Maybe I was freakin’ insane.
Distinct possibility!
After a full eternity had passed, Dylan reached across the table and took my hand. “Listen to me.”
Oh no. Here it came. I braced myself as if he were going to throw a punch, tightening up the ab muscles and all that.
“Are you listening?” he asked.
“I’m listening,” I said, peevishly, to mask my abject fear.
“I never had sex with Jennifer.” Long pause. “Never. Not even close.”
Okay, stop. Rewind.
Not at all what I expected, but the pall started to lift. I tried not to smile, because that would have been crass, I think, considering the conversation. Her life’s totally screwed, but mine isn’t, and it’s all about ME ME ME—YIPPEE-KI-YAY! Just so wrong. Even if she is a hag. “You…you didn’t?”
“No. We weren’t…that close.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I thought you understood that.”
“You thought I understood it?”
He rolled his eyes. “Polly want a cracker?”
“Huh?”
“You’re repeating everything I say.”
I pulled a face. “Sorry. I’m just…I don’t know. Something. Surprised. Relieved. Stupid.”
“You’re not stupid. Don’t sweat it. But please believe me when I say there is no possible way that baby is mine,” he said, enunciating every syllable slowly. “Okay?”
“Swear it?”
“On my Olympic dreams.”
“On your—?”
“Polly,” he said, in a warning tone.
“Oops.”
He reached out and touched my cheek. “Yes, I swear it on my Olympic dreams, so stop freaking out. You have no reason to. Ask Jennifer herself if you think I’m not telling the truth.”
I huffed. “I think I’ll avoid that particular circle of hell, but thanks for the suggestion.” I exhaled a week’s worth of trauma and silently castigated myself for wasting a perfectly good scoop of butter pecan ice cream over worst-case-scenario stress.
Hand churned, people!
If Dylan was willing to swear on his goal of making the U.S. Olympic Ski Team, I had zero doubt that he was telling the truth. That’s nothing he’d take lightly. I almost felt bad for having asked him, now that it was over. I sighed. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I just…I had to know.”
“Of course. I understand.” He seemed to be contemplating digging back into the wreckage of his melting porker cone, then threw a napkin on top of it. Apparently it had lost its appeal. “If our situations were reversed, I would’ve needed to ask you, too. For my own peace of mind.”
“Good thing I’m physiologically incapable of knocking anyone up, I guess.” My tummy flipped. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have used that terminology.”
“It’s okay. Stop apologizing.”
I glanced into my cup. “My ice cream is screwed,” I groused. Oops. “No inappropriate pun intended.”
“Yeah, the pregnancy puns just seem to pop out, don’t they? Hey, there was another one. Pop out.”
We both laughed, then I said, “Gallows humor.”
“Excuse me?”
I flipped my hand. “It’s like when cops joke around on a murder scene. They call it gallows humor. I’m sure Meryl would know the derivation and so forth, but all I know is, cops do it. And not because they’re heartless jerks, but because the reality is so awful, joking around depersonalizes it.”
“Makes sense.” He started to stand. “Hang on. I’ll get you a new cup of ice cream. And a pickle. Ha ha.”
“No.” I swallowed back my need. “Just…stay with me.”
He stilled in this half-crouched pose for several seconds waiting for me to change my mind. When I didn’t, he sat. “It sucks for her, though, doesn’t it? All other things aside.”
I didn’t want to feel sympathy for Jennifer Hellspawn Hamilton, of all people, but I did. It was almost as if her pregnancy resulted in emotional stretch marks for me and my friends. Namely, Meryl. “Yeah.”
“Her senior year is going to totally blow, if she even goes to school.”
“You think she’ll drop out?” Wow. Hadn’t thought of that.
“I don’t know. But either way, she’ll have to take some time off. And it’s not like you can relive your senior year.”
“Not true. Bart Holyoke did,” I pointed out, referring to our reigning twenty-year-old senior from last year. “Twice.”
