Isn't She Lovely (28 page)

I give her a knowing smile. “Did my dad put you up to this?”

Her white teeth beam. “Guilty. If you don’t want to share, that’s totally fine. I just thought you might want to, you know … talk.”

I run a finger around the base of my glass, considering. Ever since that conversation on the beach with Ethan, my resentment of Amy has been sort of fading, as though saying it out loud forced me to realize how petty I was being.

And that while maybe six months was fast for them to get married, love apparently didn’t work on a schedule. Perhaps my dad and Amy weren’t guilty of anything but finding happiness with the other person, and it just hadn’t happened to adhere to my emotional schedule.

Talking to Ethan about Amy had been therapeutic.

Maybe it would work the other way as well.

I take a deep breath. “It’s about a guy.”

She nods knowingly. “It usually is.”

Suddenly I’m telling her the whole story. How Ethan was gorgeous, even when I thought he was a prick that first day. How he was even
more
gorgeous when I started to think he wasn’t such a prick after all.

I tell her about the screenplay, and how I think we both knew all along that we weren’t doing it for the sake of our film class, or even the sake of his fake-girlfriend story, but because it had given us a way to be together when we lacked the guts to do it for real.

I tell her about the first time he kissed me, and how it had been the most
incredible
kiss of my life. I tell her about the clothes, the haircut, and the makeup, and how even as I resented it all, he made me feel pretty for the first time in a long time. I tell her about the wedding, the parties, and the dancing. I tell her about the quiet moments too, watching movies or sharing a pizza.

I tell her that I love him.

And that he hurt me.

And that I think I hurt him too.

Somehow in the midst of all this I’m crying, and I hate that I’m crying, and Amy’s moved her chair around the table to put an arm around me. And I let her.

She doesn’t seem to care that I’m soaking her white button-down with mascara-stained tears, and strokes my hair. And it’s nice. She’s not my mom, but she’s here. And that counts for more than I realized.

I finally pull myself together enough to lift my head from her shoulder, and she digs a travel-size package of tissues out of her purse and hands them to me, along with her assessment of the situation. “Men are the worst.”

I laugh a little as I blow my nose. “Seriously.”

She squeezes my hand. “Do you want me to tell you all the stuff you already know deep down? That if he doesn’t love you for
you
, he’s not worth loving at all? Or should we just leave it at the guys-are-shits phase for now?”

“The second one,” I say with a smile. “But thanks.”

She nods in understanding.

“I didn’t like you,” I blurt out.

It’s her turn to laugh. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

“It just felt like you came out of nowhere. Like one minute I had my little happy family, and the next my mom was gone and my dad had you, but I had … nobody.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand again. “You had us. You always had us.”

“I think I was too busy being mad,” I mutter.

“You were entitled. No girl should have to lose her mom like that. And if I’m not mistaken, there were boy troubles back then too?”

I nod but don’t elaborate. Maybe someday I’ll tell her about Caleb and that whole mess, but I’m too exhausted to tackle it now.

“You look like her, you know,” I say softly. Wanting to get it all out there.

She gives me a sad smile. “I know. I can’t help it.”

“I thought that’s why my dad married you.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch. “Honestly? Maybe it
is
why he was attracted to me at first. But it’s not why he married me, Stephanie. And it’s not why we’re still married now.”

“I know,” I whisper, feeling small.

She glances around for a server. “I’m thinking we need another glass of wine.”

I nod.
Definitely
. “Amy?” I say suddenly. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been …”
Nice, friendly, civil …
“I haven’t been decent to you.”

“Oh, please,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Remember I was your age once too. I had blue streaks in my hair and a nose ring, and tube tops were the defining part of my wardrobe.”

I lift an eyebrow, taking in the immaculately dressed, perfectly groomed woman beside me. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “I grew up. Grew into myself.”

I realize I’m fiddling with one of the several earrings on my ear, feeling oddly defensive. As though she’s trying to tell me that my “goth” clothes, as Ethan calls them, are some sort of adolescent acting out. “So you think I’m just going through a phase?”

