Isn't She Lovely (25 page)

But we’re adults, and it’s just a month of playing house, not a wedding ring. And there’s no way I’ll say no to him. I can’t.

Instead, I pull his lips down to mine. “I could probably stick around … roommate.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ethan

I get Stephanie back to her room sometime around four in the morning before creeping back to my own bedroom and catch a few hours of sleep before we need to get up for my parents’ farewell brunch and the trek back to the city.

When I wake up at nine, it takes me five groggy seconds to realize why I’m in such a good mood. Then I remember the moment when Stephanie slid between my sheets, and everything that followed.

I realize now why I’ve felt like there’s been an elephant sitting on my chest for the past few days. I’ve been dreading the moment of returning to my apartment and not smelling whatever bubbles she has going in her nightly baths. I’ve been dreading not having anyone mock the fact that I iron my golf shorts and dry-clean my polos.

I’ve been dreading life without Stephanie. And now I don’t have to.

I take a quick shower before pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a green button-down, just because she once told me I looked “not too bad” in green. It was a begrudging compliment, but it was definitely a compliment. I’ll take it.

As I emerge from my room, I practically collide with Mike and Michelle St. Claire.

“Ethan!” Michelle says, her face as familiar as my own mother’s, and she looks so pleased to see me that my gut twists. “I haven’t seen you all weekend. Or all summer.”

There’s a question there, but I’m not about to answer it. That’s Michael’s to deal with. Still, it’s not her fault that her son slept with my girlfriend, or that her husband is probably sleeping with my mother.

I wonder if she knows.

Fueled partly by pity and partly by fond memories, I give her a hug and kiss her cheek, doing my best to avoid eye contact with Mike. How he could cheat on a woman like Michelle St. Claire is beyond me.

I make small talk for a few seconds before Mike grumbles about being hungry and drags his wife toward the stairs.

She gives me one last beseeching glance. “We’ll tell Michael you say hi, okay?”

Please don’t
. “Okay,” I say, forcing a smile.

Still, the thought of my best friend doesn’t burn as badly as it has in recent weeks, and I
wonder if maybe it’s time that I give him a call. The least we can do is have it out. Over a decade of friendship deserves at least that much.

I knock softly on Stephanie’s door, not bothering to wait for a response before entering.

Her back is to me, and she’s carefully loading her cocktail dresses and swimsuits into her suitcase.

But it’s not the clothes she’s packing that has my attention. It’s the clothes she’s
wearing
.

She turns her head toward me, giving me a shy smile. “Hi,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.

I tell myself to say something to make her less nervous. To tell her that she should absolutely not be embarrassed about what happened between us last night. That it was one of the best nights of my life, and not just because of the sex. The talking, the cuddling, the confiding … all of it.

But I can’t take my eyes off her boots. Her pants. Her black top. Her
eye makeup
.

I see the moment that she registers that I’m not saying anything. That I can’t stop staring, and not in the way a guy who’s just lovingly taken her virginity should be looking at her.

But I can’t help it. This isn’t the Stephanie from last night. This is the pissy, angry, world-hating Stephanie. I thought she was gone. But she’s staring right at me.

In my parents’ house. Where anyone can see her.

“What’s, um … what’s with the get-up?” I ask.

Her face immediately clouds over, her blue eyes blinking in hurt and I feel like a dick. But she recovers quickly, and the pain fades into wary anger.

“My
get-up
? You mean my clothes?”

I gesture toward her suitcase. “
Those
are your clothes. And I thought I got rid of that gray eye shadow.”

The shadowy eyes in question narrow on me. “You did. I bought some more.”

Why?

“Are you mad at me? Is that why you’re all gothed out?” I ask tentatively, trying to figure out what I’m missing. Why she’s not wearing some cute little brunch-appropriate sundress like everyone else will be wearing.

“I wasn’t. But I’m certainly getting there,” she says between gritted teeth.

