Good For You (Between the Lines #3)

Good For You (Between the Lines #3) Page 35

His eyes snap up and he frowns—not angry, but baffled.

“Reid Alexander?”

I rarely mention Reid to anyone, but when I do, his surname is always tacked on in return, as though he can’t ever just be Reid. He’s something bigger and more sensational than that, not to be described on a first name basis like some guy from school. “He’s the only Reid I know, Dad.”

His head tilts to the side. “Why are you seeing him?” He doesn’t know I saw Reid last weekend, of course. (I let Kayla and Aimee believe I left the club with a stranger, for which they lectured me severely… and then pumped me for details due to the Versace top, Coach flip-flops and opaque-windowed, chauffeur-driven Mercedes.) I scramble for a sensible answer. “I think he’s, uh, investigating charity organizations for possible contributions and wanted my input.” This could be true. “You know how people with money are.”

“Not real y,” he says.

The doorbel rings and Esther takes up her post at the door, barking. “Me neither, I guess.” I laugh nervously as I turn to go, my guilt-ridden brain summoning the stunning house and the uniformed maids and the overpriced flip-flops in my closet and the neatly folded designer clothes stowing away in my Mary Poppins bag.

The last time I saw Reid on my front porch, I hadn’t yet made my third trip to Quito. Deb was about to get engaged.

I was on the cusp of starting col ege. And I thought I’d never see him again after that night.

He’s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt the color of dark plums, the kind I eat with salt—a habit Deb instil ed in me when I was young and mirrored anything she did. His sleeves are rol ed to his elbows, the shirt is pressed but untucked. His dark blue eyes sweep over me once, quickly, moving to Esther, who growls. “Esther,” I admonish her, but not harshly, and not without stroking a hand over the back of her head. We’ve been too close for too long for me to reprimand her protective behavior.

Reid squats down eye-to-eye with Esther and offers the back of his hand. She looks to me for reassurance that he’s not dangerous and I place a hand on his shoulder to prove it. “It’s okay, Esther. He won’t hurt me.” She sniffs his hand lightly and then raises her nose with a sort of haughty air, eyeing him with lingering suspicion as a hazy memory emerges from my subconscious—Reid carrying me up the staircase in his house, whispering something my brain refuses to translate now.

When he glances up, I’m staring at him. I’m sure my puzzled expression is odd; he’s accustomed to wistful expressions directed his way from most women, and irked expressions from me. I turn and grab the Mary Poppins from the coatrack, severing the connection.

“That is one ginormous bag,” he says. “Are we shoplifting? Heading to the Hamptons? Hiding a body?” I elbow him lightly in the side (holy Moses, I forgot he’s solid everywhere) and precede him out the front door after scratching Esther behind the ears and tel ing her I’l be back.

Our lunch-dinner consists of sandwiches from a tiny hole-in-the-wal place where they slice the roast beef thick, toast the hard rol , add whatever you’d like, wrap it in butcher paper, and send you on your way, because there’s no space for tables or standing around. Across the street, we find a semi-secluded park bench and talk about filming in Vancouver and my col ege deferral until we finish eating, and then we strol around an upscale row of shops where a pair of socks would be at the upper limit of my budget.

“Uh-oh,” Reid murmurs. I fol ow his line of sight to a guy hiding not-so-discreetly behind a mailbox, an unmistakable camera lens trained on the two of us. “Just ignore him. They usual y don’t approach if they’re alone.” Taking my elbow, he turns to pretend interest in a store window, pul ing out his phone and cal ing Luis, who picks us up on the next corner two minutes later.

It’s Sunday before the photos are posted and speculations begin. There’d been no PDA, nothing that could be misconstrued by a sane person. But I’m learning how tabloids work. Scandal sel s. The hand on my elbow is taken out of context, along with the way I seem to lean close while laughing at something he said while we were eating.

That photographer had been watching us long before we saw him.

It didn’t take long for someone to match the girl spending a Thursday evening with Reid Alexander to the girl from Habitat who fel on top of him in the back yard last summer.

I suppose it was a simple task to get my name at that point and even easier to begin the conjecture about the length and intensity of our hidden romance and/or friends-with-benefits relationship, because of course it must be one of these.

I get cal s and texts from Kayla and Aimee, as wel as various other people I barely know or don’t know at al .

Reporters and photographers are camping out in front of our house and fol owing me anywhere I go.

Reid cal s to apologize, but I wave it off. “I’l live. At least Reid cal s to apologize, but I wave it off. “I’l live. At least there aren’t any photos of me tackling you this time.” He laughs. “In that case, what about doing something this weekend? We could see what’s playing at the revival theatre, if you’re interested. I think they’re showing The Dead. Have you seen it?”

“John Huston? I love it.” I don’t tel him that this film adaptation of an amazing James Joyce story is one of Nick’s and my favorites.

