Isn't She Lovely (5 page)

When did this whole scene start to feel so fucking trashy?

I foist the drunk girl onto one of my frat brothers and head out the back door. It’s not any cooler out here than it was in there, but other than a few couples making out, it’s relatively quiet.

I sit on a crumbling brick wall, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here. Normally my night would be just beginning, but now all I can think about is getting back to my air-conditioned apartment, where I don’t have to talk to anyone.

Then again, being alone means more time thinking, and I’m not sure I want to do that either.

I run a hand over the back of my neck, rolling my head on my shoulders, when I see her. She’s only a couple of feet away, but with the black shirt, pants, and boots, she blends into the night.

“Kendrick,” I say, tilting my head up toward the sky so I don’t stare at her boobs.

“Price,” she says in the same bored voice.

Neither of us says anything for several minutes, and it’s kind of nice to be around someone who doesn’t expect me to perform.

“For the record, I like this version best,” she says after several moments of silence.

“Huh?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lift a shoulder. “Your personas. There’s that nauseatingly charming one I met the first day. There’s the sulky one in the hallway just now. And then there’s this one. Quiet and a little sad. I like him best.”

I turn my head to stare at her. “You like me
sad
? You really are a ghoul.”

She looks totally unperturbed by this as she fiddles with one of her earrings. “Well, I don’t want you suicidal or anything. I just like that you’re not trying so hard.”

I don’t even know what the fuck she’s talking about. Trying so hard? Does she think I’m like a clown who picks and chooses his moods based on his environment?

Being charming is easy—nobody looks too hard at charming. Nobody expects you to be anything other than flirty and a little funny. Figures that this sour little critter would be repulsed by that.

“How’s your face?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Fine.”

I narrow my eyes and study her. Her tone is flippant, and although she really does seem to be fine—there’s no red mark to signal an impending bruise—I get the feeling that she’d say she was fine even if she wasn’t. As though she doesn’t think anyone would care one way or the other.

“Sorry about … in there,” I say, breaking yet another awkward silence.

“You mean where you got all handsy?” she asks in that unperturbed voice of hers.

“I didn’t get
handsy
,” I snap. “I was just making sure I didn’t knock your teeth out.”

Stephanie gives me this big, shit-eating grin as though to say,
See? All teeth accounted for
, and I roll my eyes.

But I’m smiling a little bit all the same. She’s so damned different from anyone I’ve ever met before, and oddly, I find my mood improving.

“How’d you get dragged into this shit?” I say, gesturing toward the thumping house, where the back window reveals someone doing a keg stand.

“What, you mean you don’t think I belong?” she asks, her eyes wide in mock surprise.

I pat the wall next to me and give her an inviting smile. “Come closer. I can barely hear you.”

“Don’t start that BS again,” she says with a withering glance. “I meant it when I said I didn’t like the charming pretty-boy version.”

But she comes and sits by me anyway, and once again I feel that annoying hit of awareness.

I meet her eyes. “What if that’s who I am? The charming pretty-boy version, I mean?”

“Well, then God help your future Stepford wife, because you two will bore the crap out of each other long before your first anniversary. But it’s not my problem. It’s not like I’m
auditioning for the role of BFF. Just keep your schmoozing to a minimum when we have to meet for the film project, and hopefully I won’t have to scare you away with my dead bird collection.”

We’re back to where we started now on that first day, exchanging clichéd insults, and I kind of like it. Not as much as I liked her pressed against me, but her company’s the most enjoyable I’ve had in weeks.

“You never answered how you ended up here,” I say, staring down at her pale profile.

She stares straight ahead, fiddling again with her earrings. “I’m tagging along with a friend. Jordan Crawford. She’s one of you people.”

“One of us?”

“You know. Pretty. Popular. Perfect.”

“You’re pretty,” I hear myself say.

She turns her head then, blue eyes so bored they could freeze my balls off. “What did I just say about the charming thing? Turn it
off
.”

“Why do you do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“What, you’re wondering why I don’t swoon?” she asks, lifting a leg to tuck a heel under her on the wall and turning to face me slightly. “You’re not my type.”

