I smiled sweetly. “All righty, Dad. Thanks.”
“Well, do you need a ride? Because I can take you.”
Hmm. Good question. I could either let Mr. Tightwad drive me to the party and risk him noticing that, well, it was a party. Or I could ride with Jessie, even though she was technically on my shit list at the moment. Choices, choices.
“No thanks, Dad,” I said with another sweet, innocent smile. “I’ll give Jess a call in a little bit.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, just let me know. I’ll be in my office paying some bills.”
“Will do,” I agreed, still smiling like a dope. “But I should be all set.”
My dad shut the door, and I continued to stand before my full-length mirror, vacillating between the sequined tank and the off-the-shoulder number. Technically, they both looked smashing with my butterfly jeans and my slouchy black leather boots. Hell, the heels alone on those boots could stop traffic. But what about the shirts? I still couldn’t decide.
For about the fifth time, I swapped one top for the other and did the whole strike-a-pose routine. After all, I had to know what I looked like from every conceivable angle. And after an exhaustive examination, I finally had it all figured out: The bare shoulder number had to go, because 1) I couldn’t have my boobs flopping around in there without a bra and 2) I couldn’t let its flowy back obscure my Mick-bait—the butterflies.
According to my alarm clock, it was already five thirty, which meant I had to swallow my pride and return Jessie’s call—and pronto. With the excitement of a root canal victim, I sifted through the junk in my purse in search of my phone.
Of course, Jessie answered on the first ring. “She’s alive! She’s alive!” she shouted.
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”
“Well, I was beginning to wonder…”
Suck it up, Flora. You can do this, I pep-talked my own stupid self. “Sorry I didn’t call you back before,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice the reluctance in my voice. “But I was out shopping for some new stuff, you know, for the party.”
“Ooh! Whadja get? Something hot?” Jessie squeaked.
Obviously, it would be impolite to taunt her with details of the outfit I’d specifically selected to lure Mick away from her. “Nah, not too hot,” I lied. “It’s cute though.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “I do get the sneak preview, right?”
“Sure. Why not? Hey, what time are we supposed to be at Viv’s anyway? Lars just said to come over after the game, but I’m not really up on the football schedule.”
Jessie giggled. “Yeah, tell me about it. Elmer said the game should be over, um, right about now. So we’re gonna take off in like twenty minutes.”
I broke down and asked, “Can you pick me up? Because I don’t want to show up in the Hyundai, if you know what I mean.”
“Your dad wants to drive you?”
“Uh-huh,” I groaned.
“No worries. Meet me out front in twenty-five.”
Well, at least that was done. Jessie had agreed to take me to the party. Depending on how things went tonight, though, she might not feel the same way about bringing me home.
Now don’t ask me why I didn’t see this coming. I mean, honestly, I must have brain damage. But as I stood there on the street corner in my chic new party clothes, I totally expected Mr. Haskell to swing by and whisk me and Jessie off to Viv’s in his SUV. Instead, though, the most obvious thing on earth happened: Mick and Jessie picked me up in the Buick.
“I love it!” Jessie squealed, hopping out of the car and joining me on the sidewalk. “Turn around,” she demanded. “Let me see the back.”
I did the obligatory spin.
“Nice. Very sophisticated,” she continued. “You like mine?” She performed an exaggerated curtsy, pinching her skirt between her fingers and lifting it up on both sides.
“I never pictured you as a ballerina,” I admitted, “but it works. You’ve kind of got a Marilyn Monroe meets Marilyn Manson thing going.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, with a mischievous grin. “That’s sorta what I was shooting for.” She opened the door for me. “Now let’s blow this taco stand.”
As I ducked into Mick’s backseat, a pang of guilt hit me for what I was about to do. I mean, Jessie didn’t deserve it. But I couldn’t keep up this ridiculous charade any longer. Mick Donovan was the love of my life. The man of my dreams. The reason I kept breathing. And it was way past time for him to come back to me.
