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Stephanie

  “Stephanie, you in there?”

  I sink deeper into the tub, loving the way the bubbles threaten to overflow but don’t.

  “No,” I call through the bathroom door. “I went out to run some errands.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Can he come in? “Seriously, Price?”

  “Are you taking a dump or something?”

  “No! But normal people don’t ask to come into an occupied bathroom.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds. “I want to talk about this weekend.”

  I sigh. I’ve been doing a good job so far not thinking about this weekend. I’ve been living in Ethan’s second bedroom for eight days now—eight glorious days in which I haven’t had to worry about hot water, rat traps, or keeping an eye out for roaches—and I’ve conveniently let myself ignore the fact that while I’m not paying with money to stay in paradise, I’ll be paying with something else entirely: my dignity.

  “We can talk when I get out of the bath,” I call.

  “Yeah, right. You’ll just pretend to go to bed early like you have the past three nights.”

  Damn. He’s definitely on to me.

  “I’m coming in.”

  The doorknob rattles, and I squeal, “No!”

  Why did I not lock the door? Oh, right. Because I didn’t think being barged in on was even an option.

  But he’s already poked his head through the door, his hand covering his eyes. “Are you decent?”

  “Ethan, I said I was in the bath.”

  “But with bubbles, right? If you’re like most girls, you used half the bottle and the suds will cover up the interesting bits.”

  It’s true. I did use half the bottle. And the only visible part of my body is my head.

  “Fine,” I mutter. Not like there’s any stopping him anyway. He seems to think that our little partnership has made us BFFs. Platonic BFFs—he’s made that part very clear.

  “This is all very Pretty Woman,” he says, sitting on the edge of the tub like it’s totally normal to have a conversation with a naked girl who isn’t his girlfriend. Or at least not his real girlfriend.

  “Beginning to regret showing you that movie,” I grumble.

  “You’re not wearing any makeup,” he says, his eyes scanning my face.

  “Weird, right? Because I usually get all dolled up before climbing into the tub.”

  He sighs. “Think you could tone down the sarcasm before you meet my parents?”

  I give him a look. “Do you tone down your sarcasm around your parents?”

  “Good point. But we do need to talk a little bit about our game plan for dinner this weekend.”

  I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to act like I couldn’t be more relaxed if I tried. But, honestly, I’m dreading this. Sure, I have my new Pollyanna outfit, and my bouncy new haircut, and I’m pretty sure he stole my favorite steel-colored eye shadow, because I can’t find it. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to play nice. And I quit that gig for a reason.

  “Why aren’t you with your girlfriend anymore?” I ask, wanting to get under his skin the way he gets under mine. “If we’re going to do this, really do this, I need all the facts.”

  His eyes darken for a second, but then he just shrugs and makes himself more comfortable on the side of the tub. “All the facts, huh? Just like you’re giving me all the facts about your home situation?”

  My stomach knots at the reference, but I get his point, because I’m the one who made the rules: no details, nothing personal.

  “Fine,” I say more quietly. “But at least help me understand why your mom is so involved in your love life.”

  He sighs, tilting his head back against the wall. His Adam’s apple bounces when he swallows, and I have a little hankering to nibble on it, just to see what he’d do. But considering the fact that Ethan barely seems to register that I’m naked here, I’m guessing he wouldn’t be all that keen on my licking his neck. For the hundredth time, I wonder why he didn’t pick a girl he was actually attracted to for his little charade.

  But that’s the point, I guess. The fact that we’re 200 percent wrong for each other makes this whole thing fairly risk free.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “So you know my family’s wealthy,” he says quietly.

  I glance around in surprise at the ridiculously lavish bathroom. “Whaaaaat?”

  He gives me a half smile. “Well, let’s just say rich people like other rich people, and their rich kids are expected to hang out with fellow rich kids. Really rich,” he specifies.

  I want to say something sarcastic, but I let him finish.

