Isn't She Lovely (6 page)

“What do you wanna do for dinner?” he asks.

I gape at his casual tone, as though we’re going to go back to the way we were when we were a couple. “Look, David, I really appreciate that you’re letting me crash here, but we’re not even close to getting back together.”

He runs a hand through his too long sandy-brown hair and gives me his signature hooded look, which I’m pretty sure he knows is sexy as hell. David is gorgeous in the sulky, slacker kind of way. He’s lanky, with smoky hazel eyes and this impossibly good skin. He’s an engineering major, although he could easily be an art major or a deep philosophy guy, or pretty much anything you want him to be.

Including a first-rate man-skank, apparently. Although I didn’t see it coming, and that sucked.

Oddly, though, I don’t find him nearly as attractive as I once did. Not that I was ever hot for him. I haven’t been truly turned on by a guy since … before. But after being away from him for a few weeks, I don’t even find him good-looking in an objective kind of way. He’s too skinny, too greasy. His shoulders are too narrow, his eyes too dark, and …

Oh,
shit
.

I realize that I’m inadvertently comparing David to Ethan Price.

David’s definitely in second place. A distant second.

“I know we’re not
together
, Steph, but there’s no reason we can’t at least be friends,” David is whining.

I raise an eyebrow. “I walked in on you and Leah going at it like rabid dogs. Not so sure I want to be friends with that.”

To his credit, he doesn’t point out that he doesn’t
have
to let me stay here, but his lips are pressed together in the way that usually means he is
disappointed
at my lack of understanding.

My phone buzzes from my back pocket, and I hesitate before pulling it out. Honestly, the thing’s brought me nothing but bad news for the past week. A lot longer than that, actually.

The name on the screen isn’t welcome, but neither is it a surprise. It’s also the tenth time it’s come through in about two days.

“Hey, can you give me a few minutes?” I ask, feeling awkward about making claims on his home, but wanting my privacy all the same.

David shrugs and pulls out another beer. “Sure, you can talk in the bedroom.”

I nod and head to the all-too-familiar bedroom as I pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“I was expecting your voicemail. Again.”

I try to tell myself that it’s just a typical parent guilt trip, but his voice sounds a little hurt, and it makes my stomach twist.

“Sorry,” I say quietly. “It’s been crazy busy moving out of the dorms and starting summer classes.”

I’ve intentionally let my dad think I’m taking class
es
, plural, not just a two-credit elective class that will barely even be in session. It’s the only way I could talk him into letting me stay in New York for the summer.

Not that he’s providing much financial assistance. I’ve already gotten the whole
I’m not going to pay for you to live in New York for the summer when you can live in North Carolina for free
speech. Don’t get me wrong—he’s paying my regular-year tuition, for which I’m completely grateful. But he’s not exactly excited at the prospect of paying additional for me to be in New York over the summer. I don’t want to push my luck and risk him withdrawing my tiny for-emergencies-only allowance.

“School’s good?” he asks.

“It’s great,” I lie. “The screenwriting guy’s a big deal from Hollywood, and it’s so cool to meet someone who’s actually been there, done that.”

“But you hate Hollywood.”

I sit on the side of David’s bed, trying not to remember that the last time I saw the bed there was a trampy redhead writhing all over it with my boyfriend.

“I don’t hate Hollywood. I’m just more into the indie artistic scene than the blockbuster stuff.”

“And thank God for that,” he grumbles. “It was hard enough to see you go off to NYU, much less UCLA.”

“So how are things down there?” I interrupt before he can go on about how I nearly moved across the country and left him behind. Never mind that he didn’t hesitate to leave
me
behind in every way that counted.

“Home is good, really good,” he was saying.

Even after all this time, I hate that he calls North Carolina
home
. But I let it go, since it’s not a fight I’m ever going to win.

“Things have been slowing down a bit at the firm,” he continues, “so I’ve had more time to spend with Amy and Chris.”