“Oh, honey,” Amy says as she gestures to the server for another round, “Life is nothing
but
phases. Some things stick, lots of things don’t. You’ll figure it out.”

I glance down at my boots. I wonder if guys also go through phases.

And I wonder if Ethan will ever go through one that brings him back to me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ethan

It’s actually my mom who put the idea in my head. She’s been calling pretty much every day lately. I only pick up half the time. Until she comes clean with my dad, there’s not a whole lot I have to say to her.

But to her credit, she’s completely dropped the idea of me and Olivia getting back together. She even used some of her connections at NYU in an attempt to help me figure out what dorm Stephanie’s in. Can’t say I ever thought I’d see the day when my mother helps me stalk a girl, but I appreciate the effort.

After a few days of frantically roaming around campus, my brain gets a word in edgewise over my moping, and I remember that Stephanie said she worked in the dean’s office. But a quick phone call later, I’m even further away than when I started.

Because Stephanie apparently decided to not pick up any shifts until the fall semester started. Which means she won’t have access to the dorms.

She’s even more MIA than before.

“Did you find her yet?” my mom asks. She asks pretty much every time we talk now, in the same matter-of-fact voice as though we’re talking about fucking Waldo.

“No, Mom. Don’t you think I would have mentioned it?”

“Probably,” she says, unfazed by my tone. “I also think you’d be a lot less grumpy with your mother.”

I ignore this.

“And you tried her home?” she says.

“Stephanie doesn’t really have a home,” I say, thinking about her whole Rhode Island/North Carolina identity crisis.

“Of course she has a home. Where does her father live?”

I reluctantly explain that they’re not on good terms and that there’s no way Stephanie would go back there. Hell, it was her desperation to avoid it that led her to agree to this whole disaster.

“Yes, honey, but that was before,” Mom says patiently.

“Before what?”

“Before you broke her heart.”

I wince. “Jesus, Mom.”

“Trust me on this. She’ll have wanted to get as far away from you as possible. Ten bucks says she’s in North Carolina.”

“Ten bucks? You wouldn’t think twice about blowing your nose on a ten-dollar bill.”

But now Mom’s got me thinking about how falling in love with Stephanie helped me let go of my anger toward Olivia and Michael, because I didn’t need the anger anymore.

What if the same is true for Stephanie? What if she’s ready to make peace with her father and stepmom?

“I’ve gotta go, Mom. Love you.”

I hang up before she can start asking a million questions, and immediately pull up the Internet browser on my laptop.

Two minutes later, I grin in victory. Sometimes I love being born into a tech-friendly generation. I thought my mom was a good stalker assistant, but she’s got nothing on social media.

I’ve never bothered to look up Stephanie’s online profile before, and there are multiple Stephanie Kendricks, but I know which one is hers immediately. An NYU film student with a creepy black raven as an avatar? It’s a no-brainer.

She’s got the same raven tattooed on her butt cheek. I asked her what it meant, and she said she’d simply liked the color. Of course she had. What a weirdo.

My weirdo.

I don’t bother reaching out to her online. She hasn’t responded to my calls, texts, or emails, so I think it’s safe to say she wants nothing to do with me. It’s time to get creative.

Finally I figure out which of her friends must be her stepbrother, and I send him a message. Three days later I get a response:
Dude. How’d u find me? That’s creepy. Yeah, I’m Stephanie’s bro. Are u the guy that makes her cry at nite? If yeah, fuck off. If no, fuck off anyway. She kinda hates guys right now
.

Okay. So not a great start. But I’ve got my foot in the door. I hit reply and type:
Sorry on the creep factor. I’m desperate. I’m pretty sure I’m the one who made her cry. I’m a dick. Want to make it better, but need your help. Saw that you have a girlfriend. Surely you’ve made a mistake at some point …?

