Taryn heaped her plate with mac-and-cheese, and I lived vicariously through her. Ditto when she went back for dessert.
After dusk fell and Mr. Garner was readying the fireworks, Mrs. Garner told us we could have one glass of champagne each. Taryn and I declined; the others accepted. The Garners didn’t mind us drinking in moderation at something like this, even though we were underage. But I didn’t think it was worth the empty calories, and Taryn had her own reasons. Maybe because of her own mother’s drinking habits. Either way, nobody judged us, at least not that I could tell.
As much as I loved my three friends, I was still a little on edge, wondering what they were thinking about me, and Taryn, and me and Taryn as friends.
I felt different—I was different from the girl they’d known before the accident, but also different than the girl they hadn’t seen since school let out for summer. Could they tell how different? Did they care?
I didn’t like keeping a secret from them, even though Taryn and I had agreed, and it was for the right reasons. They knew I was gay. Even if Taryn and I acted like normal friends, they might still spot a glance, or a touch, and wonder.
If they asked, I’d tell, asking them to keep it under wraps because we were keeping it chill for the time being. They’d understand. We’d been friends since we were kids, and I trusted them.
I threw on my sweater while we watched the firework display. After that, the party wore down, and we all helped the Garners carry food back to the kitchen. Then the five of us retreated to the pool house for our night of gossip and giggling.
The pool house had a main room with folding glass doors that opened wide to make the space part of the outdoor entertainment area. To the side was a private room for changing, and a small bathroom with a shower head on the wall for a quick rinse before or after swimming.
The main room had comfy sofas with cushions that doubled as sleeping pads when you put them on the floor. We also had a couple of air mattresses, and enough sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows. Not that we were anywhere near ready to sleep.
I realized swiftly that I didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations. Certainly Taryn didn’t, either. It was strange, listening to them talk. Boys they were dating or maybe dating—names I recognized from school, but now seemed as distant as aliens. I hadn’t thought about any of them since I left.
The same with girls they snarked about, which somehow made me uncomfortable. There wasn’t outright bullying, but it was still talking behind people’s backs. This girl’s bad fashion sense; that girl’s overdone makeup; the way someone flung herself at boys, oblivious to their reactions.
Were we always like this? Had I been like this? I didn’t like it. Beside me, I felt Taryn’s tension.
I gently pushed to change the subject, but we ended up on the summer’s blockbuster movies, none of which I’d had time to see, much less even read about. I realized I hadn’t even been keeping up on my favorite tech blogs anymore. If I wasn’t training, I was spending time with Taryn.
Madison had a pile of magazines in the pool house, and some of us were flipping through them as we chatted. Brittany had several open in front of her.
“This,” she said, pointing. “I’ve been trying to do this for ages, but I always end up looking like some kind of reverse raccoon or something.”
She was referring to a smoky eye with a fine line of white near the lash line. It was a bold look, better on models or celebrities than everyday teenage girls, but we’d always loved trying out new styles.
I glanced at Taryn, winked, and tilted my head briefly.
She frowned slightly, just a pair of lines between her eyebrows that I could see now that she didn’t have her long, obscuring bangs.
“Um, I could help you with that,” she said.
The other three swiveled their heads to look at her. I held my breath, even though I was sure none of them would make a snarky comment. Brittany’s eyes widened. “You can?” It was less dubious, more eager.
“Sure,” she said. “It’s not that hard.”
“Taryn’s an artist,” I jumped in. “She’s really good with color and blending and shading and…well, I don’t know exactly what she does. She did my makeup for the pageant.”
That definitely broke the ice, and for the next hour or more, Taryn did makeup on all four of us. The others peppered her with questions, and warmth slid through me, happiness that they liked her.
It got a little awkward, though, when Madison, Emilia, and Brittany kept pulling out their phones for selfies. The first time, early on during the party, I’d turned away, then explained that Mrs. Wentworth was concerned about my online presence and I had to make sure it was properly curated.
“So, like you’re a social influencer now?” Emilia had asked, curious.
“No, I’m not trying to sell anything,” I said. “I’m not trying to make money. But a pageant winner has to always put her best face forward. And there can’t be even a whiff of scandal.”
“Sooo, we can’t ply you with alcohol and draw on you with Sharpies when you’re passed out and post tons of pictures?” Madison said.
I felt a moment of pure panic, my stomach dropping like a skydiver in freefall, before I realized she was kidding. “If you do, you’d better start sleeping with one eye open,” I mock-threatened. “I’ve known you since first grade—I know all your secrets. I know where the bodies are buried, so to speak.”
We all laughed, and the tension melted away.
Taryn pulled me away a moment later. “You know how much you sounded just like my mother? ‘Whiff of scandal’?”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s easier to repeat what she said—it’s the simplest explanation.”
“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” she said, but I could tell it bothered her. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it, then let go before anyone would notice.
The really awkward part was, of course, that the others kept forgetting I didn’t want to have my picture posted. I agreed to a couple of shots taken on my phone so I could review them before they were posted. I hated feeling like I was getting in the way of their fun.
