by Dahlia Adler
Vanessa laughed. “You could probably buy Columbia with photographic evidence of some of the shit I saw last night, not that most of it would surprise you.”
For reasons I did not care to contemplate, the idea that Liam was a part of this crowd—and probably every bit as much of a bad boy as Josh Chester—turned my stomach. Or maybe I could blame that on the lack of sleep. “Well, I’m glad you and Liam had fun,” I said weakly.
“Ha, Liam is almost as big a homebody as you are. We were there all of ten minutes when he made some comment about how you had the right idea. You guys are so alike, it’s gross. He even mentioned something about it being cool that you’re so good at French, so I suggested he ask you for tutoring.”
“Van!”
“What? You don’t need the money?”
“Of course I need the money, but I also need you to stop passing me off as being qualified to teach things I’m not. No one wants a high school senior who’s never even been to Europe to teach him French!”
“Actually, Liam does, smartass, and you’d better be willing to do it because I just gave him your number and said I knew for a fact you’re free the rest of the weekend.”
“You’re a ridiculous human being, Vanessa Park. You’re basically bullying him into giving me money for nothing.” I was being unfair—she really was trying to help—but the thought of Liam Holloway even putting my number in his cell phone, let alone calling me, was making me so nervous and nauseated I could hardly think straight.
“Not for nothing, and I’m not bullying him!”
“Fine, charming him with your dazzling beauty then.”
“As if. Anyway, Shannah Barrett was there, and I’m sure she’s more his type. Not that I’m interested in him,” she quickly clarified.
Of course. Shannah Barrett was tall, blond, insanely stunning, skinny as a bobby pin, and made major bank as both a model for some handbag line and a star of one of those family shows where everyone ends up hugging in the last five minutes. I could just imagine him taking a shot off her praying mantis-like body. She was like a Thinsperation poster girl.
“Shannah Barrett’s every guy’s type,” I muttered, feeling another yawn coming on. “She—”
Beep. Oh God, call waiting. Liam.
“A?”
“Sorry, Van, it’s just call waiting. I’ll ignore it.”
“No, don’t. It’s probably Liam, and I have to go anyway. Bikram yoga. I’ll call you later, ’kay? And try to have some fun today.”
“You’re the boss,” I replied before clicking over to the other call. “Hello?”
“Hey, Ally?”
Definitely Liam. Why did the sound of his voice make me so nervous? It’s not like I’d never spoken to any stars before. Thanks to Van, I’d met about a zillion of them. So maybe they didn’t all have fantastic abs and eyes so beautiful they could probably stop a moving train in its tracks, but so what?
I must’ve hesitated for way too long because he spoke again. “Is this Ally? It’s Liam.”
“Liam,” I repeated dumbly.
“Holloway,” he elaborated, which would’ve made me laugh if I hadn’t been so anxious. The fact that he thought I could confuse him with anyone else was ridiculous. I wondered if he’d continue, “from Daylight Falls, the guy with the brown hair,” if I stayed silent long enough.
“Hey, yeah, it’s me,” I replied, finally finding my voice. “Or ‘I,’ if we’re being grammatically correct.” Oh my God, Ally, you are such a dork.
He laughed like the polite gentleman with the cute butt he was. “I think you’re safe. Pretty sure there’s no grammar on the SATs.”
“You never know when they’ll throw a curveball.”
“I suppose. Anyway, I mentioned to Vanessa that I’ve always wanted to learn French, and she—”
“She told me,” I said. “Listen, Liam, it’s sweet that you guys wanna help me, but you’ve got resources—you should get yourself a tutor who’s actually been to the Eiffel Tower, or something.”
“I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower. It’s not that great, if you wanna know the truth.”
“No, don’t tell me that! In my mind, Paris is perfect, and I would like to keep that illusion intact until I can go and shatter it for myself.”
“I see. Well, I was just trying to make you feel better. It’s actually the greatest landmark on Earth.”
“Really?”
