Flawless

by Lara Chapman

  My question … guess I’ll go easy on you this time. What song always makes you happy when you hear it?

  Love, Kristen

  Without rereading it, I click Send.

  Second nail firmly secured in my self-created coffin.

  Monday morning, I pull the car to a stop in front of Kristen’s house at seven thirty sharp, the dead weight of dread firmly rooted in the pit of my stomach. It’s the same dread I woke up with this morning, knowing I’d be forced to face Kristen and the details of yet another romantic night she’s shared with Rock. I’m seriously tempted to just peel out, burn rubber, and leave her to avoid it all.

  By the time she finally bursts through the front door and races down the sidewalk, I’ve been waiting nearly fifteen minutes and we’re running dangerously late for school, which just adds to the tension building within me. I’m strung so tight you could practically play me like a fiddle.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she gushes, snapping her seat belt in place. She’s known me long enough to know I detest being late. The only thing I hate more is waiting on other people who are late.

  “It’s called an alarm clock,” I say, doing my best to avoid looking at her. I can never stay mad at her when she gives me the look.

  “We got home late last night,” she says.

  My throat tightens at the realization of what’s coming. “Doesn’t the museum close around six?”

  Kristen turns in her seat and talks to my notable profile, something only she is allowed to do. “Well, we left there around five thirty, then we ate dinner at Pepper’s Grill. I thought he was going to take me home, but he had something amazing planned.”

  Amazing. The word reverberates through my head, bringing on an instant massive headache. “Oh yeah?” I say, knowing there’s no escaping the details when we’re still five minutes from school.

  “Get this,” she says, hands out in front of her. “He took me to the Galleria and we went ice-skating. It was so wonderful. I mean, I’m a total klutz, so he was constantly grabbing me and picking me up. I’m telling you, Sarah, it was the most awesome date ever.”

  The vision of Kristen and Rock, hand in hand, arm in arm, laughing about her inability to stay off her butt is enough to shoot my headache into migraine status.

  And I have only myself to thank.

  The next time I see Kristen is in journalism. Of course, she and Rock are practically making out in class, so I’m a total third wheel when I take my seat in the next aisle. Kristen looks up, smiling lazily, like she’s in a love-induced haze. I guess if Rock was my boyfriend, I’d have a hard time keeping my hands and lips to myself, too.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “How’s it going?” Rock asks, turning the full effect of his attention on me. When he looks at me with those amazingly deep, sincere eyes, I have to remind myself he’s Kristen’s boyfriend and he’s just being sociable.

  I stare back at him, wishing like hell I had something incredible to say. Something that would make him wish he’d been with me last night. Something that would make him see he’s e-mailing and Facebooking me, not Kristen.

  Instead, I settle for a lame, “Pretty good. You?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” he says with a wink in Kristen’s direction.

  Instead of attempting an answer, I simply nod while opening my notebook.

  “Ignore her,” Kristen says. “She’s upset with me for making her late this morning.”

  “Not true,” I quip, keeping my eyes on the notebook and trying to look like I’m reviewing my notes from last week.

  “Whatever,” she says, then turns her attention back to Rock. “Sarah hates it when I’m late. It makes her downright crazy.”

  My heart picks up its pace and my mouth fights to spew a few choice words Kristen’s direction. How dare she air my faults? And, for the record, being punctual is so not a fault.

  “My mom is the same way,” Rock sympathizes.

  Oh my God. Now I’m being compared to his mother?

  Regardless of how badly I want to defend myself, I keep my mouth closed, not trusting the words that would fly out given half a chance. Getting into a fight with Kristen in front of Rock would not be cool.

  Rock reaches over and pats my shoulder, like he’s soothing a fussy preschooler. “I think it’s great. I like being on time, too.”

  That gets my attention and I look up to see him smiling. I swear, his smile could light matches. It’s that hot.