Then again, I realized with a twinge of guilt, there was no telling who at the party had been taking pictures, and I’d no doubt have ended up in the background of some. The Garners always posted a bunch of party pics on Facebook. All I could hope was that I didn’t look bad, and that nobody tagged me.
Once the makeup session was done, we got restless again, and the five of us went for a midnight swim, floating on our backs and looking at the stars, splashing each other, laughing. Afterwards, we dried off and got in our pajamas, although I took the extra step of rinsing off and running a leave-in conditioner through my hair. I’d have to make sure I moisturized before we went to sleep, too. Chlorine was hell on skin as well as hair.
Then Madison suggested we raid the kitchen for more food: chips, dip, leftover desserts.
“Is your mom all right with that?” I asked.
Three heads swiveled towards me, identical furrows between their brows.
“Um, of course,” Madison said. “She bought the stuff for us.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course. Sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.”
I kept my voice steady, which felt like a miracle because my gut was churning and my hands were shaking. I didn’t dare look at Taryn as we uncurled ourselves from our seats and headed across the yard to the house.
I’d gotten used to the idea that kitchens were mostly off-limits, that refrigerators and pantries were locked, and only pre-approved food was available.
I’d gotten so used to it, it felt normal.
This was a bucket of ice water to the face, pulling me out of that mindset.
It wasn’t normal at all.
Not for me—I was old enough to eat properly because I had my eyes on the pageant prize.
And certainly not for Taryn. Her mother wanting her to eat healthy was one thing. But denying access to food…
My stom
ach churned as I helped carry the spoils of our foraging expedition back to the pool house. Which, I suppose, was a good thing, because it meant the food didn’t look terribly appetizing. I nibbled enough to not be obvious (I hoped), and tried to smile and laugh and contribute to the conversation.
In fact, I managed to bring up the fact that Taryn and I were volunteering at the animal shelter, and got to tell a few cute stories. Even Taryn chimed in, which made me happy. I knew this whole situation was weird for her, and I appreciated that my friends were being reasonable about her being there.
Still, I was unsettled enough that despite how late we stretched out on our respective makeshift beds (still chatting and giggling for at least another hour), it took me a long time to fall asleep.
After our late night (early morning, really), we slept late. I woke up first, despite the few hours I’d slept, in a panic, sure I’d missed some appointment, then realizing I’d neglected my entire skin care routine before going to bed. I slipped into the half bath and creamed my makeup off while the others were just starting to stir, and pulled my hair back in a loose bun to disguise the lack of styling.
As usual, Mr. Garner went all out for our breakfast: pancakes with maple syrup, crispy bacon, bagels and cream cheese, coffee cake, fruit salad. It smelled incredibly good and my stomach was begging, so I caved and treated myself to one pancake and a slice of bacon. I dragged the bacon through the syrup, and nearly rolled my eyes at how delicious it was. I ate in tiny bites, savoring the flavors.
Then I filled a bowl with fruit, and ate with two cups of coffee, promising myself an extra-long run on the treadmill.
The pool house shower wasn’t really for full-on showers, so I grabbed my stuff and headed into the house to use Madison’s bathroom. Mrs. Wentworth was coming soon to pick us up, while Brittany and Emilia were going to spend the day hanging out by the pool with Madison, and then going shopping or to the movies or whatever they decided.
It was summer, after all. A time for relaxing and having fun.
At least, if you weren’t training for the next pageant.
I had one foot on the grey-carpeted stairs leading to the second floor when Mrs. Garner spotted me.
“Oh, Annabelle, I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I wanted the chance to speak to you.”
I panicked.
Twenty-Three
What had I done wrong? My mind raced, reviewing yesterday and today. Had I said something inappropriate? Had I acted gracelessly? My mouth suddenly felt like the Sahara, and I had trouble raising the saliva to swallow.
Wordlessly, I followed her into the den.
I’d always thought Mrs. Garner was pretty—and she was, but in a different way from Mrs. Wentworth. Mrs. Wentworth was beautiful, always polished and put together. Mrs. Garner had pale hair like her daughter, but dyed a more ash-blond color that older women tend towards. It was styled in what I could only describe as a mom-cut, short and sporty.
She wore jean shorts and a white T-shirt, over which she’d thrown on a long-sleeved button-down shirt, left open. Her feet were bare, and her manicure—blue and red and silver for the holiday—sparkled.
We sat down on the sofa, which was dark blue with a tartan pattern in dark red and green. The cushions were soft, the springs beneath a little worn. They’d had this sofa for as long as I could remember, back when our slumber parties were in here and Mrs. Garner would have to vacuum all the popcorn out of the sofa the next day. The room smelled of lemon furniture polish, and the pale green walls were covered with family pictures in mismatched frames.
Mrs. Garner set her white coffee mug on the glass-topped wooden coffee table and turned towards me.
I waited for the hammer to fall.
Which meant I was thrown off when she smiled, and even more so when she took my hands in hers.
“I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you yet,” she said. “How are you, Annabelle?”
“I’m…fine,” I managed. “Good. Busy with pageant prep.”
“Of course,” she said. “It was strange not seeing you around this summer—I’m so used to the four of you doing everything together—but then Madison reminded me what you were working on. I heard about how well you did in your first pageant—congratulations!”