“Not even close.”
I laughed. “Thanks for trying. Like I was saying—”
“Is tonight okay?” he broke in.
“Okay for what?”
“Teaching me French.”
Suddenly, my bedroom felt like a sauna. It was an innocent request, but the combination of a nighttime invitation and the fact that my brain kept adding “kissing” to the end of that sentence was making me so hot I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. “Sure,” I croaked.
“Great. I’ll text you my address. Is seven okay?”
“Yeah. Great. Sure.”
“Great. See you later.”
We hung up, and I realized that all traces of my sleepiness were gone, replaced by a frightening rush of adrenaline. What the hell was I going to wear? What should I teach him? Should I practice my accent, listen to tapes, something?
First things first—I needed a shower. An ice-cold one.
6
IT WASN’T UNTIL I WAS ACTUALLY on the road to Liam’s apartment that I started thinking like a sane human being.
“What am I doing?” I asked aloud as I flipped through the radio stations to find something that might calm my nerves. “What if he’s an ax murderer and I’m going straight to his apartment?”
My mind shifted to potential images of his abode. What if his “apartment” was actually some drug den and he tried to shove piles of coke at me while he answered calls on four different cell phones? Or what if he decorated with animal carcasses, like this guy I once saw on an episode of Hoarders? What if he was a hoarder, and I had to sit on a pile of old headless Barbies and takeout containers from In-N-Out Burger?
At least the outside of the building looked reasonably decent, I noted as I pulled into the gated underground parking lot. It wasn’t too flashy, although it did come complete with a beautiful pool area that looked like the perfect place to lounge with a piña colada on a Saturday afternoon.
The doorman let me up without a fuss—apparently, Liam had put me on his “OK” list. I traveled up to his ninth-floor apartment with the same fistful of fear in my gut that I’d had on my first day of high school, though I was beyond determined not to show it.
My tension finally abated a bit when Liam opened the door, dressed to chill in jeans and an old Bob Dylan T-shirt. He smiled and stepped aside to let me in. “Welcome to, uh, Chez Holloway. Is that right?”
I laughed. “Yes, that’s right. You’re practically fluent already.”
I glanced around at the living room and felt my anxiety drain even further. No visible drug paraphernalia; no bearskin rug. In fact, the entire place was decorated pretty much exactly as I’d do it—posters on the walls and mostly neutral colors with the occasional splash of brightness. Plus, the couch looked like the absolute comfiest thing in the world.
And was that pizza I smelled?
Liam must’ve noticed me sniffing. “I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian or not, so I got half-carnivore, half-plain.”
“Mmm, carnivore.” I hadn’t even realized how long it’d been since I’d eaten until I felt my stomach rumble at the mere mention of meat. “That sounds perfect, thank you. J’ai une faim du loup.”
“Jay wha?”
I grinned. “It’s a French expression for ‘I’m starving.’ It basically means ‘I have the hunger of a wolf.’”
He tried repeating it, then laughed when he failed miserably. “Maybe we’ll save that for a more advanced lesson.” He went to grab a couple of slices from where he was keeping them warm in the oven. “Sit, make yourself comfortable.”
So far, Liam had done a decent job of proving he wasn’t a creep, so I put my bag on the large glass coffee table and sat down in the corner of the sectional, which turned out to be every bit as comfy as it looked. If I’d actually been here to hang out and not just to teach some spoiled actor French on his random whim, it would’ve been pretty nice.
“Here you go.” He placed a plate of pizza in front of me and then handed me a bottle of water. “Sorry, I don’t have anything else to drink. Must keep the whites pearly and all.”
“Water’s great, thanks. So,” I said, eager to get down to business and be professional, “where should we start?”
He shrugged, his mouth already full of pizza. “You tell me,” he said as soon as he’d swallowed. Then he looked down at his plate. “How do you say ‘pizza’?”
“Pizza. But maybe we should go a little more basic.”
“More basic than a direct translation?”