  Before I can reply, Kristen turns in her seat to face me. “I’ve got it!” A shiver of dread slinks down my back. Declarations like this from Kristen are a bad omen. Every single time.

  When I don’t ask for details, she huffs a frustrated breath. “Don’t you want to know?”

  “Not particularly,” I mumble, shaking my head, wondering what Rock makes of this exchange. Does he still see two best friends?

  “Well, too bad. I’m telling you anyway,” she says. “Why don’t I start riding to school with Rock?”

  A flush spreads across my chest and then my hands begin to shake.

  She can not be serious. We have ridden to high school together every single day. I can’t believe she’s letting a guy—even one as stellar as Rock—come between us.

  “I don’t think that’s going to solve your problem,” I say, cursing the quiver in my voice.

  “What problem? I don’t have a problem,” she says, 100 percent clueless that I’m fuming.

  “The problem you have getting ready on time. At least I’m used to it. No need to make Rock late for school.” Even as I say it, I know it’s a lost cause. Kristen gets what she wants.

  Period.

  Rock clears his throat. “I don’t mind driving you to school,” he says to Kristen, “but I don’t like the idea of breaking up your routine.” The last sentence is directed straight at me, those damn probing eyes sending little rivers of heat through me.

  Shaking my head, I focus on Kristen, ignoring the click of the door when Mrs. Freel shuts it behind her, signaling the beginning of class. “This is what you want?” I whisper to Kristen, shaky voice betraying the strength I’m attempting to exhibit.

  “Well, sure,” she says, confused. “This way, you don’t have to ever wait on me and you’ll be on time. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  I’m grateful Mrs. Freel begins speaking and keeps me from answering. Because, honestly, I would never tell her what I really want: that I want things to stay the same, that I don’t want to be alone. I mean, the thought of walking up those stairs every morning without her beside me is terrifying.

  More than anything, I just want my best friend back.

  After school, I stop at the grocery store and get some things for grilled tilapia. It’s a beautiful day outside, the kind of day that screams backyard barbecue. And the last thing I need is to sit around with a bunch of idle time to obsess about Rock and Kristen.

  I’m surprised when I turn onto our street and see a familiar red hot rod. Jen’s convertible. But it’s only five fifteen, so Mom definitely isn’t home yet. I mean, that’d be a first. Maybe Jen and Mom went somewhere together. That would totally thrill me; Mom needs a lot more fun in her life. I’ve been telling her that for years.

  After I pull into the driveway, I step out of the car, grocery bags in hand. Jen is leaning on the hood of her car, looking more casual than I’ve ever seen her in jeans and a fitted white Abercrombie T-shirt. Despite the fact that she’s about ten years too old to be wearing that kind of shirt, she manages to make it work.

  “Hi,” I say, walking toward her. “Are you waiting on Mom?”

  She shrugs, a confused look on her face. “She asked me to come over for dinner.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “She’s never home this early.”

  Jen frowns, twirling her keys around her index finger. “Well, I guess I can go run some errands and come back later. What time do you think she’ll be here?”

  “I never know,” I answer honestly. “But you
’re welcome to come in. I was going to grill some tilapia for dinner. Sound okay?”

  “Heavenly,” Jen says, smiling at me with beautifully whitened teeth. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I hang out until your mom gets here?”

  “Not as long as you help with dinner,” I say, returning her smile.

  Jen pushes herself off the car and reaches out to take a bag from me. “Let me give you a hand.”

  “Thanks,” I say, flexing my fingers to get the blood circulating again.

  I unlock and open the front door, then walk to the kitchen, where I dump the grocery bags, my purse, and my backpack. I make quick work of unpacking the groceries and pulling the usual seasonings from the pantry, actually feeling comforted by Jen’s unexpected presence.

  “Let me just put some rice on,” I say. This may not be the quiet evening I’d had planned, but it might be exactly what I need.

  Jen leans against the counter, watching me work. “Do you always do the cooking?”