He cocked his head. “You know what I mean. Everyone thinks Bart is a joke, even though he’s nice enough. They’re going to think worse of Jennifer, and she’s going to take the full blame for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the pregnancy did take two.”
Oh. “It’s always that way with girls.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
My boyfriend—such a coolio guy.
“No, it doesn’t. But it’s still true.” I planted my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands. “Do you have any idea whose baby it is?”
He pulled his mouth sideways. “I have my suspicions, but the sad part is it could be one of several guys.”
I bugged my eyes, truly shocked by his statement. “Really? I didn’t know Jennifer was…that way.”
“She wasn’t.” He hiked one shoulder. “She took our break-up harder than I’d figured she would and went off the deep end. Which surprises me. Our relationship wasn’t some first love kind of thing, as you well know. I mean, neither of us were exactly into each other.”
“Uh, to put it mildly.” Before we were a couple, he used to confide in me all the time. I was his undateable gal pal. Holy crap, I was Alleged-Boyfriend-Ned to his Nancy! I almost laughed at that, but nipped it off. Talk about inappropriate.
For the love of God, it was almost as if I were incapable of carrying on a serious conversation. I chalked it up to being slap happy with relief, but really I think it’s because I’m not, nor will I ever be, as mature as Meryl. Smart-ass comments just live in my head, like squatters in an abandoned house. Every so often, one of them has to dart out for a six-pack of Pepsi and some chips, you know? “Usually, you could barely stand each other.”
“We had zippo in common.” He shook his head. “What a waste of a year. I’m really not her kind of guy. She’s into image, social climbing, all that stuff that skeeves me out. And, apparently, sleeping around.”
“So true.” I shook my head. “If she wants to hook up, fine, but why wasn’t she careful? We all took the same health class.”
“Who knows? I’m not in her head.” He blew out a breath. “Forget the pregnancy thing. What about STDs? Herpes? HIV? You can’t take that kind of stuff back.”
Well, wasn’t he just Mr. Health Teacher. Not that I didn’t appreciate how responsible he sounded, it just struck me as amusing. “You can’t take a baby back either.”
“So, she’s going to have it?” he asked.
“How would I know, nutjob? I’m the last person she’d talk to.”
“True.”
“I guess people react the way they do, period. I know that’s an obnoxiously obvious statement, but—”
“No. I know what you mean.” He sucked in one side of his cheek. “I do feel sorry for her, though, even though I’ve been on her shit list since we broke up. But I gave up trying to make sense of Jennifer’s logic a long time ago.” He paused. “Have you ever met her parents?”
Clueless male. “Uh, Dyl? I know I haven’t mentioned this much, but ol’ Jen and I don’t exactly run in the same posse,” I said in a wry tone.
He ignored the snarkitude. “Well, they’re all about image. Doesn’t matter what’s on the inside as long as everything looks good on the outside. It’s part of what made Jennifer so irritatingly Jennifer.”
“Pressure. She got that image thing from them.”
“Totally.” He eyed me carefully.
“In the interest of full disclosure, I did call to see how she was doing when I heard about the pregnancy. I was just trying to be a decent person. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying not to sound choked off, trying to tamp down the icky emotions welling up inside me.
Relief cooled his expression. “You’ll be relieved to know she blew me off, but she did tell me her mom and dad were treating her like a felon.”
That sour, jealous clench from the mere fact that he’d checked in on her lingered, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wanted a boyfriend who gave a crap in situations such as this. But she was his ex and she despised me. And my friends.
Bigger issue, Lila.
Cowgirl up.
I cleared the green non-Shrek monster from my throat and tried to channel my inner Meryl. “She didn’t tell you what she’s going to do?”
“Nope. She doesn’t confide in me either.”
“She told you about her parents.”
“That’s as far as it went before the whole ‘go to hell’ stuff started. But no way is she ready to be a parent.” He frowned. “She has a helluva lot of growing up to do before that ever happens.”