I flop back on the bed and lock my eyes on the ceiling. I know he’s waiting for me to ask about my stepmom and stepbrother, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

The silence grows and grows until he finally breaks it. “You’re too old for this, you know,” my dad says softly. “It’s been three and a half years since we’ve become a family, and the only one holding out is you.”

“Oh, has it been three and a half years already? I guess that makes sense since we just passed the four-year anniversary of Mom’s
death
.”

My dad is silent on the other end, although I don’t know if it’s because he’s mad, hurting, or just plain fed up with his “struggling” daughter. Eventually he says, “Your anger was fine
when you were eighteen, Steffie, but seeing an adult woman continue to act out is ridiculous.”

“Getting snippy with my father on the phone isn’t acting out, it’s just a part of being alive.”

“I’m not talking about this conversation. I’m talking about your little rebellion—”

Oh, here we go
.

“—you know, the hair, the piercings, the … black.”

“Not a dirty word, Dad.”

“I miss my little girl.”

“Well, she’s gone,” I snap. “She up and left when you got married six months after we buried my mother and you moved me to the land of fried chicken and Bible groups two months before high school graduation. Your little girl bailed when her whole life fell apart.”

I don’t even bother mentioning Caleb’s name. My dad doesn’t know that part of the puzzle, and never will.
Not
a conversation you have with your father.

“Steffie …”

“I’ve gotta go.”

I hit the end button and let my hand fall to my side. And he wonders why I so often let his calls go to voicemail.

I get up to go get my laptop to start that stupid film project with Pretty Boy, even though all I really want to do is curl up on the bed and cry.

I exit the bedroom, and I’m about to thank David for giving me privacy when I see her.

The same redhead who totally turned my personal life upside down is currently trying to swallow David’s tongue, and his hands are all over her huge ass.

I gape at them for a second, though neither is aware of me.

“Seriously?” I finally manage.

“Hey, Steph,” Leah says with a friendly smile, and I kind of want to spit in her eye because she screwed my boyfriend.

“Seriously?” I say again.

Ethan runs a thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping away the smear of plum lipstick that Leah McWhore has marked him with.

“Steph, you remember Leah.”

“I remember Leah’s bare
ass
,” I say, folding my arms over my stomach and hoping I don’t puke.

“Well, she’s kind of got a housing crisis of her own, and I said she could crash here. But don’t worry, she’ll be sleeping with me, so the living room’s all yours.”

Oh. Hell. No
.

I twirl my finger in the air, gesturing at our awkward little powwow. “You want to live
together? All three of us?”

David shrugs a little, and I try to remember that I was the one who begged him to let me stay here, but what I really want to do is punch Leah in the ovaries.

“It’ll be fun! Modern roommates.”

Yeah.
Fun
. Like Pap smear
fun
. Like paper cut
fun
. Like PMS
fun
. Like …

I can’t believe the thought is actually crossing my mind, but suddenly hanging out with Ethan Price all summer isn’t sounding so bad in comparison with watching David paw at his new toy.

Then I remember that, gorgeous or not, Ethan Price is the type of guy who probably waxes his chest and irons his Gucci underwear.

I think I’m better off with my ex.

Chapter Six

Ethan

“Ethan, are you even listening?”

I pretend to jolt awake from a deep sleep as I look up at my pissy-looking film partner. “Hell, no,” I say, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “You’ve been babbling about old movies for the better part of an hour. Honestly, I don’t think a vegetable would still be listening.”

Stephanie gives me one of those long drawn-out breaths that only girls know how to do and slowly puts the cap back on her dry-erase marker before putting her fist on her hip like an irritated teacher.

Although I can’t really remember any teachers who wore tank tops the way she does.

“What the hell have you been doing if not listening?” she asks.

I shrug. “Counting your earrings. It looks like you have eight in your right ear, but I feel like that can’t be right because your ears are creepily small.”

She stares at me. “You think I have small ears.”