“Hi, Flora,” Mick said, tempting me with his trademark velvet voice as we pulled away from the curb. “It’s nice to see you.”
Just being in such close proximity to him sent my heart racing and my lungs quivering for air. “Thanks,” I said casually. “It’s good to see you too.”
By the look of the Fisks’ road when Jessie, Mick, and I arrived, we were more than fashionably late. In fact, every possible parking spot was crammed to capacity, which meant Mick was going to have to circle the block.
“I’ll let you girls off here,” he said, double parking alongside an ancient minivan. “Meet you inside in a few minutes?”
“Okay,” Jessie said, turning to me. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
For some dorky reason, I hesitated. And at first I didn’t even know why. But then it dawned on me: When we were a couple, I never left Mick without showing him some affection. A kiss. A hug. A sweet word. A smile. Something. But now such a public display would only have been appropriate coming from Jessie.
Only she didn’t. At all. Nothing. I mean, if you went by her reaction—or lack thereof—you would have concluded we’d been dropped on the street by a distant cousin or a taxi driver. Of course, it was entirely possible I was reading between lines that didn’t actually exist, but still.
“Ready for action?” Jessie asked, as we clicked up the Fisks’ front steps.
My feet were already killing from the barely-legal spike heels. “Absolutely,” I chirped. “Bring it on.”
“Promise me one thing,” she said, pausing to knock. “Just…”
But before she could finish, the door burst open and four or five tipsy girls spilled out like a chain of blind hyenas. “Oh my God! Sorry!” one of the girls slurred in our faces, as she crashed into Jessie and then me.
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” the rest of them blurted in harmony between giggling fits.
“Yeah, whatever,” Jessie said, like she couldn’t be bothered with such childish bullshit. I must say, her take-no-prisoners attitude is quite endearing, especially to a wimp like me.
“Holy shit, it’s hot in here,” I complained, as Jessie and I threaded our way along the edge of the Fisks’ living room. “I’m dying.”
Distracted, Jessie said, “I know. It’s boiling.” She bobbed her head around erratically. “Hey, have you seen Mick?”
I stuffed my blazer behind a gigantic potted plant. “Uh, no. I haven’t seen anyone,” I said. “Anyone who matters anyway.”
But as soon as I tempted fate, of course it slapped me down. “I see someone!” Jessie squealed. “Your boyfriend.”
“Lars? Where?”
She laughed. “Well, I only got a glimpse of him. But unless I’m mistaken, he’s over there.” She pointed at a gang of people huddled together in the middle of the wide open room. “And I think he’s playing the guitar.”
Okay, had my best friend just developed x-ray vision? I mean, I couldn’t see anything but a blurry mass of bodies. And as far as the guitar playing went—well, the place was so noisy I couldn’t tell where the music was coming from.
“Go on,” Jessie prodded. “What are you waiting for?” She slapped my ass playfully. “Go get your man.”
But Mick Donovan was my man, even if he was reluctant to get with the program. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Don’t you want me to stay with you until…?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” she said, with a hint of an eye roll. “I already have a date.”
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She had to remind me.
“All right. You’re on your own, I guess,” I said. “Just don’t let me catch you talking to strangers.”
“Will do,” she agreed, grinning. “Or, well, won’t do.”
I gave her a lame thumbs-up, and then, out of naked curiosity, I did exactly as she’d suggested: I schlepped my sparkly ass over to the gang of giddy girls and pretended to be a Lars Johannsson groupie.
Now call me naïve, or sheltered, or just plain pathetic, but I’d never heard such beautiful music from such a beautiful man. I mean, there was something transformative about the way Lars played, like he suddenly became bigger, better, more. I was enthralled.
“Excuse me,” I said, elbowing my way to the front of the crowd.
Lars was so focused on the guitar that he didn’t even notice me—at least not at first.
