.”

  Oliver parks outside Pizza Hut. Other than clubbing, his other favorite thing is eating poorly. With an arm around my shoulders, he leads me inside. The pizza is great, of course, but his real reason for coming here is the mini arcade, which has ancient games, like the original Donkey Kong. He orders us a large cheese pizza, then ushers me into the arcade to play while we wait. Two little boys are playing air hockey, but otherwise, we have the place to ourselves. Oliver commandeers Contra, and I decide on Super Mario.

  We talk as our fingers work the buttons. “How’s your Yale application coming? Need me to read your draft?”

  “It’s going fine.”

  “You don’t sound all that excited.”

  I make Mario jump over a hole in the ground. “It’s just the admissions director got me thinking about what I want to do with my life, and I don’t really know.”

  Oliver’s fingers frantically tap away on the controls. “That’s pretty typical, Tee.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to go to Yale. All I know is I’ve been working my ass off for years.”

  “And it’s going to pay off.”

  During this entire conversation, Oliver doesn’t look up from Contra. I love him, but he’s just like Dad. Ambitious. Focused. Eyes always on the prize.

  But should you play a game if you don’t know what the prize is? Life is not like The Price Is Right, where they show you three doors and tell you to pick one. The prize might be a new car, but sometimes it’s a month’s supply of paper towels. What if I pick the wrong door by going to Yale, majoring in business, getting a job at the family firm, and end up living a miserable life because I did what was expected of me?

  I’m proud of my family, and I want to help continue the business Grandpa started, but shouldn’t I listen to my heart too? I was born with an insane amount of privilege, and I know I’m lucky, but with that privilege comes responsibility to do important things in my life.

  I jab a button, and Mario bumps a brick box with his head. It bursts, and a coin pops out.

  “I’m worried about you,” Oliver says. “You’re questioning Yale? That’s where you’ve always wanted to go. And then you had all those pills… Is something else driving this? Are you depressed?”

  I accidentally run into a Koopa who shrinks me back to Little Mario. “No, I’m not depressed.”

  “This is all just so weird.”

  “Oll, I already talk to a counselor four days a week. Can’t we just eat and hang out?”

  We go back to tapping on our games until the pizza and a pitcher of Coke come. We take a break to eat, and I’m hopeful the pizza will keep him from talking, but he chatters on with his mouth full.

  “I still can’t believe Ezra took a leave of absence from Cornell,” Oliver says, ripping off a bite of crust. “I’m worried he’s going to drop out.”

  “I hope he goes back too.”

  “So wait. You want Ezra to go back to school, but you’re weirded out about applying to Yale? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Ezra knows what he wants to do—”

  “Yeah, he wants to work in construction. He doesn’t have to go to Cornell for that.”

  “He wants more…”

  Oliver scrunches his forehead. “What else does he want?”

  “It’s not my place to say.”

  He takes another bite and chews. “Would y’all stay together if he went back to Cornell?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

  “But you broke up with Ben because you didn’t want to do long distance. And I know you loved him.”

  I rush to cover up my lie about Ben. “Ezra’s different.”

  I hate that about lies, how you constantly have to stay on your toes. Telling the truth is so much better. It allows you freedom.

  Oliver sets down his second slice. “Ezra’s my best friend. I know he’s serious about you, and I don’t want you hurting him, okay?”

  “I won’t. I care about him so much.”

  Great. Not only do people think I take drugs, they doubt my character. The lie I told to cover my breakup with Ben doesn’t really reflect how I feel. If I loved a person, I would make it work, no matter the distance. If Ben hadn’t betrayed me and one of us had moved away, I would’ve worked hard to keep our relationship intact.

  Now my brother thinks I’ll dump his friend. Probably thinks I’m still taking pills. Soon, his opinion of me will be in the toilet. I need to get us back to normal.

  “How about some two-player Mario?” I challenge him.

  He wads up his napkin. “Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong.”

  • • •

  Ezra and I have settled into a routine. We meet up every morning before he goes to work and I go to school, and whenever we can, we meet up after soccer practice in the evenings. He started wanting to play again himself, so he joined an intramural rec league in town. His team is made up of mostly Spanish-speaking guys who barely speak any English but rock at soccer. Ezra’s been holding his own in goal. I love going to cheer him on, especially when they play shirts versus skins and Ezra is on skins.

  Even with soccer, and even though he has me, I can tell he’s restless. He may love working on the construction crew, but I know it’s not enough for him. He’s too smart, too ambitious. He has dreams he’s too scared to reach out and take.

  Before school one day, I meet up with him for our usual coffee. But I got there a few minutes earlier than usual and caught him doodling and writing in a sketchpad with a pencil. He hates writing and reading, so it shocks me to find him like this.

  I pass him the One coffee on me! coupon to “pay” for my cup. He slips the coupon into his front jeans pocket, raising his eyebrows at me. At some point, I’ll steal that coupon out of his pocket so he’ll buy me another coffee tomorrow. He loves it when I put my hands all over him looking for it. Find the coupon has become a game for us.