I laughed. “More basic than random foods. Put it this way—what is it you want to learn French for?”
He shrugged. “To not be a stereotypical American d-bag who thinks English is the only language that matters?”
It was the sexiest response he could’ve possibly given me. “Excellent answer.” I took a big bite of pepperoni and meatball. “In that case, let’s start with some basic greetings and stuff that are the bare minimum you should know if you ever go to Paris and want to avoid getting a death stare from a waiter. Or so I hear,” I added quickly, not wanting to sound like an even bigger fraud than I already was for being paid to give lessons in a language I’d only studied in a classroom setting. “I’ve never actually been to Paris.”
I felt like a loser for saying it, but he simply replied, “I’ve only been once, for a lame press event for a movie, and I’ve never gone back.”
“Really? How come?”
He shrugged. “Never really had both the time and a travel buddy.”
“You never travel alone?”
“Nah. Too afraid of death stares from random French waiters.” The glint of mischief in his eyes made me laugh. “What about you? How come you’ve never been?”
“My family vacations were pretty Disneylandcentric.” I took a small sip of water. “I plan to go in college, though. Study abroad in Paris junior year, eat lots of delicious French food and see the Louvre from top to bottom, travel around the country on the weekends. I’m dying to see southern France, too—Nice, Marseilles. Then for spring break, I’ll spend the week in Italy, dividing the time between Florence and Rome…” I trailed off as I realized that I was really just babbling now. “Anyway, I plan to go,” I said hastily, then took another bite of pizza in the hopes it would shut me up.
If Liam thought I sounded like an idiot, he certainly didn’t let on. “That sounds awesome. I’ve only been to Italy for press events, and it was just one day each in Venice and Rome. I’d love to go to Florence, see Michelangelo’s David in person.”
I swallowed so excitedly I nearly choked on a piece of pepperoni. “Yes! How cool would that be? Can you imagine standing in front of a statue carved by Michelangelo himself? And it’s supposed to be huge and so perfectly detailed it’s incredible. And the Vatican, oh my God—what could be more incredible than seeing the Sistine Chapel in person?”
“Why don’t you just go to Italy for the semester?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’ve taken French for so long that I’m dying for a chance to use it on a regular basis. But believe me when I say I plan to go to Italy every weekend possible.”
“I’m sure it’ll be nice to get around by your own fluency,” he said. “It’s awesome that you’re so good at French.”
“Just you wait,” I said. “We’ll get you there too.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said with a smile, “but okay, we should get started then. Lesson one: How not to be a d-bag in Paris. Go!”
I laughed. “Well, first and foremost: please and thank you.”
“Thank you is merci, right?”
I winced slightly at his pronunciation, which was way too close to the English mercy. “Emphasis is on the second syllable, actually,” I said, repeating the word. “And please is s’il vous plait.”
He repeated after me, and I was pleased to note that his pronunciation was way better on the second try.
“Excellent,” I said. “Now you can already put together a sort-of sentence.” I was about to say it, but Liam beat me to it.
“Pizza, s’il vous plait?”
“Merci!” I replied instantly.
He laughed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know, but it’s like we just had our first French conversation!” I know, I’m a dork, but I lived for that moment in tutoring when it felt like something clicked. “I’ll get into this more later when we do subject pronouns, but actually, because I’m a friend, you would use the less formal ‘s’il te plait,’ although you’d be correct using ‘s’il vous plait’ when talking to a waiter. But don’t worry about that now.”
He took another bite of his pizza and followed it up with a swig of water. “So,” he said thoughtfully. “We’re friends, huh?”
I immediately felt a blush rise into my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—well, you know what I meant.”
“So we’re not friends?”
I glanced into his eyes for a hint of the teasing I’d seen there before, but there was none. He seemed to be asking a genuine question. “Are you trying to fluster me?”
“Am I flustering you?” He sounded even more confused.
“What am I supposed to say?”