“Spell it out for me,” I say with an easy smile. “What did I do to deserve the all-black attire?” And I do mean all black. From the slim T-shirt to the baggy pants to the boots the pants are tucked into, there’s not a speck of color on her, save for the blue eyes, and the eyes are pissed.

The warning bells that had started as mere chimes were now wailing in my head.

“You didn’t do anything to
deserve
it, Ethan.” Her voice is calm, and that’s way worse
than if she’d been screaming at me. “But we’ve said from day one that today marks the end of the charade. The day I can stop pretending.”

“But last night … I thought …”

She looks at me patiently. “Last night was everything to me. But I don’t see what it has to do with my wardrobe.”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck, struggling to find the right thing to say. On one hand, I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter. That I’ll feel the same about her no matter what she’s wearing. That she could wear a space suit and I wouldn’t care.

But then I imagine the two of us walking down to my parents’ brunch with her wearing that. I imagine the stares, the raised eyebrows, the confusion.

And before I realize what’s happening, there’s a montage running through my brain like an unbidden slide show.

Me taking Stephanie to my frat formal when she’s dressed like a horror-movie extra
.

Stephanie and me at my parents’ for dinner with her wearing all twelve hundred earrings
.

Us meeting up after class, me with my fellow preppy business students and her with her goth film friends, and none of us having a thing to say to each other
.

Trying to take her out to a nice dinner, me in my suit and her in her scuffed battlefield boots
.

I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see any of it.

“Ethan, do you want me to change?”

I feel a flood of relief at her suggestion.
God, yes
. “I think you look great in your new stuff,” I say, patting myself on the back for being diplomatic.

Silence.

Oh, shit
. Her question hadn’t just been a question. It had been a test. A test that I’d failed.

I’d never seen anyone’s expression so cold. The hurt I could fix. The anger I could deal with. But this numb, don’t-give-a-shit Stephanie?

This was bad. Really bad.

“Stephanie …”

She holds up a hand. “Get out.”

My own temper spikes at her cool dismissal, as though we don’t owe it to each other to have a conversation about this. “You’re regressing, Kendrick.”

“Regressing to what, exactly?”

“The old you. The version of you that was wary, scary, and maybe a little mean. The version that was mad at everyone and scared of everything.”

She takes a half step closer, her eyes flashing. “There is no old me, Ethan. There’s the
real
me, and then there’s the made-up Barbie version that I’ve been faking for the past month.”

I shake my head, not buying it for a second. “You’ve been happy the past few weeks. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying it! But it wasn’t the new clothes or makeup that made me happy, Ethan.”

I get what she’s trying to tell me, I do. And I should be mollified by the fact that it’s
me
that’s made her happy. Not my money, or my lifestyle, or the fact that there’s legit marble in my bathroom. Isn’t that what every dude wants? A girl who likes him for him and not his image?

But then she tucks her hair behind her ear and the morning light catches her earrings. All seven of them.

She won’t last a day in my world. Everyone from my parents to my friends to my colleagues will talk about her behind her back. I can’t ask that of her.

But neither can I ask her to change.

I meet her eyes, and I know the second she understands.
This isn’t going to work
.

But I want it to. Hell, I’m
determined
. Maybe she just needs to see that she doesn’t have to wear that shit. Maybe then she’ll get rid of it for good.

And if she doesn’t … well, we’ll work it out. I think.

I extend my hand. “Let’s go to brunch.”

She looks surprised at the offer, and I feel a little pang that she thinks I wouldn’t want to be seen with her like this.

And it hurts a hell of a lot more that for a second there, I actually
didn’t
want to be seen with her like this.

“Ethan, are you … I can change.”

For a second, I’m tempted. For her sake as much as mine. But her eyes are vacant and lost, and I know that if I ask that of her, she’ll be lost to me.

I shake my head. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Stephanie

Everyone is staring. I mean, I knew they would, but …

It’s worse than I thought.

