Isn't She Lovely (22 page)

Olivia’s beautiful.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. Of
course
Ethan’s ex would be beautiful. And I don’t just mean pretty in a more-attractive-than-average type of way. She’s completely stunning. I knew she was blond, but I’d been thinking (hoping) that it’d be some fake platinum nonsense. Instead it’s this silky honey-wheat color that makes her resemble a really hot farmer’s daughter, but in a classy, sophisticated kind of way. She’s also tall and willowy, and she looks like one of those girls who’ve done ballet since the age of two.

Adding insult to injury, her eyes are startlingly green and almond-shaped, and just exotic enough to keep her from ever being the boring girl next door.

Next to her, I feel stubby, frumpy, and phony.

But that’s not why I hate her.

I hate her because of the way Ethan is looking at her. Despite his assertions just moments ago that he had no problems being at this party alone, when he’s looking at her his face says otherwise.

I was right about
her
being the reason he had to reinvent
me
. I may be the subject of this modern Pygmalion story, but she’s the motivation.

Suddenly I’m all too aware that I’m playing dress-up. That although I think I’m falling in love with him, the only reason
he’s
here is Olivia.

The air feels rife with pain. His. Hers. Mine. And it’s now that I realize how much I’ve come to care about Ethan. Because my pain fades to the background at the thought of
him
hurting.

And wasn’t this the entire point of our escapade? To help him through this?

I can’t take away his pain. But perhaps I can help his pride.

I fix a polite yet vacant smile on my face as though I have no idea who Olivia is.

“Ethan?” I ask, keeping my voice light and confused. As though he’s never told me about her, and she’s just some skinny girl blocking my way to the caviar.

My voice ends their staring contest, although it takes him a couple of extra seconds to look at me, and my heart twists just a bit, even as I keep my face the perfect picture of innocent confusion.

He blinks down at me, his familiar gold eyes so lost, I find myself squeezing his fingers in reassurance, even as I want to tell him that she is not worth it.

Ethan glances down at our linked hands as though confused as to why he’s touching me, before he finally—
finally
—gets his shit together.

“Right. Right. Um, Olivia, this is Stephanie.”

She tears her eyes away from Ethan long enough to give me a little ghost of a smile. I have to give her credit, because she has to hate me, but she looks polite and non-bitchy considering I’m holding the hand of a guy she’s been dating for the majority of her life.

“Hi,” she says, extending a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Liar
, I think as I shake her hand, never once letting my smile slip. For a second I consider asking how they know each other, but that seems like it might be a little over the top in the he’s-never-mentioned-you game.

Her dress is white like mine, but it’s a simple drape-necked sheath that’s completely flattering and simple and leaves me feeling like I’m wearing a cookie-cutter bridesmaid dress.

“I heard you were seeing someone,” she says softly to Ethan.

“Yeah.”

Both she and I wait for him to say something more. At this point I don’t care whether he’s using me as a flat-out set-down or simply as a polite excuse to end this awkward encounter; I just want him to do
something
. Something other than stand there like a guy who’s facing the love of his life.

I run my hand up his arm. “Maybe we should get some of that caviar before it’s gone, hmm?”

He turns to look at me again, his brow furrowed, and I catch Olivia as she gives a little blink of confusion.

I immediately see my mistake. Of course this type of shindig wouldn’t run out of caviar. The possibility doesn’t even cross these people’s minds. And I am not one of these people.

“Sure,” he says, giving me a smile that I’ve never seen before. It’s wooden and distant and
horrible
.

Oh, hell, no.

It’s clear that he wants to stay and exchange longing glances with his cheating ex, and I’ll be damned if I give either of them the impression that I’m dragging him away. I don’t need a pity escort to the caviar table.

I pull my hand away from his, not caring that the gesture looks childish and obvious.

“Actually, hold that thought,” I say, my voice too high and bright. “I need to use the restroom first. Meet you at the fish eggs later, yeah?”

I turn away before I can enjoy their snobbish reaction to my bastardization of caviar, and pride myself that I neither run nor trip on the way to the bathroom.