“Don’t we all. I can’t even imagine.”
Dylan’s expression softened, and he scooted his chair right up next to me. We gazed at each other for a moment, then he leaned in and kissed me softly. “I’m glad you finally asked me instead of making all kinds of assumptions,” he said, his face still close enough that I could feel the warm puffs of his breath. “I know how your whacked mind works—”
“Hey!”
“—but I want us to be able to talk about this stuff. I want us to be able to talk about anything and everything.”
“I’ve never had sex,” I blurted, my skin instantly exploding with heat. I covered my mortification by rambling onward. “And, as much as I…feel…things sometimes when we’re kissing and stuff, I’m not sure I’m ready to. In fact, I know I’m not ready to. Especially after the whole Jennifer situation. Just so you know. It’s scary.” I paused, pressing my lips together. “Crap, I can’t believe I just said all that.” Commence dying now.
He touched my cheek and kissed me again. “Well, news flash, I’ve never had sex before either.”
Shock cut through me like a lightning arc. “Really? B-but you’re a guy.”
“So? We’re not all uncontrollable horndogs.” He shook his head with mock disgust. “Geez, Lila, you’d kill me with your bare hands if I made a sexist comment like that.”
He was dead-on right. “I…I’m sorry. It just blurted out.” I was so stunned by his admitting to being a virgin, my brain stopped working, as was evidenced by my next question: “But, do you, um, feel stuff, too, sometimes? When we’re, you know…together? Like it would be so easy to just…”
Holy—did I just ask that?
What if he said no?!
Thankfully, he released this low, tortured chuckle. “Uh, yeah. I never said I was a monk.”
“Oh,” I said, for lack of something intelligent.
“I’ve never been attracted to anyone like I am to you. But we both have big plans for our life. I think we can hold off.”
Big plans: His? The Olympics. Mine? Uh…
“Definitely,” I said anyway. “But, well, I’m glad.”
“Glad?”
“That you also think about—” I rolled my hand, unwilling to say the words. “With me.” Great. Now I sounded like Tramp-o-matic. Why couldn’t I just stop while I was ahead? “I mean, not glad. I just didn’t want it to be one-sided, this…feeling stuff. Bleh, never mind, shutting up now.”
He grinned. “Lila, it’s okay. I’m glad you feel it, too. It’s a good thing.”
I peered over at him cautiously. “It is?”
“Yes.” He reached over and ran his fingers through my hair. “And if it were ever to happen with any girl, I’d want it to be you. Even though your father has a pretty impressive gun collection and knows how to use them.”
“Stop it,” I said, smacking his forearm.
He laughed. “But, seriously, when it happens, it won’t be some light, meaningless thing for me. And I wouldn’t want it to be for you, either. I really…care about you, Ly.”
Wow, that was dangerously close to the L-word. My heart swelled and certain body parts that apparently missed the abstinence memo began throbbing, causing my brain to get fuzzy. “I feel the same,” I said, lamoid as ever.
We spent the next several minutes kissing until someone driving by hollered, “Get a room!” out of their car window. I pulled back shyly, considering the convo we’d just had.
“So, we’re good?” Dylan asked.
“We’re great.”
He eased back into a guy sprawl in his chair. “It’s totally cool that you’re working with my mom this summer,” he said, out of the blue. “It’ll give you two the chance to get to know each other better.”
I groaned and pushed up from my own chair. “Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
“I don’t know, Moreno,” he said, as we stood and deposited our slimy, melting trash in the marked receptacle like good little non-littering, celibate, Police Explorer citizens. “Maybe it’s your clue to get a clue.”
I punched him in the upper arm. “Whatever. Shut up. Like I’m going to take advice from you. You stole a car once, remember?”
He busted me a stink-eye. “Borrowed—”
“And got busted. Besides, borrowed, stole—semantics.”
He side-eyed me. “That was a long time ago.”
“It’s still on your record in my mind,” I teased. “In fact, it’s one of your few charms.”
