Good For You

Reid clears his throat and leans closer to whisper, “Um, she means flip-flops. That’s, uh, what she cal s them. Can’t get her to stop.”

“I buy two or three sizes of each, just in case.” Oblivious to my red eyes, and without making me feel the slightest bit mortified wearing borrowed clothes, she pul s shoe boxes from two bags. Opening the lids, she reveals shoes wel out of my price range. For pete’s sake, there are Coach flip-flops in two of the boxes. I didn’t even know they made Coach flip-flops, but here they are. There are also running shoes, and these brands are even scarier.

“Thanks, Maya,” Reid says, and she smiles and zips out of the kitchen.

I lean closer to him even though we’re alone, thinking I could hyperventilate any moment, and wondering if he knows CPR. “I can’t accept these.”

Ignoring me, he pul s a pair of flip-flops from their box.

“Try these.” When I don’t take them, he leans over and puts them on my feet, his hand on my calf. Oh fudge. Fudge, fudge, fudge as his hand slides down my leg.

They fit perfectly. I am Cinderel a with no evil stepmother, no fairy godmother, and no royal destiny. Just a beautiful prince who places impractical footwear on my feet. “Okay, but I’m returning them with the clothes—”

“Why? They aren’t my size. And they’re so not my style.” He smirks. “Please. Keep them.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“No.”

***

“Hel o, Luis.” I’m blushing as I greet Reid’s driver, recognizing him from the only other time I was in this car, the night Reid and I went to dinner. Some people endure a walk of shame; I get a whole day of it. Luis smiles warmly and tips his chauffer hat.

Reid slides in next to me, his eyes invisible behind his mirrored sunglasses. Our fingers are inches apart on the seat, but he doesn’t close the distance. Other than carrying me to the shower, holding my hand while walking to the kitchen and comforting me when I talked about Deb, he’s kitchen and comforting me when I talked about Deb, he’s not touched me today.

On the way to UCLA, bits and pieces of last night come back. I don’t remember the guy Reid said I was about to leave with last night, but I remember Reid’s arm around me as he said, “John—you guys can take the Hummer.” That same guy—John?—supported me to a taxi and placed me into it. “So you’re Dori, huh?” he asked, scooting in but leaving the door ajar. Turning to the taxi driver, he said, “Hey dude, the guy leaving with her wil be here in a sec. We’re keeping her out of paparazzi pics, yeah?” I closed my eyes as the last drink I’d had hit me ful force, adding to the previous four. Or five. My hands gripped the seat. I was on a tilt-a-whirl and there was nothing I could do to ground myself. Flashes shone through my eyelids, like lightning in the distance, and then I heard Reid say,

“Thanks, man.” The seat shifted and sloped as he took his friend’s place in the back seat of the cab and pul ed the door shut. He reached for me as he gave the cabbie an address. I curled against his solid chest and held on, my eyes shut tight, the world stil twirling.

That’s al I remember until I woke up this morning.

I text Kayla to let her know I need to be let into her dorm.

She and Aimee left a dozen texts and voicemail messages on my phone between last night and this morning, horrified that something had happened to me because I’d disappeared. It turns out that when I gestured to Aimee that I was leaving, she thought I was complimenting her dancing.

I guess we need to establish better drunk hand signals, not that I want a repeat of last night ever again.

that I want a repeat of last night ever again.

They’re sitting on the steps of their building when the car pul s up. They can’t see the interior of the car and obviously don’t suspect that I’m the passenger, because they continue talking while casting surreptitious looks our way, waiting to see who’s being dropped off. “Thank you,” I say as Reid removes his sunglasses. “Where should I send the clothes?”

“I can’t talk you into keeping them?”

I shake my head.

He smirks, one corner of his mouth turning up. “I put my number in your phone. Cal or text me and we’l work something out.”

Before Luis opens my door, Reid takes my hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin between my thumb and forefinger. “Be more careful?” he says, sliding his sunglasses back on, and I nod, feeling like a naïve idiot.

And then, stil a bit hungover, I slip out of the car and walk up to my stunned friends, wearing a designer outfit and no underwear and carrying my clothes in a shoe store bag.

“Did you just get dropped off by a celebrity?” Kayla asks, ogling the car as it pul s away.

“Are those Coach flip-flops?” Aimee gasps, and then, pul ing the back of the shirt out and looking for the label,

“Ohmigod, is this top Versace?” Chapter 39

REID

The bal ’s in her court; I’m better when it’s in mine. I’m used to being in complete control of any relationship with a girl—

whether it’s for an hour or a few weeks. Keeping control is effortless when the outcome is clear or inconsequential.

