Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  I climbed out of bed and joined Jolie at the kitchen table.

  She smiled. “I like the shorter hair. It makes you look smarter. Hey, I just got in a sample of the cucumber-mint exfoliating mask from my new skin care line.” She held up a black jar. “They need my final approval for the go-ahead. Want to try it out with me first?”

  We went into the bathroom and finger painted our foreheads, noses, and chins with a green, tingly paste. We were supposed to let it sit for an hour, so we plopped on the couch, Jolie with a mug of coffee, me with a bowl of Froot Loops, turned on the TV, and let the mask work its magic.

  Suddenly, we heard a knock on the door and both instinctively looked at the ornate clock on the living room wall. It was only ten. I shrugged and decided to open the door.

  In retrospect, I should have checked the peephole. But I didn’t. So when I opened the door with green paste covering my face and wearing my pink flannel duck pajamas, I was completely unprepared to see Owen’s flirtatious smile. I threw my hands over my face and screamed. Owen burst out laughing.

  Jolie set her mug down with a quizzical look.

  “Sorry to show up so early and unannounced,” Owen said with a wry grin. “I told the doorman I wanted to surprise you. Guess I have a trustworthy face.”

  Jolie got up and crossed the room, her hand outstretched. I stayed frozen in the doorway.

  Owen extended his hand. “Owen Nichols. And you’re Emily’s aunt, I presume?” He sounded so mature and articulate. “Emily and I had some unfinished business.”

  Jolie raised her eyebrows at me.

  Oh my God. Unfinished business. The tilt-and-lean, the parting lips. We were just shy of contact, Lindsey had said. I blushed.

  “Remember, Em?” Owen said. “Last night, I told you I would show you around the city?” He leaned toward me and touched the end of a bobbed lock of my hair in his fingertips. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Jolie looked back and forth from Owen to me, and I wondered if she was thinking about our players conversation.

  “Oh, right,” I said with exaggeration. “Did we say ten? I thought it was eleven! Let me shower and rinse this mask off.” As I ran into my bedroom, my cell phone rang. I saw the caller ID listed Lindsey. I picked it up. “Hey, I can’t go to your riding lesson with you this morning. Now ask me why.”

  “Okay,” Lindsey said. “Why?”

  “Because Owen is in my kitchen eating an English muffin with Jolie! He showed up this morning, totally unexpected, and said we had unfinished business!”

  “Oh my God,” Lindsey panted.

  “Do you think he really likes me?!” I whispered frantically.

  “OF COURSE he likes you! Don’t be such an idiot!!”

  “You’ve got to help me.” I hyperventilated. “I don’t want to screw this up. Tell me what to do.”

  “Okay, wear that pretty lip gloss Jolie used last night. Make sure you have gum. Oh, and if all else fails, just laugh like everything he says is hilarious. Good luck!”

  “Thanks!” I said, and we hung up.

  Forty-five minutes later I emerged from the bathroom. Any signs of Jolie’s hesitation were erased; she was transfixed by Owen’s charm and had clearly forgotten to even bother removing her own cucumber-mint mask. They were in the kitchen, Owen’s sleeves of his blue oxford were rolled to his elbows, and he was cracking eggs into a glass dish. He reached past her and grabbed a wire whisk from a container of utensils.

  “Seriously, kid,” Owen said, his back still to me. “How can you not know how to scramble an egg?”

  Did Owen just call my aunt kid?

  Jolie threw her head back and laughed.

  Owen looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. “Ready?” He handed the whisk to Jolie, then covered her hand with his and swirled it in the eggs. Then he patted her on the back two times. “Remember, nobody likes runny eggs.”

  Jolie laughed again.

  We closed the door behind us and Owen turned to me. He took my hand in his.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling. “I was worried about you last night.” He reached over and stroked my short hair again. “After the cops and firemen left, I looked everywhere for you—but you were gone. I’m glad to see you weren’t hurt. And that you even had time to get your hair done.” He grinned again.

