“I haven’t flown coach since eighty-eight,” Remington whispered confidentially. “But I thought ahead.” He leaned down and
pulled a white-and-orange paper bag from his briefcase. “I’ve got bagels with chive cream cheese or lemon-zest scones. Your
choice.”
“Oh my God, thanks.” Avery gratefully grabbed a slightly crumbled scone from the bag, instantly feeling better.
“I had my assistant get them this morning. I wish I could also get my assistant to persuade your mother to take my plane.”
He shook his head ruefully, glancing over at a sleeping Edie. Her mouth was half open, her head resting against the window.
“Your plane?” Avery raised one blond eyebrow. So Remington hadn’t totally lost touch with his former luxe lifestyle.
You never
can
go back.
“Yep.” Remington sighed as he pulled a bagel out from the bag and placed it on his own tray. “Maybe you can help persuade
your mom to take it on the way back? I’m not doing this again.” Remington grinned as he took a bite of bagel.
“Sure.” Avery nodded and smiled. It was so obvious that Remington was head over heels in
love
with her mother. It made her feel weird, but not for the reasons she’d thought it would. She honestly didn’t mind the fact
that her mom was with a guy. What made her feel weird was wondering whether she’d
ever
feel that way about anyone.
She glanced across the aisle. Rhys was hunched down over his iPod, his dark hair falling over his forehead. Avery quickly
looked away, back down at her magazine, concentrating on her relaxing vision of the waves lapping the beach in Nantucket as
the plane took off.
Across the aisle, Owen shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He must have grown since the last time he’d flown coach,
because his knees were banging into the blue seat in front of him. The plane was full, and he could just make out the dark
tangle of Baby’s hair several rows ahead. Why was she sitting up there, with Remington’s daughter and her hipster boyfriend?
It was as if they’d totally infiltrated their family.
“Do you think Baby’s okay?” Owen asked Rhys, nodding ahead.
“Huh?” Rhys glanced up from his iPod. He’d downloaded a season of
Lost,
but he had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“What is Remington’s deal? Why is, like, his entire extended family coming on this trip? Can’t he just chill out?” Owen leaned
back in his seat, jabbing his knees against the seat in front of him.
“Hey!” A fat, red-faced man wearing an ill-fitting Yankees cap on his almost-bald head turned around and glared at Owen.
“Sorry, man.” Owen shook his head. He took a sip of orange juice from the Styrofoam cup on the plastic tray in front of him.
It sucked that the flight attendant had been such a hard-ass about alcohol. A couple mini bottles of vodka sounded
really
good right about now.
“Dude, you want to talk?” Rhys pulled off his Bose headphones and glanced pointedly at his friend. He’d never seen Owen like
this, and while a tiny part of him was sort of happy to see Carlyle being less than perfect, the other,
better
part of him wanted to help his buddy out.
“Sorry, I’ll chill.” Owen unclenched his jaw. For as long as he remembered, it had always been the triplets and their mom.
Now, all of a sudden, this guy was telling them where to vacation and how to get there. What the fuck?. “It’s just, they just
started dating, and all of a sudden, we’re going on a family vacation. I feel like the next thing they’ll do is get married.”
A shiver ran down Owen’s spine.
Would
they get married?
What happens in the Bahamas, stays in the Bahamas….
Rhys shrugged. “Dude, I know, it sucks. But maybe he’ll be cool once you get to know him,” he offered lamely.
“Yeah.” Owen didn’t want to talk about Remington anymore. “Anyway, who cares, right? Fuck it,” he said with false conviction.
“We’ll just do our own thing this weekend. Aka getting
laid
,” Owen finished.
The spiky-haired steward who’d refused to serve them alcohol stopped mid-step and glared at them. “Please keep your voices
down—some of our passengers are trying to sleep,” he hissed as he pushed his beverage cart further down the aisle.
“Sorry.” Owen shrugged.
“I can’t wait to meet some new girls,” Rhys said a little unconvincingly. He couldn’t stop sneaking glances toward Avery,
who looked hot even when she was smushed into the middle seat, in coach.
“Yeah, man. It’s going to be legendary!” Owen nodded. He needed to forget about his mom and her freaky-ass boyfriend. There
was work to be done: His buddy
needed
to lose his V card.