  “Usually. Mom works so late, it’s just easier if I take care of dinner.”

  Before I can attempt continuing the conversation, Jen begins slowly walking around the kitchen and our adjoining living room. One of my favorite things about our house is that the kitchen opens to the rest of the house, so even when I’m in the kitchen I never feel isolated. I can turn on the television and watch MTV or the Discovery Channel and be content.

  Jen stops in front of a wall of pictures. Mom’s added pictures to that wall over the years, and now it’s nearly floor-to-ceiling framed photographs. Some are of me on various sport teams, or at school events. Some are of her at work, behind the news desk or in the field. But the majority of them are pictures of us together. My favorite picture was taken on vacation three years ago when Mom surprised me with a trip to Hawaii. We’re posing at the top of Diamond Head, nothing but a stellar sunrise and beach behind us. It’s particularly special since we haven’t been on a vacation since then.

  “Mom won’t take any of them down. She just keeps adding more,” I say, chopping the vegetables for a salad.

  “I don’t blame her,” Jen says, fake news-anchor smile I can spot a mile away tossed over her shoulder. “Every single one is gorgeous.”

  For some reason, the word “gorgeous” sticks in my head. I’ve been described a million different ways, but gorgeous is not one of them.

  “No pictures of your dad?” she asks quietly, scanning each frame carefully.

  I shake my head. “Didn’t I tell you he’d never been around?”

  “Oh yeah, I guess you did mention that.” She doesn’t look back, just keeps staring at the pictures, like she’s looking for Waldo.

  I want to tell her she can keep on looking but he’s not going to show up, that there never was a Daddy Dearest. But that’s Mom’s secret to tell, not mine.

  “You don’t want to have contact with him?” she asks.

  I shake my head as I transfer the sliced carrots to the crystal salad bowl, growing irritated. I’ve seen this woman four times and we’ve had this particular conversation twice. Either she’s digging for dirt or she’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s. “Not even once.”

  She turns from the pictures and comes back to the bar, sitting across from me. “I’m so close to my dad, I can’t imagine my life without him. It makes me a little sad that you don’t know yours.”

  “His loss,” I say, doing my best to cut this dead-end conversation short.

  Jen studies me for a long couple of seconds. “How did they meet? Your mom and dad, I mean. Did they go to school together?”

  I finish chopping the celery, dump it into the bowl, then put the knife down. “You know, these are really better questions for my mom.” In spite of the way Jen’s taken to Mom and my instant liking of her, her interest in my “father” is more than a little disturbing.

  “Oh, sure. I’m sorry,” she says. I’m happy to see she at least has the decency to blush at the impropriety of her interrogation. “The journalist in me just insists on getting all the details.”

  “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

  She smiles, brightening her face, making her even more beautiful than I previously thought. That smile’s a moneymaker. And I have a growing suspicion she knows how to use it to her advantage.

  My phone vibrates on the counter and I answer it quickly. “Hey, Mom.”

  The familiar sounds of the newsroom can be heard behind her. “I’m leaving work. Need anything from the store?”

  Drawing my eyebrows forward, I look at Jen. “No, I’ve already been. Jen’s here.”

  Silence penetrates the line between us. “Hmm. Does she need me for something?”

  I look at Jen before answering. She takes a swig from the bottled water in front of her, then moves away from the counter and walks aimlessly around the living room, studying the various knickknacks and journalism awards displayed on the antique bookcase.

  “She said you invited her for dinner,” I say quietly.

  I can practically hear the wheels turning in Mom’s head. “I told her she should come over some night, but I didn’t mention tonight specifically. At least, I don’t think I did.”

  Not knowing what to say, I stay silent and keep my eyes on Jen, wondering exactly what she’s doing here.

  Mom laughs, breaking my intense gaze on our guest. “Well, if she says I invited her, I’m sure I did. Sorry about the surprise. I’ll be there in ten.”