“Thank you,” I said automatically, and made the same comment about how I’d made mistakes but would do better next time.
She tsked. “You did spectacularly,” she said, “especially given how soon after…” She trailed off. “I’m sorry. Are you handling everything okay? You barely ate anything at breakfast, and you seem a bit thin. I’m honestly a bit worried about you.”
And that was when the waterworks started. A rising clog in my throat, a slow burn behind my eyes, and as much as I tried to stop it, sometimes you just can’t hold back the tide.
I’d been primed to assume the worst, and all she was showing me was kindness and concern. The kind of care I’d lost when I’d lost my parents, but found, to a degree, when I found Taryn.
The kind that Mrs. Wentworth never gave, not really.
She encouraged me to be better, and praised me when I succeeded in what she expected me to succeed in: a practiced smile, a kickass workout, a well-answered question.
She never considered how I felt, and she never comforted me.
Taryn had held me and comforted me when I needed it, and I loved her for it. But it wasn’t the same as parental love and comfort, and I’d forgotten how much I needed it until now.
I didn’t cry like I did when I fell apart that first night with Taryn. This was more quiet sobs, almost a relief, as Mrs. Garner held me in her arms and stroked my hair and murmured soothing things but didn’t press me to talk. She smelled like maple syrup and fireworks smoke, comforting, normal scents of home.
When I’d wept myself out, she’d magically produced tissues, probably from under her sleeve, where moms kept such things. (I doubted Mrs. Wentworth did, though.)
“Sorry,” I said after blowing my nose so hard I was surprised I didn’t burst a blood vessel. “I’m not sure what just happened.”
“It’s not surprising,” Mrs. Garner said. “You’re under so much stress. Are you seeing anyone?”
I hadn’t seen my therapist since I’d moved into the Wentworth estate. Maybe I needed to touch base. I said as much to Mrs. Garner.
On the heels of that thought, I wondered how Mrs. Wentworth would feel about it. Did pageant winners have therapists? If the judges heard about it, would the knowledge hurt my chances? Surely mental health was a cause worth supporting.
Supporting, maybe, but probably not admitting to.
Which was stupid. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Mrs. Wentworth felt that way.
The doorbell rang, and I jumped.
“Crap, what time is it?” I asked. I’d lost track, and Mrs. Wentworth was coming to pick us up, and I hadn’t even showered yet.
“Just splash some water on your face and brush your teeth,” Mrs. Garner said, giving my forearm a squeeze. “You can shower when you get home.”
Home. For a flash, I saw my old home. The Wentworth manor didn’t feel much like home, except for my bedroom and the media room Taryn and I shared. And her bedroom, too, I realized.
Home meant security, safety.
Love.
I shook my head, dashing away my thoughts and swallowing my emotions. I had to pull all my stuff together and get ready to leave.
“Um,” I said, “please don’t tell anyone…”
“This conversation is between the two of us, I promise,” Mrs. Garner said, and made the lip-zipping-shut motion that apparently came with motherhood.
I stood.
“One more thing,” Mrs. Garner said, and I automatically tensed. “Thank you for bringing Taryn. She’s lovely.” She smiled. “And you two seem really good for each other.”
I ran out to the pool house just as Taryn was walking out. At her curious expression, I said “Got waylaid by Mads’ mom,” I gathered up my belong
ings, stuffing everything into my overnight bag, and met her outside. We walked around the pool, into the house, and to the front door where Mrs. Wentworth was chatting with Mrs. Garner, the other girls hanging around.
Madison and the others hugged me goodbye, and said nice things to Taryn that sounded sincere: that they’d enjoyed meeting her, that she was welcome anytime. She politely shook Mrs. Garner’s hand and thanked her for her hospitality.
Of course Mrs. Garner hugged me, whispering, “Take care of yourself. Call if you need anything.” I managed a quick “Thank you” before she let me go.
When we got outside to the car, Taryn and I started automatically for our usual seats, her in the front passenger seat and me in the back. But Mrs. Wentworth said, “Annabelle, sit up front with me, won’t you?”
That meant she wanted to talk to me about something. A butterfly somersaulted in my stomach. Did she have new information about the next pageant? I’d love the time off, but I was still looking forward to getting back to work and focus.
As Taryn and I switched between doors, her hand brushed against mine, below the line of the car and out of her mother’s sight. Just a brief touch, a quick squeeze of my fingers; she didn’t even look at me. I felt a rush of pleasure along with a tiny bit of thrill over doing something semi-publicly.
A moment later, after we’d gotten in the car and Mrs. Wentworth had pulled away from the Garners’ house, I realized it hadn’t been a show of affection.
It had been a warning, along with sympathy for what was about to happen.
Because I’d forgotten that Mrs. Wentworth never asked me to sit up front unless she was about to go off at me about something.
“First of all,” she said, “I’m so disappointed in you both for keeping me waiting. You knew what time I would be arriving and I expected you to be ready to go.”
The butterfly in my stomach shattered in the cold that swept over me. I pressed my suddenly numb fingers between my legs.
Beautiful Beast Page 15