I give her a sympathetic smile. “You do. But on the plus side, those babies,” I say, gesturing at her boobs in as non-pervy a way as possible, “are blue-ribbon worthy.”

“Wait.” She holds up a hand. “I’m trying to give you a crash course in cinematic history, and you’re checking out my ears and my tits?”

“Mostly just the ears,” I lie.

I’m fully prepared for her to lose her shit at this point. It’s the third day in a row we’ve reserved one of the private study rooms in the library, and most of the time has been spent with her listing movie after director after screenplay while pointing at some scribbles on a whiteboard. My interest level was maxed out five minutes into the first day.

To be fair, it isn’t
just
because Stephanie is a horrible lecturer, although she’s pretty bad. Mostly it’s because, despite making every effort to spend the summer away from my parents and my normal social life, I’m finding that my mind doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Instead of concentrating on Stephanie’s movies, I’ve been focusing on my own private movie.

Even leaving Olivia out of it, learning of my mother’s affair was enough to turn this summer completely to shit.

My pulse gives an angry jump at the memory. It’s bad enough that I’ve seen my own mother in a situation in which a mother should never be seen by a son. Ever. So much worse is
the fact that I saw her with a man not my father. (Not that her with my father would have been any better—both images require industrial-strength brain bleach.) Throw in a couple of flashes of my dad’s ignorant and happy face, and you have your basic horror film, playing over and over in my mind. Stephanie’s lectures are simply not cutting it as a distraction.

Desperate for something—
anything
—to get my mind off home, I opt to turn my attention toward someone
else’s
troubles.

“So, how’s living with the ex?” I ask.

“Oh, you know,” she says slowly, lowering herself into the chair across from me. “It’s actually been awesome.”

“Really?” I ask, a little thrown off balance.

“
Totally
. The only trouble is, I can’t decide what the best part about the whole situation is. Is it sleeping on a couch that smells like pot and beer while I listen to his new girlfriend scream that she’s going to ride her private hipster cowboy? Or is it having said girlfriend ask if I have any ‘spare birth control pills’ she can borrow?”

“Sounds dreamy,” I say, oddly charmed by her thick sarcasm.

“Well, if you wanna change places, just let me know.”

“And let you borrow my silver spoon? I think not.”

Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head a little and looks at me. For a second it’s as though she
gets
me. Like she knows I’m full of shit and my life is one big mess beneath all the luxury brands and trust funds.

Neither one of us has mentioned that weird night at the party. It’s like it never took place, which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think too often about what she felt like against me. About the way she looked at me and
saw
me.

Jesus, Ethan
, I think, rubbing a hand over my neck.
You’re a uterus away from turning into a complete chick
.

I break eye contact first, before I do something stupid. Like spill my guts to a complete stranger.

Instead I jerk my chin toward her notebook. “So all that movie stuff you’ve been rambling about. You’ve got it all written down there, right? The whiteboard presentation is just an ego boost?”

She fiddles with one of her billion earrings. “You caught me. There’s nothing I like better than having to explain basic story structure to a spoiled brat who’s staring at my boobs.”

“And your ears,” I add, gesturing. “And if you don’t want the ta-tas ogled, maybe you should cover them up.”

Stephanie shrugs, doing fantastic things to the twins in question. “It’s the middle of summer. And I’ve got better things to worry about than horny frat boys.”

I shoot a finger pistol at her. “That you do. Like worrying about horny hipster cowboys whose privates went a-wanderin’ with a girl who now wants to share birth control.”

Without a single change in expression, she closes her notebook and moves to put it in her backpack. “Well, this has been a great session. A good use of my time,
and
fun.”

“Hey, hold on,” I say, reaching out to grab her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention—I just can’t concentrate in here, ya know? Libraries and summers do
not
go together.”

“They do when you sign up for a summer elective course. What
else
would we be doing right now?”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She totally is.

I shake my head. “You know, for a creative arts student, you have zero imagination. You hungry? Let me feed you in exchange for the riveting discourse on films of the eighties.”