I’m even more proud of the fact that I don’t cry once I’m in there, even though the lump in my throat tells me that I want to.

I stare at my reflection in the elaborate yacht bathroom for a good while. When I was getting ready in the bedroom the Prices had put me in, I felt every bit the part of the rich boy’s girlfriend. But after seeing Olivia, I realize that fitting into this world isn’t just about the right dress or the right hair or the right look. It’s about confidence. It’s about a conviction that you belong here and that the people surrounding you in all this ridiculous opulence want you here.

That’s
the real kicker with the Pygmalion story.
That’s
the conflict Martin Holbrook talked about. Because you can dress up a hooker and she’s still a hooker. A flower girl is still a flower girl.

And a grungy film student is still a grungy film student. Even in a pretty dress.

Although I feel humiliated and completely out of place, I try to look on the bright side. At least I’ve finally got some inspiration for those ending scenes of our screenplay. Maybe I can pass the time by jotting down ideas on cocktail napkins while getting blitzed on the fabulous champagne. I suspect Ethan won’t be needing me as his fake girlfriend the rest of the evening.

I open the door, fully intending to take advantage of the first and probably last time I’ll have access to a top-shelf open bar and fancy rich-people food, but before I can step out of the bathroom, I’m being pushed back
into
it.

“What the—Ethan?”

He slams the door shut behind him, locking it, before turning toward me, his eyes murderous.

“You left me.”

The simple statement throws me off balance.
I
left him?

“I thought you didn’t want me there!” I say. “I felt like a fifth wheel while you guys made hungry eyes at each other.”

He has the decency to look guilty for a split second before he resumes his possessive glare, as though I’m the one making a mess of things.

“I haven’t seen her in months. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t—” He breaks off.

“You missed her,” I say softly.

Ethan rubs his neck and doesn’t meet my eyes, and for the briefest second my chest literally hurts.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “For a second I thought so. But then you were gone, and I wasn’t thinking about Olivia. I was worried that you’d changed your mind and hightailed it back
to Manhattan.”

The pain in my chest eases, just a little. “I wouldn’t do that,” I say softly. “I said I’d stay.”

He lets out a long breath before reaching out and hooking his hands around my elbows, pulling me closer.

“Promise?”

I search his face, wanting him to tell me that it’s only me that he wants. That he’s completely over Olivia. But he doesn’t say that, and I don’t ask.

Still, I’m not going to leave him. I can’t.

“I promise,” I whisper.

And then he kisses me, there in the privacy of the cramped bathroom, where nobody can see us.

Where nobody can see us
.

I’m beginning to realize that there are two kinds of kisses for us: the stage kiss and the important kiss.

And the important kisses have just officially outnumbered the stage kisses.

Chapter Twenty

Ethan

“That dress suits Olivia.”

I close my eyes at the sound of my mother’s voice. Is she
kidding
me with this? I’m only surprised my mom waited for the last evening of the house party to make her move.

“Oh?” I say. “I haven’t seen her yet this evening.”

That’s a lie. I saw Olivia almost immediately. And not because I was looking for her, but because it was damned difficult to avoid someone whose all-too-familiar eyes are on you 24/7.

She was watching me the entire time I was giving Stephanie a caviar-tasting lesson at the cocktail party last night.

She was watching me during the bonfire when Stephanie and I fed each other marshmallows.

And then there was this morning, when I showed up for my tee time only to realize that Olivia was in my foursome, along with our fathers. And no way to get out of it.

I had yet to tell Stephanie that Olivia and I had spent eight hours together. It’s not like it was my fault. I hadn’t planned it. But Olivia golfed, and Stephanie didn’t, so … there was that.

But the
real
reason I haven’t told Stephanie is that the morning with Olivia wasn’t nearly as awful as I’d expected. In fact, once we got past a little stiffness and stilted small talk on the first few holes, it was almost as though nothing had changed. And as hard as I’d tried to hold on to the memory of seeing her in Michael’s arms, when the two of us were together, trading criticism about each other’s golf swing or helping the other locate a lost ball, it had felt … well, familiar.