  I close the phone and take a deep breath, a ribbon of suspicion curling its way around my spine.

  Jen turns around, obviously aware my call has ended. “Was that your mom?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “She’s on her way.”

  “Great,” she says, smiling innocently.

  The following day, I set my lunch on the table in my usual spot across from Kristen and Rock.

  “I’ve come up with a plan,” Kristen says, eyes sparkling mischievously.

  I sigh, looking at my lifelong best friend. “Whatever it is, it better not involve me.”

  “Of course it involves you. All my best plans do.” She keeps her arm wrapped around Rock’s as she rushes on. “I’ve got one word for you. Double date.”

  “That’s two words. And no thanks.”

  Rock chuckles softly, eyes on mine. “I told her you’d say no. But have you ever tried to change her mind?”

  “A few thousand times,” I say, grinning despite the circumstances.

  “Have you ever succeeded?” he asks, ignoring the daggers Kristen’s shooting.

  “Not even once.”

  “Just hear me out, Sarah,” she says, slapping her hand on top of mine.

  “Absolutely not. I can’t think of one single thing I’d rather do less. N. O.” Seriously, just the thought nauseates me. It’s bad enough she’s trying to set me up. I’d rather stab myself in the eye than watch Kristen and Rock paw each other all night while I force conversation with a total stranger.

  “But I’ve already set it up.”

  I level my most hateful gaze on her. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  She shakes her head. “I promise this is a good thing. It’s time for you to get out and have a little fun.”

  I almost laugh out loud. That’s exactly what I tell Mom.

  “You’re thinking about it,” she singsongs, completely misreading my momentary silence.

  “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

  Again, Rock laughs quietly. It’s a low, rumbly laugh that’s all testosterone and sexy as hell.

  “Come on, we’re doing this for you,” Kristen says, retreating to full-pout mode.

  “Don’t include me in this craziness,” Rock says.

  Kristen ignores his comment. “We’ll be doubling so it’ll be tons of fun no matter what. You’ll love it, I promise. We’re going to a dramatization of The Birthmark. Tell me that isn’t right up your alley.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  Kristen folds
her hands under her chin, like a child saying her bedtime prayers. “Please, Sarah. It’ll be fun.”

  Well, at least now I know why she wants me to double with her. There’s no way she can get through The Birthmark and I really want to see it, but the thought of spending an evening watching Rock hang all over Kristen has me close to hyperventilating. I have to get out of this.

  “Kristen,” I say, imploring her with my eyes to see reason. “Look at me.” I don’t have to point to my nose; she understands what I’m referring to. “No one wants to date this.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Rock scowls.

  “See? Even Rock agrees,” Kristen says. “I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s you, me, Rock, and Jay. Friday night at seven.”

  “Jay? As in Jay Thomas? The one who does the Napoleon Dynamite impersonations?”

  Don’t get me wrong. I love a funny guy as much as anyone, but that is so not what this is about. And it’s not like Jay isn’t handsome; he is, but he’s totally not my type. Not that I even knew I had a type until Rock came along. Turns out, Rock defines my type.

  “Please, Sarah. Please.” Kristen finally releases Rock from her grasp and grabs both my hands, like we’re making some sort of fatalistic pact. And, to be honest, it kind of feels like we are.

  And for everything we’ve been through together over the years, I hold up one finger. “One double date. One.”

  She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes

  —LORD BYRON

  Chapter Thirteen

  I consider myself pretty calm; a veritable fortress, especially when compared to most girls my age. But put me in line for a double date with Kristen and Rock and I turn into a nervous, sweaty mess.

  The four of us are packed into Rock’s truck—thank God it has a decent-sized backseat—and we’re headed to the Arena.

  I’ll give Rock this, he knows where to take a girl on a date, especially for a guy so new to Houston. There aren’t too many guys who would suggest a play for a date, particularly the kind of guys Kristen normally dates.