  I shook my head. “Yeah, I’m okay. It was just, a minor hair catastrophe . . .” He laughed, and I waited for him to say something else, like about whether he’d gotten in trouble for having the party, but the elevator doors opened with a ping and we walked in.

  “So what are we doing?” I asked tentatively.

  He flashed that flirtatious smile. “Stuff.”

  My stomach felt all knotty with anticipation. What did he have planned? I felt this enormous pressure not to crush his expectations. What if he thought I was boring? Oh my God, he was going to think I was an inexperienced, immature simpleton. I wished I had time to call Georgia. I needed to know what Silvia Rodero did to make all the men of Rio adore her! Didn’t she do some flippy thing with her hair and call everyone cara mia?

  Owen looked at me funny. I took my finger down from my imaginary glasses and pretended to rub between my eyebrows.

  “Did I get all that green stuff off?” I asked.

  He nodded, amused.

  The elevator doors opened and we walked through the lobby into the crisp air. The sky was a magnificent cobalt blue and the sun peeped in and out behind cotton bundle clouds. There was practically no breeze, but somehow the leaves were falling from the trees and circling around us in patterns of gold and red. We walked over toward Hudson River Park.

  He put his arm around me as we walked along the bike path flanked with towering elm trees. It was a breathtakingly romantic walk, and if the maniac bike riders left us alone for two seconds, I’m sure we would have concluded our previously attempted kiss. But on they rode.

  Looking out to the dark water of the Hudson made me think back to the peaceful, calm Delaware River. My relationship with the Hudson had been much more tumultuous. Please, I prayed. Just for today, let these waters sweep me away to a fairy-tale land with no plane crashes, no mysteries, and a popular boy who adores me.

  Owen sat down on a bench. “This place is awesome,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” I said breathlessly.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Owen said.

  That this is the beginning of something new, something perfect, something unexpected . . .

  Owen smiled. “They do like tons of photo shoots here all the time.” He nodded toward a stretch of lawn. “Some days this place is just loaded with hot chicks everywhere. Even in the winter when it’s cold as balls, they’ve got these models with skimpy little bikinis on and man, you can really tell when they’re cold.” He snickered.

  Okay, not exactly what I was thinking.

  A few minutes of awkward silence passed. I tried to think of something to say.

  “So, the party was fun last night.” What am I talking about??!! Does he really think I would say I had fun after I caught on fire??!! My stomach felt tight and anxious.

  “Yeah. It was fun. Crazy fun.”

  Silence again. Two bike riders whizzed by us. Owen pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and made a call. “Yeah, Clyde? We’ll be there in ten.”

  Clyde? Who was Clyde?

  When we walked back to the road, there was a black Town Car waiting for us. A man jumped out of the car and held the door open for us.

  I gave Owen a suspicious look.

  “My dad lets me use the car for special occasions,” he said, sticking his arm out to let me get in first. Special occasions! I was so worried that Owen wasn’t having a good time, that he noticed the awkward silences and stilted conversations. But he called this day a special occasion.

  “Take us to the ferry,” Owen told Clyde, the driver. He held my hand as we drove farther downtown, apparently to a place called Battery Park.

  “We’re taking a ferry?” I asked.<
br />
  “To see the statue,” Owen explained, smiling. “What’s more New York than good old Lady Liberty?” he asked, looking out the window.

  The Statue of Liberty. The most famous symbol of freedom. That’s what Owen was trying to tell me—I deserved freedom from my grief, freedom from the burden of my mother’s apology. Freedom to begin a romantic journey . . .

  While waiting in line to board the ferry, the salty air blew my hair and pricked my cheeks. In the distance, the green statue seemed to smile toward me. The line of tourists wrapped around us, but I hardly noticed. Maybe I was getting used to this busy city after all. Owen told stories and jokes and cheered for the street performers near the station. He never asked about the accident or the apology, and I truly felt like the new Emily.

  I was so caught up in the pure romance that I forgot an important detail: I get seasick. Like deathly ill, fall-on-the-floor seasick. I looked across the turbulent water toward the statue. It couldn’t be that long of a trip, I thought.