  “What were you working on?”

  He shuts the sketchbook. “It’s nothing.”

  I snatch his white paper bag. “If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna eat all your doughnuts.”

  He grabs at the bag, trying to steal it back from me, but I hold it behind our booth.

  “You’re evil, Tease. Hey, I’m gonna start calling you that. Evil Tease.”

  “Stop trying to distract me. What were you writing?”

  “I wasn’t writing anything.”

  “You sending a love note to another girl?”

  He lifts an eyebrow mischievously. “I think after last Friday night, we’ve established I don’t want anybody else.”

  My face blazes at the memory. Even though we said we weren’t going to fool around because my brother was in the house, we ended up kissing for what felt like hours, and his shorts and my pajamas ended up on the rug. Suddenly, I need to fan myself.

  “Stop trying to distract me,” I say again, more sternly this time.

  He pushes the sketchpad over to me. I open it. He’s been drawing a house.

  “Is this a Colonial?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He smiles. “They’re my favorite design.”

  “Did you draw this?”

  He shrugs a little, then nods.

  “It’s great! Do you have others in here?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is strained and thick. “When I was little, I loved drawing floor plans. I loved using a ruler and deciding where to put doors and windows. I li
ked designing impossible houses with six stories, ten bedrooms, a game room, and an indoor swimming pool.”

  “Can it also have a big doghouse?”

  He smiles. “As long as I get my doughnuts back.”

  I pass him the bag. “Thanks for showing me your drawing. Have you checked out schools with good architecture programs? The University of Tennessee at Knoxville has one.”

  He gives me a long, annoyed look, and for a moment, I feel guilty for being a nagging girlfriend, but it seems to me that a serious relationship comes with an obligation to be truthful, and sometimes that means nagging.

  “Let’s talk about something else, okay?” he asks.

  “I won’t bring it up again. Just promise me you’ll consider it.”

  He nods curtly, and stares at his Colonial drawing, then picks up his pencil to work on it a little more.

  • • •

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I am,” I tell the guidance counselor. After I told her how things are getting better at soccer and it’s a lot more fun now, we spent most of this period going over my essays and application for Yale. But my life still feels weird. I twine and untwine my fingers.

  “What’s wrong?” Miss Brady asks.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Go on,” she encourages.

  “I hate math. Why would I major in business?”

  “Isn’t that what people in your family do?”

  “Yes, but it’s not what I want.”

  A smile blooms on Miss Brady’s face. “So what do you want then?”

  “I’m not totally sure.”

  “You should play to your strengths.”

  There’s an inspirational poster behind her desk that says Strength, but it’s just a picture of Mount Everest. I’ve never understood what those posters are about. “What do you mean, play to my strengths?”

  “What are you good at? What do you enjoy?”

  I think for a long moment. “Museums.”

  “Museums?”

  “I love any kind of museum, but my favorite is the National Gallery in Vienna. I could see myself being a curator, but I love art, science, and history equally—I’m not sure how I’d choose. I just like learning.” Miss Brady smiles, so I keep going. “I also love animals…my boyfriend says I should become a vet. I kind of like that idea, but I don’t know that I could handle putting pets to sleep. I just know I’m good at history and that I love museums.”

  “Great. Well, I’m glad that you are open to other options.”

  “It’s kind of scary though, you know? One time, I told my dad it might be cool to be a museum curator, and he said there’s no money in that.”

  Miss Brady looks around at her office, focusing on the patch of wall where the white paint is peeling away. “I could’ve used my psychology degree to work in a fancy practice and make lots of money, but I wanted to work with kids. It’s your life. If you want to live, you need to do what you love.”

  I think back to what Ezra said about taking risks. Taking a risk can be scary, but it can also be worthwhile.

  Museums are one prize I think I could keep my eyes on. But can I give up my desire to fulfill my family’s expectations?

  Stupid, but Ballsy

  The election is less than a week away.

  The last time Dad was up for reelection, I was eleven years old. Back then, my biggest problem was being freaked out about having to shave my legs and wear a bra on election night. Dad’s campaign managers were constantly trotting me around in front of voters. I brought the cute factor.

  Now, I’m under orders not to speak to anyone or do anything out of the ordinary for the next seven days, but I wish I could help Dad in some way. He’s barely sleeping. Neither is Mom.

  My brother and sister are coming home this weekend to join him for speeches around the state and will stay until after the election on Tuesday. I can’t wait until it’s over, because then I’m going to tell Mom and Dad the truth about what happened at St. Andrew’s. The best thing I can do right now is lay low.

  On the Wednesday night before the election, Ezra picks me up for his intramural soccer game. They’re down a man, so I end up playing right forward for them. It is so nice to take shots on goal again. I love just playing to play. When I score a goal, the team lifts me up on their shoulders and parades me around the field, laughing. Ezra grumbles at that, but I’m having a ball.