Not that I have anyone to blame but myself. I knew when I’d dressed up like a character out of
The Nightmare Before Christmas
in this group that I’d be getting some looks. That I’d fit in about as well as a mutt among purebred poodles.

But I needed to know. Needed to know how Ethan would react. If he’d even see the boots and the eyeliner, or if he’d see
me
.

The answer was heartbreaking.

He was holding my hand now, but the gesture felt empty. Cold. As though my black T-shirt with the name of some random rock band I don’t even like printed across the front was slowly erasing everything that happened last night.

I give him credit for trying to pretend like we’re okay. I really do. But the words we exchanged when he first entered my room are hanging between us, and I know we’re both guilty. Me for not trusting him. For waking up this morning with the paralyzing fear that I’d just given my virginity to a real-life Pygmalion—a guy who’d fallen for his creation instead of the real deal. For testing him. And him for making me
right
. Because he
did
look at me differently now that I’m not dressed up like an Easter egg.

Just like it’s as clear as day that he’s uncomfortable right now, holding the hand of someone who’s so clearly not one of
them
.

“Ethan!”

We both turn around, grateful for a distraction from the stares. From the silence between us.

There’s a well-dressed older man whom I remember seeing at the bonfire but haven’t met yet. He’s wearing a white polo and khaki shorts. The guy is solidly middle-aged but looks more tanned and fit than most of my social circle of twentysomethings. In fact, the guy could be Ethan in several years. Or what Ethan might be if he quits hanging around
me
.

“Hey, Pat,” Ethan says, giving the older man a friendly if slightly strained smile.

“Just wanted to meet your new girl. Didn’t have a chance earlier in the weekend.”

Ethan hesitates, not enough for Pat to notice, but I notice, and the tightness in my chest is
back.

“Sure. This is Stephanie Kendrick. My girlfriend.”

I should feel mollified that he says it out loud, but there’s no enthusiasm there. Certainly no pride.

“Pat Middleton,” the guy says, shaking my hand. “My daughter and Ethan grew up together.”

I almost snicker. Sure. If by “grew up together” he means “had pretty much been betrothed.” I’d paid enough attention to last names enough to know that I was meeting Olivia’s dad. And although the man was nothing less than polite, his puzzled expression said it all.

My daughter’s being passed over for her?

“Well, we should get something to eat before we head out,” Ethan is saying.

“Sure, sure. Good game yesterday, by the way. Maybe the four of us can head out next weekend for another round if it cools down a little bit?”

“Sure, definitely,” Ethan mumbles before saying some sort of lame good-bye and pulling me toward the buffet table.

I glance at his profile. There’s something else warring with embarrassment on his face now.
Guilt
.

And I’m pretty sure I know what’s causing it.

“The four of you?” I say casually as we begin mechanically heaping food onto our plates. Everything looks flawlessly prepared, although I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to eat a bite.

“Sure, same foursome from yesterday’s round,” he says, taking way too long to select the right serving of eggs Benedict.

“So you, your dad, Pat, and … Olivia?”

He drops the spoon with more force than necessary. “Yes, I played golf with Liv, okay? It was hardly salacious.”

Except you didn’t tell me about it
.

It’s not a big deal, really. I mean, golf isn’t the sexiest of sports, and their dads were there. And to be fair, I didn’t ask about his golf game. I was completely willing to buy that it had been a harmless round of the world’s most boring sport.

Except …

It was a sport that I’ve never played. Will probably never
want
to play. I’ll never be invited to join “his people” for a round of golf next weekend.

“Well, have fun with
Liv
next weekend,” I say, hating the petty jealousy in my voice at the thought of the two of them in little matchy outfits with their clean-cut dads and probably some mesclun salad lunch to follow, but unable to change my tone.

“Christ, Stephanie. Don’t pick a fight. Not about this.” Ethan heads to one of the vacant
round tables and I follow, feeling like an outcast foreign exchange student. Except I’m not from another country, I’m from another freaking
world
.