Ever since Owen and Kelsey had broken up, things had been
almost
back to normal between him and Rhys. But there were still tense moments, like when the topic of sex came up in the locker
room, or Hugh Moore made some inappropriate comment about the time Rhys had walked in on Owen and Kelsey together. But if
Owen helped Rhys find someone to lose it to, they could put it all behind them. They’d be on the same page, ready to go back
to New York as equals. It was the perfect plan.
As long as it doesn’t become a
family
plan.
Jack strode into Barneys later that morning, her brand-new only-available-in-France five-inch black suede Christian Louboutin
ankle booties—which her mother had shipped to her in a fit of obvious maternal guilt—clacking loudly against the ultra-polished
floor. Even though it was only 11 a.m., the aisles around the handbag displays surrounding the entrance were already buzzing
with Eurotrashy tourists.
She ignored the Balenciaga and Marc Jacobs displays and confidently made a left toward the elevator bank. She was on a mission,
and that mission was to get ready for Operation:
Do It
, tomorrow night.
Jack pushed the button firmly with her petal-polished finger. Now that she’d finally gotten her credit cards back from her
father, after an embarrassing three months of being cut off, she had to make up for lost time. And of course, she’d come to
Barneys, her favorite place on earth. When Jack was in fourth grade, she’d written a report on the children’s book
From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
, which was all about two kids who stay overnight in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jack had written about how much
better
it would have been if the kids had spent the night in Barneys. The fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Gherke, whom everyone called
Mrs. Jerk and whose hair was always styled in a dykey bowl cut, had made her redo the report. But sometimes Jack still wished
she could get trapped at Barneys overnight.
The door to the elevator opened and Jack stepped on, squeezing between several women wearing fur coats that doubled their
body mass. Just as she pressed the door-closed button, two girls run-walked up to the elevator and shoved on.
“Hey! You’re here. Why didn’t you tell us where you were?” Genevieve demanded. Jack could smell smoke on her breath.
“I thought we were meeting outside,” Jiffy seconded. “Even though it’s freezing.” She theatrically pulled off her purple leather
motorcycle gloves and blew on her fingers for warmth.
“Sorry, guys. I forgot,” Jack said coolly, appraising her two friends. In truth, she wasn’t sure why she’d invited Genevieve
and Jiffy to come with her. It wasn’t as if underwear shopping was exactly a group activity. Of course, back when they were
thirteen or fourteen, they used to spend hours looking at the underwear displays at Barneys, daring each other to actually
buy a La Perla bra or Cosabella thong. But now it was real.
And even more fun than dress-up!
“Obviously, you’re nervous,” Genevieve said condescendingly as she marched off the elevator and made a beeline for the rows
of underwear and bras.
“Thanks,” Jack said shortly, resisting the very immature desire to stick her tongue out at Genevieve’s back. Genevieve had
lost her virginity to some C-list teen actor a couple weeks ago, when she’d been visiting her director dad in L.A. over Columbus
Day weekend for the Teen Choice Awards. She was the first of Jack’s friends to have had sex and wouldn’t let the rest of them
forget it.
“So you’re really going to do it?” Jiffy asked loudly, stopping by a collection of ugly pink-and-black lace demi-bras.
“Can I help you ladies?” a saleswoman asked, smoothly stepping in between Jiffy and the display. From her tone of voice, it
was clear she wanted to kick them upstairs to the Co-op to giggle over Marc Jacobs handbags.
“No, we’re fine.” Jack stalked over to a collection of soft cashmere pajama pants. They were boring, but at least she’d be
out of the nosy saleslady’s earshot.
“Honestly, I think lingerie is passé.” Genevieve sighed loudly as she gestured around the room. “I mean, it’s all coming off
anyway. You should, like, come to the door just wearing a strategically tied bow. They have these really big gold ones at
Kate’s Paperie. It’d be so sexy, because he’d be, like, unwrapping you.”
Jack glared at her friend.
Unwrapping
her? Was she serious?
She wandered over to a round, glass-covered display table and fingered a light blue bra and panty set. It was cute, but did
it look too much like a bikini? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine her and J.P. finally doing it. She would play music,
maybe something jazzy and Nina Simone–esque. And maybe she’d light candles, or set up some low, figure-flattering lighting.