“Is it the lack of tattoos?” I deadpan. “Do you want me to show you my penis piercing?”

“It’s the lack of substance,” she snaps.

I recoil a little bit at the accusation. I don’t know why her opinion even matters. She’s a friendless outcast, and I could have this entire party eating out of my hand if I wanted. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Or at least I shouldn’t.

But her blatant dismissal of me hits a raw spot. Does she think I’m not aware that I’m a little too glib sometimes? This girl doesn’t know me. She can’t possibly understand that the charm comes on without me intending it to, even when inside I feel anything
but
charming.

Does she really think I don’t look at my life—at the cushy apartment I don’t pay for, the classes that come a little easier than they should, the CEO position that’s just waiting for me—and feel exactly what she’s accusing me of?

Substance free
.

It burns a little, because she’s
right
.

Sometimes I think I’m nothing but a decent-looking package for other people to fill up with their garbage. From my parents, who spoon-feed me my future in exchange for a nice allowance, to my friends, who demand a ringleader.

And then there was Olivia, who never put any overt pressure on me—never asked me to be anything other than what I put forward. But we both knew that what I put forward sure as hell better meld with the image of our families. That meant learning how to schmooze your father’s clients before you could ride a bike. It meant Saturdays spent on the golf course with family
friends when all you wanted to do was play video games. It meant escorting your perfect girlfriend to her debutante ball. And it meant figuring out a way to get good grades, regardless of whether you actually learned anything.

Hell, even when I rebelled I did it the right way. Even when I put my foot down and refused to do my usual summer internship at the company, I didn’t do so by putting on coveralls and working at an auto repair shop in Queens.

No, my form of rebellion was a fucking film class with an Academy Award–winning screenwriter who went to college with my daddy.

Stephanie Kendrick is right.

I have no substance.

And even worse, I don’t know the first place to start in actually acquiring any.

Something soft touches my arm, and I realize that it’s Goth. Her slim fingers are on my bare forearm, her black nail polish against my tan skin is hot, and despite the fact that she’s pissed me off, I want to know what her fingers would feel like against the rest of my skin.

I shake her hand off, and she lets me, but her blue eyes never leave my face.

“Sorry,” she says simply.

“For what?”

“For saying you were substance free.”

“Yeah, I can tell from your tone you’re really torn up about it. Zombies have more inflection.”

She tilts her head a little as though I’m a puzzle. “Would it be better if I fluttered my eyelashes? Maybe added a couple of adverbs? I’m
soooooo
sorry, Ethan, you absolutely must forgive me.”

I laugh a little in spite of myself, because she sounds exactly like every other girl I know, but coming from her scowling face and black-rimmed eyes, it’s all wrong.

“I don’t know that I like you,” I say, surprised to see that my hand has gone out to tug a piece of her hair.

She looks a little startled at the gesture, but her eyes seem to soften slightly and she gives me a tentative smile. “I’m shocked. I thought for
sure
you were going to ask me to be your tennis doubles partner.”

“Price, you out there?”

We both turn toward the sound of my name being called, and I recognize Joe and Gary walking toward us. Joe’s got that stupid grin on his face that tells me he’s way past sober, but Gary merely looks puzzled, and that’s worse.

“Where the hell have you been?” Gary demands. “Isn’t this supposed to be your party?”

It’s only “my party” because I pay for the beer—always—but I don’t argue. And I don’t
blame Gary for being confused. Sitting out in the backyard during a party isn’t typical behavior for me. Sitting out in the backyard with someone who looks like she belongs in
The Addams Family
is even less typical.

He gives Stephanie a curious glance, but at least he doesn’t ogle and then ignore her; instead he reaches out a hand. “I’m Gary.”

“Neat,” she says snottily, as though daring him to question her presence. I don’t know if she smokes, but if she pulled out a cigarette and blew smoke in his face, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. The scene had that kind of feel.

“Sorry to steal away your Golden Boy,” she says, pulling her hair back in a ponytail, a gesture that attracts undue attention to her cleavage. Joe’s practically drooling, but Gary and I are made of classier stuff and barely sneak a glance.