He wound one arm around my neck and pulled me closer as we walked down the street. “Ladies and gentlemen, my endearingly caustic girlfriend is back.” And then he made stupid sounds of a crowd cheering.
I mocked him unmercifully, as per the unspoken rules of our relationship, but the truth was, I hadn’t felt this connected and safe in weeks.
Chapter Nine
Caressa
Let me tell you, a Broadway production vs. a high school play? Two vastly different animals, from completely separate jungles, each on their own continent, for that matter. Not that I was complaining, but I will admit to being awestruck, starstruck, and just a bit overwhelmed.
I hadn’t expected that. I mean, I’d been brought up in the entertainment industry. But all those years and the experiences that came with them were about my dad, and I was just a tag-along. This felt subtly different. Mine. Sink or swim, boys and girls, this one was all on me.
And you know what? I loved it.
But it freaked me out, too.
Who knew if I had the chops to make it? A name could only take you so far, and just because Lehigh Thibodoux had a stellar career under his belt and the Grammy statues and other awards to prove it didn’t mean I possessed any of his talent. Plus…how do I put this? While I appreciate the foot-in-the-door that my dad’s reputation affords me (who wouldn’t?), now that I was here, I wanted to stand out on my own. As me. Not as Famous Musician’s Daughter, but based on my own skills.
It was my first day on the show, and I’d been assigned to a super-efficient (read: slightly scary but ultra cool) makeup artist coordinator by the name of Sasha Savage. No lie—that is the name on her birth certificate. I know because I asked. I’m inquisitive that way, sorry.
All I had to do that first week was shadow her and take it all in, yet I was still gooberish and awkward, totally out of my element. At White Peaks High, dude, I was the reigning queen of the makeup and costuming room. Here, I was just some dumb high school girl from Somewhere Other Than Manhattan, without a single clue. (Oh yeah—in a mere forty-eight hours, I’ve learned there are exactly two locations in the world: Manhattan, and Somewhere Other Than Manhattan. Wiggy.)
To be clear, I’m fine with being the clueless newbie. Really. In fa
ct, I am psyched into utter silence by all that I’m going to learn this summer and more happy than ever—ever!—to be here. It’s better than I expected.
But my hands still shook like a junkie who needed a fix.
The long, narrow room smelled of hot lights, melting makeup, powder, and aerosol hairspray. Mirrored makeup stations lined the walls, interspersed with racks of costumes and various duffles and cases brought in by the actors and dancers. It was beautiful organized chaos.
“Keep up, Caressa,” Sasha snapped. Well, to be perfectly fair, she didn’t really snap it. She’s been super nice to me from the get, but she’s just one of those Type-A overachievers, which is exactly why she’s in charge. And as much as I feared her, I also wanted to be her. Someday.
She dresses like my vision of a long-time New Yorker, with access to all the upscale boutiques in Soho (see? I was learning NYC already) and the money to buy whatever the hell she wants. The result? Understated quality. Her lightish-medium auburn hair was so expertly highlighted with a color I recognized (scary, I know) as Cuba Libre, it didn’t even look highlighted, with a capital H. It just looked perfect.
I made a mental note to study Sasha, from her clothing style to her hair and makeup, all the way down to her mannerisms and the busy, important click-clack way she moved through the backstage area, owning it. Sasha Savage was truly a force to be reckoned with, and I stood in awe of her.
I’m a Sasha wannabe. Big time. Not ashamed to admit it.
Fake it ’til you make it—that’s my plan.
“The dancers and actors should start arriving any moment,” Sasha said, in a controlled rush. “They never have a friggin’ clue, despite the fact we do the show seven times a week, so it’s important we nab them at the door, like kindergartners, and tell them exactly where to go.”
I snickered at the double entendre. Couldn’t help it.
To my surprise, Sasha tossed me a half-smirk. “Believe me, with some of them, you’ll want to tell them where to go.”
Father Knows Best Page 10