  “But when you’re a kid,” he continues, “you’re not really thinking about that. All you care about is that your friend’s parents are friends with your parents so that you can all hang out. Not unlike the average American family, except with a lot more caviar and a lot less barbecue sauce.”

  “Sounds awful.” I extend a foot out of the tub, tracing the faucet with my newly painted coral toe. “So these fellow snobs, one of them’s your ex?”

  He nods once. “My mom and Olivia’s mom were sorority sisters, and our dads are business associates. We grew up together, along with our friend Michael. His dad was a fraternity brother of my dad’s, and his mom was our moms’ tennis partner.”

  “My God, that’s practically incestuous.”

  “You have no idea,” he mutters.

  I frown a little, trying to understand. “Okay, so your parents are bummed that you guys broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens. They can’t seriously expect that it would work out just because you guys swapped silver spoons.”

  “You don’t get it,” he said. “The Prices and St. Claires and Middletons—we’re like the contemporary Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Rockefellers. It’s not personal. It’s business.”

  Honestly, the whole thing sounds completely ridiculous to me, but Ethan looks all torn up about it, and since I’m lounging here naked in his tub, sleeping in his guest bed, and sharing his kitchen, I don’t particularly feel like I can tell him to get over it and grow a pair. But I want to.

  “Okay, well, this is all very sad and dramatic,” I say, carefully smoothing a thinning section of bubbles so I don’t give Ethan a crotch shot. “And if you insist that creating a fake girlfriend is the best way to avoid your ex-girlfriend, that’s your deal. But are you sure your parents are going to buy this? Didn’t you say you and Olivia were together since the womb?”

  “Since we were fifteen.”

  I frown. There’s sadness in his voice, and for the first time I suspect that maybe this plan has less to do with his mom than with Ethan.

  “You’re not over her.” I said the same thing when he first pitched the idea, and he ignored me then. Just like he’s ignoring me tonight.

  “And you’re not a therapist,” he says, pinching my toe.

  I note that he doesn’t deny it, but something’s not adding up. When he first hatched this plan, he claimed that his mom kept parading Olivia around in hopes that they’d get back together. If he wasn’t over her, wouldn’t he want that?

  But his expression is closed off, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s understanding that sometimes you just don’t wanna talk about it.

  “Okay, so what do I need to know?” I say, increasingly aware that the bubbles are disappearing and the bath water is growing tepid. “Is there a particular political stance I should take? Religious views I should be passionate about? Interests that are too gauche for the Prices and should be stifled?”

  “Liberal, Protestant, and sports,” he says. “As in the Prices don’t discuss sports.”

  “I’ll try to refrain from reciting all those football stats I know backward and forward.”

  “Good girl. You’ll be fine. And um … the earrings …?”

  “Will be removed by Sunday dinner, per our agreement,” I say. “And does this mean I shouldn’t show your mom my python tramp
stamp?”

  His eyes flick briefly to the water. “You have a tattoo?”

  I smile enigmatically. Wouldn’t he like to know.

  “Don’t worry, Price. We’ve got this,” I say to reassure him.

  And the thing is, even though I hate this whole business, we really do have this. Because while my fake smile might be rusty and I may not be able to name different types of oysters, once upon a time I could play the game with the best of them.

  Ethan Price chose better than he knew when he picked Stephanie Kendrick to play Barbie to his Ken. Because Stephanie Kendrick was once Steffie Wright: cheerleader, student council president, and prom queen.

  Impressing parents? Please. I used to do that shit in my sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Ethan

  On one hand, the stupid dinner with my parents is going so much better than I imagined. Stephanie is like a freaking gold medalist of fake girlfriends. Seriously. The girl’s on fire.

  But it’s also going a hell of a lot worse than I imagined, because my mother is in full matchmaking mode. Mom doesn’t seem to care how fantastic my new girl is; she’s still dropped Olivia’s name something like seven times, and we’ve only been here half an hour.

  It’s so interesting that Ethan would choose a brunette. He’s always been partial to blondes.