  Fifteen minutes aboard the ship and I was in full-blown agony, hand to my mouth, praying. Hey, Big Guy,please, please don’t make me throw up. Not in front of Owen. Just this once, let me not puke.

  “Poor baby,” Owen said, rubbing my back.

  The boat finally docked at Liberty Island. Once my feet hit the solid ground, my stomach settled a little. We walked inside the statue and began to climb the never-ending stairs. The first wrapping staircase led to a double corkscrew staircase with small triangular steps, and I wished I had known where we were going so I could have worn sneakers. Or at least something with a flat, rubber sole. Not the black boots with skinny kitten heels that kept catching in the open steel stairs. I wanted to have meaningful, romantic conversations with Owen, but I was so frustrated with the stairs I found myself wishing I was at home, on the couch, watching E! True Hollywood Story. Luckily Owen didn’t seem to notice I was lagging. He kept talking about all the cool things there were to do in the city.

  “At the back of the café, there’s this hidden door that leads to a swanky little bar where they don’t even card,” he was in the middle of saying. “It’s pretty sweet.”

  “How cool!” I answered, a little out of breath. I wasn’t sure what café he had been telling me about, but as I looked over at Owen’s dimple in his left cheek, I felt really guilty. He was trying. Trying to show me all the opportunities that lay ahead of me. Of us. If we were to go on another date sometime, that is.

  I thought about the fact that even a month ago, I wouldn’t have been out and about at a busy tourist destination with a hot guy—I was barely able to leave the house at all. It seemed like a miracle that a guy like him would even put up with a girl who had as much baggage as me.

  He swatted me with a cheesy foam Statue of Liberty crown as we stepped off the ferry and walked toward Clyde. I giggled, trying to ignore the nausea that was still with me from the trip back. “This has been such a great day, Owen. I mean it. And I was definitely a little less sick on the ride back,” I added. “So, thanks.”

  “What? Are you ready to go home already?” he asked, teasing me. “I’m kind of hungry.”

  The thought of food was not appealing, but I didn’t want to disappoint Owen. So I followed him to the car and Clyde drove us back toward Greenwich Village. We pulled up to an old carriage house that had a line of people waiting to get in.

  “Wait, I need to freshen up. After the ferry, I feel kind of gross.”

  Owen came close. “You,” he said, “look perfect.” My spine tingled and I followed him in.

  Inside the restaurant, we were seated at a small table in the corner under a huge wall of exposed brick. I sat in the plush, red velvet chair and stared up at the enormous stained glass windows that formed the shape of a flower.

  Owen had a satisfied look on his face. “I know,” he said, nodding. “I know what you’re thinking. One if by land, two if by sea . . .” He looked at me with anticipation.

  No, I had no idea what he was talking about. “Paul Revere? Right? I think I remember that being a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? question . . .” Owen was looking at me like I was crazy. Then I glanced down and saw that was the name of the restaurant. One If by Land, Two If by Sea. “Oh, right, the restaurant.” I hoped he thought I was being funny again.

  Owen smiled wide. “My dad knows the owner.”

  I forced an impressed nod. I opened the menu and noticed that the food descriptions were extravagant with words I didn’t understand like infusion and aubergines. It kind of reminded me of the spa menu at Cornelia Day where Jolie had taken me weeks ago—totally over my head. After the horrendous ferry ride, I really just wanted a burger and fries, but this did not appear to be an option.

  A statuesque blond approached our table. “My name is Claire and I’ll be your server tonight.” She spoke in a raspy voice and looked only at Owen.

  “Well, hi, Claire,” Owen said in his usual flirtatious way.

  “Hey. You look so familiar,” she said. “Do I know you?” She leaned over resting one elbow on the table so there was a view straight down the line of her enormous chest.

  Owen’s eyes followed the trail of cleavage. He leaned closer toward her. “My name is Owen Nichols.” He smiled flirtatiously. “I come here sometimes . . .”

  “I bet you do,” she said. She was so seductive, so blatant. I felt a lump in my throat like I wanted to cry. Owen probably didn’t even remember that I was there with him; he was too busy eyeing the hills and valleys of our waitress.