“Yeah? Me, too.” He sounds like he’s smiling.

“We don’t want you spending any more time with him.” I stare at my parents, Mom across from me, Dad adjacent at our smal kitchen table. They sit watching my reaction, each of us exhausted from propel ing ourselves into work and volunteer efforts until there are no moments to spare in which we might have to think about Deb or ponder why God left her alive but al owed her identity, her personality, to be stripped from her.

“I don’t understand,” I say final y. “Nothing happened.

Nothing wil . We just hung out and talked. We’re friends, I guess.”

Dad stares at his hands, clenched on the table like he’s praying. Or begging. “We’re only saying we don’t trust him.

This is not an appropriate connection for you, Dori. You must know it can’t go anywhere that’s… suitable. And as long as you’re living here—”

I gasp. “Dad, really? ‘As long as you’re under my roof’?

Mom?”

“Dori, there’s no reason to be difficult over this if he’s as unimportant to you as you say.” Her voice is logical, which I’m used to, and clipped, which is whol y unfamiliar and sounds wrong coming from the woman who’s loved and cared for me my whole life.

My face runs hot and I feel and hear the blood pounding in my ears. My parents have been unreasonable so few times in my life that I can almost recal them al . Making me to floss nightly seemed unreasonable when I was nine. SPF

45 sunscreen seemed unreasonable at eleven. Not al owing me to see movies with even hypothetical sex or cursing seemed unreasonable at thirteen. I wonder if there wil be some future point when I’l look back at this discussion and realize that what they were asking was sensible. That it was me who was being irrational.

“I don’t recal saying he was unimportant,” I say, quietly.

“Dori,” Dad begins, and I open my mouth to argue my point but Mom cuts both of us off.

“We’re not discussing this further.” She scoots her chair back and stands, the decisive scrape across the floor jarring. “You wil stop seeing him, Dori. He’s not part of our world.”

I look up at her, incredulous. “What world is that?” She turns and leaves the room without answering, motioning for Dad to fol ow. Just when I didn’t think my life could get any more bizarre, I’m wrong again.

Chapter 40

REID

I’m at John’s when I get a text from Dori: We need to talk.

I don’t like the sound of that. I text her back that I’l cal her in a few, grab a beer from the fridge and head onto the balcony. The lights of downtown look like a celebration in progress from this height. I wish Dori was standing next to me, because this view is amazing, and people are easier to read face to face, and I’m way more persuasive in person.

I’m constantly off-balance when it comes to this girl.

“What’s up?”

Her initial reply is a soft sigh, and I think Shit. And then I wonder if I’m going to surrender that easily.

“This is embarrassing,” she says, and sighs again, shoring up for whatever she’s about to say. I’m confused, but I wait like I’m patient, which I definitely am not. Even stil , I didn’t push her when we went out. I didn’t even kiss her when I dropped her off. Maybe the paparazzi stuff freaked her out. “My parents have forbidden me to see you.”

“What, like, tomorrow?” We’d planned to see The Dead at the historical y renovated theatre Mom and I frequented before she started drinking. The classic movies we watched there during my childhood were responsible for lighting the acting fire in me.

“No. More like ever.”

I’ve been doing what I damn wel please since I was fourteen. I ignore any barrier that doesn’t make personal sense, and shove past anyone who stands in my way. I understand the notion of lines I shouldn’t cross, etcetera, but I’m nineteen and holding a beer right now for chrissake.

The idea that my parents would have told me who I could be friends with five or even ten years ago is unfathomable. A year ago? No way.

“Aren’t you eighteen?”

“Yes.” She sighs again and I don’t know if she’s exasperated with me, or the situation, or what.

“This doesn’t make sense.” I sound like a petulant kid.

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Her voice breaks just the slightest bit at the end, and my hand clenches the railing.

We’re both silent, but my brain is going ful -throttle, determined to find a way through this maze. “So. Question.

How do you feel about tel ing them you’re out with someone else?” This is a no-brainer to me, but I know how she feels about lying. “I can’t tel you how many teen movie plots revolve around just this scenario.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Considering, I hope. “Don’t some of those end disastrously?”

“Yeah. But I’ve been in a dozen of them. I know all the common pitfal s.”

She laughs and my whole body hums. “I… I don’t know.

What about the photographers?”

Damned paparazzi. “They’re stil fol owing you around?”

“I think they’re starting to lose interest. Especial y after five hours of trailing me al over Los Angeles a couple of days ago during my Meals-on-Wheels deliveries, with nary a celebrity in sight.” I laugh again at the mental picture that generates. “But even if they stop fol owing me,” she says,

“they’l stil keep tabs on you.”

An idea pops into my head. I throw it out there, and imagine her chewing her lower lip while she deliberates.