I sit there like a total weirdo, refreshing the screen every five seconds for ten minutes before I realize that a seventeen-year-old guy on summer break probably has something better to do than monitor his inbox for messages from his stepsister’s asshole of an ex.

So mostly I pass the time by working on our screenplay. It’s taking forever since I have to stop every five minutes to reference the pile of screenwriting books I bought, but I’m actually kind of enjoying the process.

Stephanie’s probably working on it too, which means we’re doing double work, but that’s what she gets for going AWOL on me.

Besides, my version will be better. I’m pretty sure about this.

Later that evening, he writes back:
I’m listening
.

I close my eyes briefly and fist-pump the air.

Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Stephanie

My parents have thrown me a going-away party. Which is a little ridiculous considering I’ve only been here two weeks, and have only been around once a year before now. Not to mention they didn’t even know I was coming in the first place.

But I know what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to make me understand that I have a home here. And they’re letting all of their friends and neighbors know that their New York college girl is one of
them
.

Oddly, I’m okay with that.

Amy took me shopping for a new dress, and I picked a bright blue one with ruffles at the hem, because I like the way the flounce contrasts with my boots. The whole dress-and-boots thing has become a trademark look for me in the past two weeks. It’s the best I’ve felt in my skin in a long time.

I’ve continued to ease up on the eye shadow, although I’ll never get rid of my black liner or gray shadow completely. Or maybe I will, if Amy’s right about that whole life-is-a-bunch-of-phases thing. But for now I’m loving it.

The earrings have stayed too, although I gave the rest of my clunky, spiky leather jewelry to the Goodwill. In the same way I like the contrast of pairing lace with my boots, I’ve also started wearing a bunch of colorful, girly bangles on my wrist to offset the badass of my makeup and earrings.

And if the way that my parents’ neighbor is flirting with me is any indication, I’m pulling off the new look quite well.

That could also be the low neckline of the dress.

“Your hooters are about to fall out,” Chris says as he brings me a soda and tells the neighbor to scram.

“Gosh, it’s a shame we didn’t grow up together like other siblings. I’m sure you were such a
sweet
little boy.”

I wait for his comeback. We’ve spent less than a week together, but he’s seemed more than willing to forgive my intentional absence for most of our parents’ marriage and has risen to the occasion of pain-in-the-ass little-brother marvelously.

But today he’s slow on the sparring, instead staring around the backyard like he’s looking
for someone. Probably his on-again/off-again girlfriend, who calls eight hundred times a day, usually to yell at him.

I use my boot to gently kick his knee. “This is my party. You have to pay attention to me.”

He smiles, although he doesn’t stop looking around. “Dad says you were a total attention whore when you were a kid. I believe it.”

Chris calls my father “Dad.” It bothered me at first, but now I’m actually kind of jealous at how quickly Chris adjusted to the whole new-family situation. Granted, it was different for him. He’s younger, and he’s never known his own father.

Still, I don’t think I’ll ever call Amy “Mom.” Because she’s not my mom.

She is, however, turning out to be a pretty fantastic
stepmom
. As if sensing my eyes on her, she turns and waves from where she’s talking with some friends on the deck, then points at my dad’s feet and rolls her eyes. Both of us launched a no-socks-with-sandals campaign this morning. We lost.

I’m about to go over and join them when I realize that the buzz of the party has changed. It was cheerful and mellow, and now it’s hushed. I scan the group, trying to figure out what’s got everyone’s attention.

“Is he lost?” I hear someone whisper.

“I bet he has a motorcycle,” someone else says.

The crowd shifts slightly, and suddenly I see what they see.

Oh. My. God
.

I’m frozen in place, my eyes taking it all in. The leather pants. The boots. A leather
vest
, for God’s sake. The hair is a tousled mess, and completely at odds with his pretty-boy features.

“Is that a
spike
in his ear?” Chris mutters. “The dude wasn’t joking around when he said he was going all out.”

His words manage to penetrate my shock. “Chris,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, “tell me you don’t know who that is. That you haven’t been in communication with him.”