But I noticed him. I noticed him like I’d never noticed him before: The way his soft golden locks brushed effortlessly across his flawless face. The way his deep chocolate eyes disarmed me. The way his sultry lips invited a kiss. The way his talented fingers strummed my inhibitions away.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Lars said humbly, wrapping up his performance to a chorus of whistles and hollers. “I’ll play some more for you all later.”
As his eyes caught mine, a boyish grin spread across his face at lightning speed. “Come here!” he shouted, extending his hand. “I want to show you something.”
The Fisks’ living room, or family room, or whatever room we were sardined into, had become a full-contact mosh pit. Everywhere I turned, unwelcome arms and legs and hips and asses jutted out like sadistic road blocks between me and the man of the hour.
“Phew, this place is jammed,” I said, finally latching onto my rock star boyfriend’s hand. “Am I late or something? Because I think I missed the memo.”
As usual, Lars chuckled. “Um, well, that depends on how you look at it,” he said with a wink. “Some people did arrive about an hour ago. But if you ask me, the party started when your gorgeous lips walked through the door.”
He leaned in for a kiss, but I was so busy giggling that I almost bit him—again. “Lips don’t walk,” I pointed out. “But thanks anyway. It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“You’re a tough one,” he teased, shaking is head. “Yes, you are.” He paused to prop his guitar against the side of a china cabinet. “Now have you seen Goodman?”
My mind was blank. “Huh?”
“Goodman. He’s running the bar,” Lars explained. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you?”
“Ryan Goodman?”
He nodded. “And Bickford. They’re the bartenders. They make a superb Mai Tai, by the way.”
Well, that figured. Stupid, lame Jimmy Bickford (who’d gotten me in trouble over the summer by smuggling beer into my ’80s movie-palooza) and Ryan the stalker Goodman were at the reigns of the liquor cabinet. How appropriate.
“You drink?” I asked, surprised. I guess I hadn’t given it much thought before, but most of my friends weren’t drinkers per se. And even though I didn’t know it for a fact, I somehow figured Mick didn’t drink either.
“Well, sure,” Lars said with confidence. “Alcohol is good for you—in moderation, of course. And it helps us get through the winters. It’s therapeutic.”
By us I assumed he meant him and his fellow Icelanders. “It’s legal for minors to drink?” I asked.
Again, he laughed. I swear, I couldn’t possibly be as funny as he thought I was. Maybe he’d already thrown back a few Mai Tais before I arrived.
“Legal? No. You have to be twenty to drink in Iceland,” he said. “But it’s very commonplace nonetheless.”
Okay, big words perfectly pronounced. Either Lars was stone cold sober, or he had a super high tolerance for alcohol.
“That’s interesting,” I said, still considering his drink offer. I mean, I’d pretty much assumed there’d be booze at the party. I just hadn’t expected the drinking to be so organized. Or so required.
“Where’s the bar?” I finally asked, with what-the-hell enthusiasm.
Lars lit up like I’d just called the final number on his winning lottery ticket. “Right this way,” he said, wrapping a toasty arm around my already sweaty waist. “I’ll take good care of you.”
Eighteen
FOR an hour or so, Lars and I drank and mingled and danced. And just like Mick had over the summer, the Icelandic prince put me to shame with his smooth dance moves. It was perplexing, really, how a klutz like me kept attracting suave, sophisticated men. But hey, you know what they say about gift horses, right?
“Can you get me another Kamikaze?” I asked Lars, breathless. “I’ve gotta sit down for a minute.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t we share one?” he suggested. “You should be careful. It’s your first time.”
I leaned against a doorframe to catch my breath. “How do you know? Maybe I’m a closet drunk,” I said, offended he thought I was such a goody-goody. “Maybe I’m a…a raging alcoholic.”
“In that case, you should avoid alcohol altogether,” he said, grinning.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I whined. “I’m practically still a virgin. Are you happy?”
“You could say that.”
I scanned the room for Jessie and Mick. My original plan had been to stick to them like glue. Jealous, conniving glue. But my best friend and the love of my life had vanished.
“Hey, after you get the drinks, meet me outside,” I said, tilting my head in anticipation of the kiss that was already on its way.