Okay, a long glance.

“So, you guys are … friends?” Gary asks.

I feel a little clutch of panic. How the hell do I explain this? I can’t say that she’s just a tagalong with a great rack, marking her as one-night-stand material—they’d eat her alive. But if I brush her off altogether, I’ll look like a dick.

Stephanie solves the problem for me.

“Not friends,” she says succinctly. “I just stopped by in hopes of scoring a free drink, and he told me to scram.” She’s already moving back toward the side of the house, ready to make her escape. “Don’t worry, your boy Ethan here would never slum it with someone like me.”

Now hold on just a goddamn minute. Who said anything about slumming it? Sure, her presence is a little uncomfortable. And yeah, I don’t
exactly
want everyone to know that I’m hanging out with the film nerds for the summer. But my social group isn’t
that
snobbish.

Well, okay, maybe they are.

But
I’m
not.

I reach out to grab her arm, and it’s so skinny, my fingers can wrap all the way around her bicep. “This is Stephanie Kendrick,” I say, ignoring the way she tries to tug her arm free. “We’re friends.”

She lets out a strangled sound at that. “Oh, God, no.”

“Good friends,” I say emphatically, just to annoy her.

“Um, okay,” Gary says with a shrug. “Well, how about you and your
friend
get inside so we can finish off this school year right. The beer’s waiting.”

“Gosh, I’d
love
to,” Stephanie says sweetly, giving me the eyelash flutter she threatened me with earlier. “But I’ve gotta go.
Lots
of cats to kill tonight.”

She looks pointedly at my hand on her arm, and I realize I’m being ridiculous by holding her here. Boorish, really. But still I take my sweet time letting her go, letting my fingers brush
the soft skin of her inner arm.

I think I hear her give a sharp intake of breath, but that’s probably wishful thinking, because her eyes never lose the look that says
Go ahead and die
before she wrenches free and backs up several steps.

“See you around,
friend
,” she says, discreetly lifting her hand and flipping me the bird.

I can’t help it. I smile.

And suddenly the next few months don’t look so shitty after all, because I know exactly how to keep myself occupied all summer.

I’m going to figure out what makes Stephanie Kendrick tick.

Chapter Five

Stephanie

“Hey, babe.”

Don’t call me babe. Don’t call me Steph. Actually, don’t call me anything at all, you cheating turd
.

“Hi, David.” I push past him into the familiar apartment. I’ve lived on campus for all three years of college, but David moved off campus after freshman year to a tiny one-bedroom in the East Village. His semi-famous musician dad pays for it, and although it’s small, it has a classic coolness about it that I’ve always loved.

“That’s all the stuff you have?” He looks in surprise at my backpack and one suitcase.

“Yeah. Camille was planning to leave most of her stuff behind when she went to Phoenix, so I put mine into a storage unit.”

A storage unit whose fee was nonrefundable, leaving me with the option of having to find a cheap furnished place at the last minute (impossible) or eat the cost of the storage and try to pay rent in a new place (also not possible).

David grabs a beer from the fridge and gives me a kind
are-you-okay
look. “I was surprised to hear from you. I thought pigs would fly before you’d ask to move in.”

Me too
. I throw my backpack on the couch and wheel my suitcase into the corner, shaking my head at the beer he offers. “I’m only here until I can work something else out. And I’m not moving in, just sleeping on the couch for a couple of days.”

Please, God, let it be just a couple of days
. Still, it’s nice of David to let me crash here. Especially since I’m pretty sure that the last time we talked, I told him I’d deep-fry his balls if he came near me again.

And how pathetic is it that my cheating ex-boyfriend is my only option for a last-minute housing crisis? For the millionth time, I wish Jordan wasn’t picking this summer to go home to Rhode Island. She did her best, exhausting every possible option in her vast network in an effort to find me a place. But few college students are crazy enough to stick around New York in the summer, even if they can afford it. And the ones who
are
going to be here already have like a dozen too many roommates. So that leaves David. The guy who cheated on me. Something I’m
still
not sure I care that much about.