He shrugged. “I thought we were friends. You’re the one who snapped at me the other day and then bailed on the party.”
“I didn’t bail. I just didn’t realize when you first invited me that it was going to be some drug-fueled orgy.”
At that, Liam threw his head back and laughed. “Wow, Josh would wet himself with joy if he heard you describe his parties that way.”
“How’d you guys become friends, anyway?”
“I met him at my first modeling gig. We’re not completely…into the same things, but he’s a good guy.”
I’ll bet. “Do you still model?”
“Every now and again. It pays the bills.” He took another long drink of his water. “What about you and Vanessa? How’d you guys become friends?”
“Oh, same old story as everyone else. Girl meets girl in playgroup. Girl and girl share blocks. Guy asks one girl why she has slanty eyes and other girl makes guy eat dirt. Instant friendship.”
Liam laughed. “So you guys have been friends for a long time, huh?”
“Going on sixteen years. I haven’t had to make many guys choke on sand since then, but we’re still pretty good at sticking up for each other when necessary.”
“I’ll bet. Kind of funny, though. You guys don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Neither do you and Josh,” I pointed out. “At least, you don’t seem like you do.”
“Yeah, but he’s loyal and consistent, and for me, those are the most important things. My life hasn’t exactly been…stable.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but it quickly became clear he wasn’t going to, and I was afraid it was too invasive to ask. “Loyal and consistent are definitely words I’d use to describe Van.” I took a sip of water. “And we do have some things in common. We both love the Beatles, and back when we were kids we used to love reading my mom’s ancient Nancy Drew books and camping out in our backyards. I guess those are silly kid things now, for the most part, but we had a lot of fun together back when we used to spend time on things other than studying for standardized tests and memorizing scripts.”
“Sounds like it,” he said with a smile. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, and I wondered what his childhood had been like—if he and Josh had ever fruitlessly looked for stars in the sky over L.A. while sharing a thermos of root beer and sitting on a ratty fleece blanket. Judging from the slightly wistful expr
ession on his face, the answer was no. I tried to think of a way to change the subject, but then he said, “So, are we friends?”
I decided on the easiest response. “Oui. Nous sommes amis.”
He grinned. “Oui means yes, right?”
I couldn’t help but smile back. “Oui.”
* * * * *
The rest of the evening was surprisingly fun, and when Liam asked if I wanted to stick around and watch a movie, I immediately agreed, despite the fact that I had scholarship applications to work on and my history paper definitely needed revisions.
Liam had every Al Pacino movie known to man, and once he found out I’d never seen Scent of a Woman, he threw it in the Blu-Ray player faster than you could say merci. The movie itself was good, and Chris O’Donnell was adorable, but it was Liam who had me cracking up, doing random Al Pacino imitations and blurting out the French translation of every word he’d learned. When the auditorium full of preppy schoolboys exploded in applause at the end, I was so sucked in by my surroundings that I felt the urge to join in.
Until Liam opened his mouth and asked, “Are you ever gonna tell me why you’re suddenly so hard up for cash?”
I exhaled sharply. “Wow, couldn’t even wait for the end of the movie, huh?”
“It’s basically over.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Hey, I literally gave you the shirt off my back. How much did you get for that, anyway?”
“Five hundred bucks,” I grudgingly admitted. “Apparently, the potential for inhaling a trace of Liam Holloway’s sweat is just too much for some people to resist.”
Liam rolled his eyes. “That’s insane. I know I’m supposed to appreciate my fans and everything, but Jesus Christ.”
“Tell you what. I’ll tell you why I need the money if you tell me why you hate your career.”
“Who says I do?”
“Every eye roll, every snort, and pretty much everything you’ve ever said on set that was neither a line nor something relating to the SATs.”
He narrowed his eyes, and I was afraid he was going to yell at me, but he simply said, “You first.”
“Fine. My father’s dying of cancer and my college fund is going to pay his medical bills, so I’ve got to pay my own way if I want to go to Columbia. Happy now?”