Not that I want to get back together with her. But I was acutely aware that we are well matched in every way that matters. That we will
always
be well matched.

I remembered that Olivia doesn’t go leaping off the docks with the little kids, squealing all the way. Stephanie does. Olivia doesn’t roll her eyes when one of my parents’ wino friends starts discussing the nuances of various vintages. Olivia doesn’t roll up her capris and dive into a way-too-competitive game of croquet with the men of the party, ending up by charming them all.

Olivia doesn’t startle me into unexpected smiles. She doesn’t make my heart pound.

Stephanie does.

“Stephanie seems to be adapting to our people,” my mother says, taking a sip of her pinot
grigio.

Annnnd that’s about enough
. “Mom,” I say simply, “you’re a snob.”

My mother takes a sharp intake of breath, but my eyes never leave the spot where Stephanie is talking animatedly with my father and one of his many accountants. My father, whom Stephanie accompanied fishing earlier today.
My girlfriend went fishing with my father
.

Or my fake girlfriend. I no longer know whether the distinction still applies. I’m not sure I even care.

“Ethan,” Mom says, her voice sounding exasperated rather than offended. “What’s happened to you?”

I glance around at the candlelit tent that marks the beach gala. Maybe it’s girly to think this, but it’s always been one of my favorite parts of my parents’ house parties. After a weekend of sunning and boating and sporting, it’s always seemed like the perfect cap to the weekend.

But tonight it feels a little stale, and I’m more preoccupied with whether it’s a fire hazard to have this many people surrounded by hundreds of tea lights in a fabric tent. Not to mention it’s the same thing they did last year. And the year before.

I’ve never really put much thought into the distinction between tradition and monotony, but now I find I can’t think of anything else.

“You
know
what happened to me,” I say, belatedly answering my mother’s question.

“Ethan, she’s a pretty girl, and nice enough, but are you sure she’s not …?”

“Not what?”

“Well, after your money. Our money.”

The thought is too incredible even to fathom, and suddenly I’m wishing I could show my mother a picture of Stephanie when I first met her, all flea-market boots and unstyled hair. I wish I could show her how I had to
drag
the girl shopping.

“Mom, I don’t think she wants anything to do with us.”

“I just worry you’re not thinking clearly. Have you given any thought to what it must be like for Olivia, watching you flirt with an outsider?”

An outsider?

And suddenly I can’t remember why I’ve done any of this. Why I’ve hidden the truth from my mother, or cared about what Olivia would think.

“Olivia cheated on me, Mom.”

She’s quiet, and I know that inside her, maternal concern is warring with societal image, to say nothing of how she must feel to hear me accusing Olivia of the very thing she herself is guilty of. “Are you sure?” she asks. “The lines aren’t always clear, Ethan, especially when you’re young.”

“There’s a line. She crossed it. With Michael.”

“Michael?”

I don’t think it’s my imagination that her voice has gone up an octave, from soothing to nervous.

“Yup. My best friend was doing my girlfriend. I walked in on them.”

She’s silent for several seconds. “When?”

Here it is: my chance to walk away and put it behind me. Or my moment to come clean—not to judge her, but because we can’t keep going on like this, with her hiding it and me pretending to let her.

“Same day I saw you with Mike senior.”

It’s like a bomb went off, but the two of us are the only ones to notice. She doesn’t move, but I can feel her panic.

“Ethan, let me explain—”

“You don’t have to explain, Mom. Not to me. But to Dad?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “You haven’t told him?”

I take a sip of the too-sweet themed cocktail I grabbed from the bar and give a little shrug. “It’s not mine to tell. But it
is
his to know.”

“It’s so complicated, Ethan.”

She puts an imploring hand on my arm, but I shake it off. “I’m sure it is, but I don’t want or need the details. I just needed you to know that I know.”

Mom gives a little nod. “Thank you for not hating me.”