Lars pinned me against the wall in an intense lip-lock that sent ticklish flutters racing through my belly. “Whatever you say, beautiful,” he agreed. Then he stopped to give my ear a soft little nibble before he pulled away.
But as Lars slogged back through the mass of groupies that immediately sprang up in his path, I made a break for it. Because if I didn’t move on Mick ASAP, I’d lose my chance. Maybe forever. Before I could embarrass myself, though, first I had to find him.
So how exactly does a tipsy deflowered booze virgin find a sexy gypsy boy in a crowd, you ask? I believe they call it trigonometry.
To get a better view, I stood on a pile of tattered magazines that were stacked inside an old fruit crate. And using myself as a reference point, I scoped out two other girls who were stationed at the edges of Mick’s very own fan club. Logically, if you drew a line from me to Beth Clarke to Brittany Gallagher, you’d end up with the Bermuda Triangle of, well, Mick. He had to be in that triangle.
“Step aside! Step aside!” I warned random partygoers, as I staggered my way into Mick-dom.
Of course, everyone ignored me.
“Excuse me. Perdón,” I tried. But within a matter of seconds, I was reduced to shoving my way through the Mick triangle. And I’d just about made it to the end of the hypotenuse when, through a sliver of open space between two cheerleaders, I glimpsed Mick’s familiar cobalt blue button-down.
I rattled off another string of excuse mes and flexed my muscles to the limit. Then, finally, I popped out of the crowd at Mick’s side. And, thank God, he was alone.
“I need to talk to you,” I blurted, yanking him along behind me without even waiting for an answer. To my surprise, he didn’t object or even try to pull away. “Okay, here goes,” I said, once I’d cornered him in a back hallway. “I love you, but you’re being ridiculous. This whole thing is stupid. Forget about Jessie. Forget about Lars. Forget about everyone but you and me. You must know we’re meant to be together. You said it yourself in the letter. And I believed you.”
I paused for a breath—and a response—which I was beginning to dread after a few tense, awkward seconds of Mick staring right through me. Eventually, though, he had something to say. “I believed that too, before I came here,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But things are different now. They’ve changed. You’ve changed.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m the same. I’m just like I was at
camp,” I argued. “And I still love you like crazy. Doesn’t that matter?”
Mick sighed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I just see you getting very intimate with your boyfriend over there?”
“That’s not my fault,” I cried. “You wouldn’t let me break up with him. And you’re with Jessie anyway, so we’re even.”
Made perfect sense to my booze-soaked brain.
“That’s irrelevant,” Mick said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. It’s not the same.”
“Do you love me, or not?” I demanded. “Because honestly, I don’t think I can…”
“Shh,” Mick cooed, suddenly softer. Tenderly, he wiped a trickle of tears from my cheek. “Don’t cry.”
Shit. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I mean, if a guy genuinely likes you, a good cry might draw him out of his emotional shell. Duh.
“Do you love me?” I persisted.
“I’ll always love you, Flora,” he said, stroking my hair with his thick, rough fingers. “Always.”
I was just about to seal the deal with our first real kiss since Mick had rolled into town when his demeanor turned defensive. “What…?” I asked, puzzled.
From somewhere behind me, Lars’ voice scolded, “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought you said to meet outside.” He slyly slipped his arm around my shoulder.
Suddenly Mick’s personality change made sense. “Yeah…um…I was on my way outside when I saw Jessie and Mick,” I lied. “So I was hanging out with them until you got back with the drinks.”
“Uh-huh,” Lars said, with a hint of yeah, right skepticism. I guess the fact that Jessie was nowhere in sight must have tipped him off to my deception. “How about that fresh air?” he asked.
I glanced at Mick, hoping he would stop me, hoping he would tell Lars to unhand me, hoping he would—once and for all—claim me as his own. I wanted nothing more than to belong to my sweet, sweet Mickey D forever.
Film at Eleven Page 14