  How wonderful to have a dinner guest again. Olivia used to join us every Sunday.

  Ethan honey, did I tell you that I saw Olivia at the club the other day? She’s looking a little thin, but I think it suits her.

  Before we arrived Stephanie told me she’d be taking mental notes all night for a meet-the-parents scene in our screenplay, and Mom is rising to the occasion beautifully. She could be reading straight off a script for a manipulative mother character.

  I glance at Stephanie to make sure she’s not going to go all stabby on my mother, but she’s gracefully dislodged herself from Mom’s side and is chatting it up with my dad, who’s loving every moment of it.

  I can’t blame him. Stephanie is … she looks … shit, she looks good. When she emerged from her bedroom after an hour of primping, I was speechless for a full five minutes. I’d seen the new hair and the new makeup before. I’d even seen parts of the new wardrobe from when I sat in the dressing room waiting area.

  But seeing the whole look together? Damn. She’s the perfect Stepford girlfriend.

  I was worried she wouldn’t be able to resist going all raccoon eyes on me, but she must have been paying close attention to the cosmetics woman in Bergdorf’s. Gone is the shadowy, angry eye makeup, and she has some pink stuff on her cheeks, so she no longer looks like she’s dedicated her life to banning color from her complexion. The white sundress and light blue cardigan are icing on the cranky cupcake. Ideal for meeting the parents.

  The whole thing is also completely un-Stephanie.

  And for some reason that’s bugging the crap out of me, even though creating a nonStephanie is exactly the point of this whole stupid plan.

  My dad doesn’t seem to mind, though. Unlike my mom, Dad seems completely willing to accept an Olivia replacement.

  “I’m sure Natasha’s already asked this,” my father says, “but how did you and Ethan meet again?”

  “Oh, we have a film class together this summer,” Stephanie replies, shooting me a quick glance for reassurance. We agreed on the way over to stick to the truth as much as possible to avoid getting trapped in any lies.

  “Oh, right, Martin’s class,” my dad says, nodding approvingly at the mention of his old friend and Hollywood hotshot.

  “Right. Martin,” Stephanie says, and I know she’s dying to know how my dad is on a first-name basis with an Oscar-winning screenwriter. Just like she knows she can’t ask, because I would have told her that already if we were really dating.

  I take a breath and hope there won’t be too many more of those should-know-this-but-don’t moments between us before we can have a further getting-to-know-you session.

  “So are you taking that class on a rebellious whim too, then?” my mother asks, walking to the minibar to refill her wineglass.

  Not for the first time, I curse my family’s old-fashioned insistence on “cocktail hour.” It’s nothing but small talk. Translation: total hell.

  I brace myself for Stephanie to start glowering and babbling about how film is the soul of this country, thus triggering my mom’s unending disdain for “pop culture,” but again Stephanie surprises me. She gives a tiny shrug and takes an even tinier sip of the white wine my parents have poured for her as she rolls with my mother’s snobbishness. “Oh, sort of. Just one of those summer things kids do, I guess.”

  My mom gives a whisper of a smile, just enough to be polite, before turning back to me. “Olivia’s interning with her father’s company. Did you know that, Ethan?”

  “Nope.”

  Actually, I do know that. Or at least I figured that Olivia interned at her father’s bank every summer. Just like I interned at my father’s company every summer—except this one.

  Mercifully, my dad announces that he’s hungry and we’re able to move this fun-for-all to the dining room to commence what’s sure to be an endless number of courses accompanied by endless questions.

  My mom squeezes my dad’s shoulder before sitting down at her spot across the table, and I look away quickly. I know she’s my mom and all, but for a second I hate her. Not even so much for sleeping with Mike senior, but for fucking lying about it. For creating a mockery of her marriage to my dad and of everything I thought family was supposed to be about.

  I catch Stephanie watching me, and I give her a reassuring smile. She tilts her head and gives me the same smile right back. Like she’s the one doing the reassuring.