Strawberries and champagne were a must. But should she go slutty or girly? Cover up or show it all? Why was this so
hard
?
Jiffy sidled up to her, carrying an ugly peach-colored camisole on a light pink padded hanger. “You should wear this, with
just your pointe shoes. Doesn’t every guy have a ballerina fantasy?” she asked eagerly.
“That’s gross,” Jack said shortly. At this point, she’d rather have gone shopping with the stepbrats than with her friends.
“Look, I’ll meet you and Gen somewhere. I just need to concentrate.”
“I thought you wanted us to come with you.” Hurt registered in Jiffy’s pert, freckly face.
“Jif, let’s go.” Genevieve called from across the room, causing the saleslady to glare angrily at her. “If Jack doesn’t need
our help, she doesn’t need it. Besides, J.P.’s the only one who matters. And he’ll love it. After all, you’re having
sex
with him!” she called over her shoulder, just to piss Jack off.
“Shut up!” Jack hissed, feeling her face turn bright red. She didn’t usually get embarrassed, but she was in her favorite
department store, surrounded by her two immature friends screaming about sex.
Just then, a group of loud, chattering girls burst into the otherwise quiet corner of the floor.
“It’s her hen party!” one of the girls exclaimed in a burry Scottish accent, gesturing to a tall, curly-haired girl with bad
skin. “We want her to get all tarted up, then we’re going to Marquee!” she added, pleased to share her news with anyone who
would listen. Jiffy nodded eagerly, obviously wanting to be part of an underwear-shopping experience more like that one.
Jack rolled her eyes. The girl who was getting married—the
hen
?—was sort of chunky and had bad teeth, but she looked radiant and happy. Jack imagined having her own bachelorette party,
surrounded by Jiffy and Genevieve. They’d laugh as they looked back on this day, which by then would seem ridiculously far
in the past. But she couldn’t quite conjure up the image. If she was getting overwhelmed just thinking about
sex
with J.P., how were they ever going to get
married
? Jack took a deep breath and tried to focus on the task in front of her. It was just underwear. It was just sex. It was just
J.P., her loving, caring boyfriend. “
Perfect
,” she chanted quietly to herself, her own personal mantra.
Usually, she said it when things weren’t perfect at all.
“I need to go,” she announced. But Genevieve and Jiffy were giggling along with the Scottish girls, not even listening to
her.
Fuck this. She’d just go and buy underwear
by herself
, which she should have done in the first place. Maybe at La Petite Coquette, that adorable store in the village. Somewhere
quiet, discreet, where people weren’t haranguing her about ballerina fantasies or shrieking about their tacky weddings. Somewhere
she could just plan her special day with J.P. and
not
freak the fuck out. Jack stormed back to the elevator and pressed the down button, anxious to get downstairs and out of Barneys.
Isn’t she glad she doesn’t live there now?
Avery peeled her avocado green Milly cardigan off her shoulders as she exited the tiny North Eleuthera airport. Behind them,
a porter was busily pushing a cart piled high with Avery’s Louis Vuitton luggage and Edie’s army green duffel.
“How was your flight?” Rhys asked shyly, coming up alongside Avery. He was still wearing his black Ralph Lauren sweater and
his pressed khakis, small beads of sweat forming at his hairline.
“All right,” Avery said as she pushed her Coach sunglasses on top of her wheat blond hair.
All right?
How lame was she? She felt like she’d been chewing on an old sock. She took a small tin of Altoid mints out of her tote.
“Want one?” she offered.
“Sure.” Rhys grabbed two mints and crunched them between his front teeth.
“Wallis party?” an elderly man asked, opening the door to a stretch SUV. Avery smiled in satisfaction. She’d been worried
that this would be one of those totally gross back-to-the-elements vacations where people paid thousands to hike in a desert
and stay in a yurt. But the SUV looked appropriately luxurious
.
“This is lovely,” Edie cooed, apparently not doing the math on the SUV’s carbon footprint. She’d removed her leg warmers and
was wearing a pair of ugly earth-friendly straw sandals. “Remington, thank you!” Edie flung her arms around Remington’s neck
and kissed him.