  After the game, he and I grab dinner at Jiffy Burger. I always like going there, because it’s full of trucker guys cursing up a storm. It’s highly entertaining when they say things like, “I had to pull the truck over ’cause my engine got hotter than a billy goat’s ass in a pepper patch.”

  When we’re finished eating, Ezra asks if I want to go back to his place.

  “I wish I could, but my Yale application is due Friday. I should proofread it a few more times.”

  Ezra opens the passenger door of his Range Rover, then helps me inside. He jogs around to his side of the SUV and climbs into the driver’s seat.

  “Are you sure about applying there?”

  I nod. “It’s what I’ve been working toward forever, Ez.”

  “But if you get in early decision, you have to go there.” He starts the ignition. “Shouldn’t you take some time to try to figure out what you want?”

  “People in my family go to Ivy League schools. My parents expect me to do something important with my life.”

  He shakes his head. “You can still do something important even if you don’t go to Yale. Look at Jack Goodwin. His parents were pissed when he started dating somebody who works for him, but his life isn’t over.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me going to Yale, you know.”

  “But what’s right about it? Tell me one good reason you want to go to there, and I will stop bothering you about this.”

  “I don’t understand why you get to press me about my future, but I can’t even suggest you go back to school without you snapping at me to drop it.”

  Ezra drums his hands on the steering wheel, agitated. “I just want what’s best for you.”

  “That’s all I want for you too.”

  I’m so close to telling him I love him.

  We ride in silence all the way back to my house, and when we arrive, there’s a familiar-looking silver Jaguar in the driveway. Is that Michael Williamson’s car? We went to school together at St. Andrew’s. I climb out of the Range Rover and move to get a closer look. Sure enough, when I peer in the front window, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, playing with his phone.

  I knock on the window. He rolls it down. “Tee!”

  I throw Ezra a nervous glance and shrug. “Michael, hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Ben agreed to let me copy his chemistry homework if I gave him a ride. I guess he wants to win you back or something.” He gives Ezra a sly smile. “But something tells me I got the better end of my deal with Ben.”

  “How long have you been here?” I rush to ask.

  “Five minutes or so.”

  My phone beeps in my hand. A text from Mom. Come home NOW.

  Then my phone buzzes. Dad Calling. Dad Calling.

  I gaze up at my house.

  Leaving Michael and Ezra behind, I feel as if I’m floating—and not in a good way.

  “Tee!” Ezra calls out behind me.

  When I reach the front steps, I break into a jog. I crash through the front door.

  Marina heads me off in the foyer. “Your parents want to see you in the senator’s office.”

  I rush up the stairs and into Dad’s study. The lights are low. Burning wood crackles in the fireplace, snapping under the intense heat.

  Ben is standing there, shifting from foot to foot. Mom’s face is redder than a fire extinguisher. Dad has his glasses off and is rubbing his ey
es.

  “Taylor Lukens. What have you done?” Mom says in a low voice. Then it turns into a screech. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  Ezra suddenly appears beside me and places his hand on my shoulder. When Ben sees him touching me, the look on his face morphs from pain to torture.

  “What’s going on?” Ezra asks, taking in the scene. “Why are you shouting, Mrs. Lukens?”

  “Ask Taylor!” Mom yells. “How could you? You’ve ruined your father’s career! And for nothing!”

  Ezra pulls me toward him.

  Dad still hasn’t said a word.

  “What did you do?” I ask Ben.

  “I had to tell the truth, Tee.” His words come out in a rush. “I’m sorry. I just had to make things right. Before your father’s election.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” Mom snaps. “Polls are down by three points, and the election’s in six days! What good does your little confession do us now?”

  Ben winces. “I thought maybe if the press knew the truth—”

  Ezra’s hand tenses on my shoulder. I can feel his body stiffen.

  “The last thing we need is for the press to rehash this,” Mom interrupts. “We need good news, not bad.”

  “Dad?” I say with a shaky voice.

  He pulls his hand away from his eyes but still won’t acknowledge me.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Ezra asks.

  I turn, place a hand on his chest, and look up at him. “The pills weren’t mine.”

  Shock fills his face. It slowly turns to understanding. Then anger.

  He lets me go, stalks toward Ben, lifts his hand, and makes a fist.

  Ben puts his hands up to protect himself, but he’s too slow. Ezra punches him square in the jaw. Ben stumbles to the side, nearly taking out an antique vase on his way to the hardwood floor. Dad rushes over, pulling Ezra off Ben. Ezra tries to break free from Dad’s arms, but Dad keeps a firm grip.

  “Son, stop it,” Dad says to Ezra. “Go sit down.” He jerks his pointer finger at a sofa on the other side of the office. Ben clutches the side of his face, rasping for breath.

  “Tee, tell me you’re lying,” Ezra gasps. “Tell me you didn’t cover for this little sh—”