  I probably should have given her some background information before we did this shit. It would have been easy enough. She’d obviously been fishing for details the other night when I’d barged in on her bubble bath like a common perv.

  I really can’t blame her for prying. Of course she’d want to know why I’d create a fake girlfriend instead of just manning up and telling my parents that Olivia and I are over and that I’m moving on like any normal twenty-one-year-old dude. And for a second I’m actually tempted to tell her every detail. But I stop myself. I haven’t told anyone, and I’m seriously contemplating telling her? I don’t even know her.

  “So, Stephanie, tell me about your people,” my mom says as our chef—yes, we have one—places some sort of weird cold soup in front of us.

  I watch as Stephanie picks up the correct spoon and takes a sip of the strange-looking green goo without even a slight widening of eyes at the temperature. Even though she seems okay with it, I’m wishing that I had a regular family where the mom cooks lasagna and throws bagged salad into a big dented wooden bowl. A family where my mother wouldn’t use phrases like “your people,” as though everyone belongs to a clan as fucked up as this one.

  “My people?” Stephanie asks, as though reading my mind.

  Stephanie’s features are arranged in a perfect semblance of pleasantness, but her eyes are a different story. I watch her closely, waiting for disgust at my mother’s blatant snobbery, but it’s not disgust at all. She just looks … guarded. And I hate that.

  “Your family,” my mom says, taking a dainty sip of soup. “Are they from New York?”

  “I grew up in Rhode Island.”

  My mother gives a little shrug of patronizing fake interest. “Oh, how tiny!”

  When my mom says “tiny” in that condescending voice, she doesn’t mean “adorably quaint”; she means “trivial.” And I can tell from Stephanie’s stiffening shoulders that she knows this.

  “It is the smallest state, yes,” Stephanie replies, admirably dodging my mother’s condescension.

  “Do you get back there often?”

  I remember Stephanie’s crankiness about discussing home, and alarm bells go off in my head.

  “What’s with this weird soup?” I interrupt rudel
y, hoping to distract my mother. “It tastes like cold mud.”

  But Stephanie’s already speaking. “Actually, my father lives in North Carolina now. He moved down there when I was eighteen.”

  “Ah, lovely. And your mother?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Stephanie says the word so quietly, so easily, that it takes the rest of us at the table a second to register it.

  Holy shit.

  I’d sort of figured she wasn’t from one big happy family, but I didn’t realize we were dealing with death. Suddenly I feel like the worst kind of ass for going on about my parents. At least I have both of them.

  I sort of forget about my dad’s naïveté and my mom’s affair as my eyes lock on Stephanie’s face. Her eyes are sad but also resigned, and I’ve got this crushing urge to wipe that haunted look from her face.

  I also have a billion questions. Like was it her mother’s death that started the whole hate-the-world thing she has going on? I also kind of want to ask why she didn’t tell me.

  Shit. And now I’m asking myself why I even care that she didn’t tell me.

  But the questions will have to wait until after this hellish dinner. Because this is definitely the sort of thing I should already know about my “girlfriend.”

  “You poor thing,” my mom says, giving Stephanie a sad smile.

  Stephanie lifts one shoulder, and for a second it’s like she’s the old Stephanie again: angry, defensive, and sullen. No, not the old Stephanie. The real Stephanie. She’s so damn good at this nice-girl routine that I keep forgetting that beneath the soft clothing and makeup she’s hard as nails.

  My parents exchange a glance, and by silent agreement my dad swiftly changes the subject back to his favorite topic: work. His work.

  Stephanie’s polite, asks all the right questions, and laughs at the right spots in his tired stories. And somehow we get through dinner and dessert without my parents catching on to the fact that we’re not exactly in love.

  I think we’ve made it successfully through the first round of our Pygmalion experiment, but it’s like my mom secretly knows we need more villainess material for our screenplay, because she follows me into the foyer when I go to fetch Stephanie’s bag.