  “Wait,” she said, putting a finger into the air. “Are you in my theater class? I swear, I’ve seen you outside this restaurant. I’m a film student at NYU.”

  “An aspiring actress,” Owen said, nodding. “Nice.”

  She laughed, her skirted white apron bouncing on her hips.

  I stared down at the menu. Owen had said I looked perfect. Not five minutes ago, he said the word perfect. My eyes filled with tears, making the words on the menu swim around. I couldn’t pronounce anything on the menu; I was a simpleton. Why did I think I could go to a restaurant that served goat cheese tortellini dusted in wild fennel pollen? Pollen? Wasn’t pollen the stuff that turned cars yellow and made my dad’s eyes itchy? Just thinking about my dad and how out of place he’d feel in a restaurant like this made my throat constrict. I started to feel that dizzy, numb feeling again. I looked at the menu once more. Purple a sparagus; turnips stuffed with pig’s feet. Purple asparagus? Pig’s feet? What was I doing here?

  “Well, Owen,” the temptress was saying. “Would you like to hear our specials?”

  “I would love to,” Owen said.

  Without glancing at any notes, she began reciting with theatrical emphasis. “Tonight we have a spicy sumac squab breast romanced by a hot-chili-flecked pasta that will make you lose your self-control.” She stopped to exhale a long breath and Owen leaned back in his chair as if waiting for her to bend down and kiss him.

  Do not cry. Do not cry.

  I stiffened up. “Guess those acting lessons are really paying off,” I said.

  Two pairs of eyes shot toward me in surprise. It was like they both forgot that I was there.

  Claire glared at me. “Humph,” she grunted, turning back toward Owen. “What would you like to eat, Owen?”

  I tried to focus on the menu. Pick something, anything, I commanded, but all I could concentrate on was trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I looked up. Owen had just ordered something medium rare.

  Claire turned to me with an agitated expression. “And what do you want?”

  “Um.” Focus. Order something. Not the pollen thing. “Ahh, I’ll just have the special. You know—so I can lose my self-control and all.”

  The waitress gave me a snarky look, shoved her pencil in her apron pocket, and turned on her heel. Owen watched her cross the room and disappear behind double doors. Then he turned to me, a smile plastered on his face, shaking his head

  “I really think I know that chick.” He coul
dn’t stop grinning. He shook his head again and laughed. “We just can’t figure out where we met!”

  “Right,” I said. “I was here—for that conversation.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “You’re funny, Emily.”

  “Um, excuse me. I need to go to the bathroom.” I bolted across the room and flung open the bathroom door. There was a woman in a uniform sitting on a chair, but I didn’t care. I plopped down on an upholstered couch and whipped out my cell phone.

  First I texted Lindsay, not sure if she’d be back from her lesson. Then I hit 3 on my speed dial.

  “Jolie! It’s a complete disaster!” I wailed. “He’s totally flirting with our waitress who’s this blond bombshell film student with enormous boobs and a habit of licking her lips. Maybe he is just a player like Trent said and he doesn’t even care who he’s with.”

  “Whoa, Em, calm down. He’s there with YOU, not some slutty waitress. Don’t freak. If she’s flirting with him, maybe you just need to flirt more.”

  “How ’bout a REAL solution! I am utterly inadequate to start a seduction scene with the hottest guy in our whole class—possibly the whole universe. This is a disaster. I shouldn’t have come.” Tears threatened worse than before. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t ready to live like a normal person and go on normal dates. Let alone go out with Darlington royalty.

  “Remember last night you and your friends were posing and making camera faces and we all said that you could be a model?”

  I sniffled. “A pre-pubescent, tween model for Gymboree is what Trent said.” I saw the uniformed bathroom attendant smile.

  “Oh, come on! You know he was just joking,” Jolie said. “Listen, sweetie. The point is, when you relax and have fun, you sparkle!”

  “Sparkle? I don’t think so.”

  “Yes. You sparkle. Now go—channel that. Relax and have fun. Owen picked you.”