Neither of these applies to Dori.

It’s been four days. Under normal circumstances, I’d be pissed that I’m counting, more pissed that I care. Where Dori is concerned, there’s no such thing as normal circumstances.

Returning the clothes was her idea, so I should wait for her to contact me. I could contact her first... I have her phone number. And I know where she lives.

I sound like a damned stalker.

***

“You’re up early.” Through careful voice inflection, Dad manages to take statements that should be positive and twist the words to sound accusatory and suspicious. It’s a gift.

It’s also bait, and I’m not rising to it. Without turning, I continue peeling the orange in my hand, separating the continue peeling the orange in my hand, separating the smooth rind from the fruit below by tearing pieces away and dropping them into the sink. “I’m meeting with George in an hour, discussing new project proposals.” I detach a wedge and pop it into my mouth, resisting the impulse to lick the juice from my fingers. I fight the urge to enjoy anything too much in front of him, actual y, and now that I’m aware of that fact, my brain gets hung up on why that is.

“Mmm,” he says, as unconcerned as possible. In my peripheral vision, his brows are almost knit at the center as he stares at the empty mug in his left hand and the coffee pot in his right, as though he’s forgotten how to pour. He doesn’t look at me, and I debate whether to turn and head back to my room or wait until he says actual words. I elect to silently count to five first. I’m up to three when he adds,

“Anything of note?”

Sweeping the bits of orange peel into the disposal and flipping it on, I savor the tangy whiff of citrus almost as much as the motorized droning that purposeful y stal s my reply.

“Yeah, a couple. One has possible critical appeal—

maybe even Oscar-worthiness. The other’s an action flick.

More money, probably.”

“Mmm,” he says again. Strange. Seldom without a blunt opinion of my career, particularly when it comes to financials, this man seems like someone else’s father. A minute later he’s snatched a sheaf of papers from his attaché. My upcoming film choices forgotten, he removes a giant clip and thumbs through the one-inch stack, flagging something in the center of a page.

Dad is a contracts expert. No fraudulent detail can be Dad is a contracts expert. No fraudulent detail can be buried deeply enough that his expertise can’t root it out, for which his clients pay a buttload, as John would say. Too bad the emotional details of life flow by without his notice, which is why everything Mom and I do strikes him as out of the blue. Suddenly that question I typical y dodge pops up: how much am I my father’s son? I’ve become proficient at avoiding emotional entanglement. Funny how my earliest self-protective behavior turned me into the very thing I was protecting myself from.

I leave him to his standard obsession—work—and head to my room, deciding halfway there that if I don’t hear from Dori by the end of the day, I’m cal ing her.

Her text arrives in the middle of the scheduled meeting with George.

Dori: The clothes are back from the dry cleaner. Where should i send them?

Me: I can get them when i pick you up for lunch tomorrow.

Dori: Visiting my sister tomorrow.

Me: Al day?

Me: Nevermind. Tonight, then.

Several minutes go by during which my long-suffering manager repeats the name of the director of one of the proposed films two, three times, and I stil don’t hear him.

“Reid. Let me know when you’re actual y listening rather than setting up booty cal s.” His dry tone belies his annoyance with me, only because I know him so wel .

Dori: Lunch tonight?

Me: Haha, yeah. Lunch tonight.

“I’m listening,” I tel George, seconds ticking by while I wait for her to reply, clicking the phone to make sure it’s stil powered up. Final y, she answers.

Dori: Ok

Me: Pick you up at 7

“Color me unconvinced,” George says, his tone dry as toast, and I give him my almost undivided attention. I’m already planning tonight.

*** *** ***

Dori

Here I am, staring into my closet again, chewing my thumbnail and wondering what one wears to return a borrowed outfit to a celebrity.

I arrive downstairs in jeans and a white button-up shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. The last time I wore this shirt to school, Aimee said, “Jeez, Dori, you look like my mom.” Her pity smirk said this wasn’t a compliment. But what she hates about it is what I like. This shirt says I’m not trying to be enticing—not 18-year-old girl enticing, anyway.

Mom’s on second shift at the hospital and Dad’s been in his study most of the afternoon. I dread looking in on him.

Too often, he’s staring out the window, or worse, at some invisible thing in his mind’s eye, and when I interrupt his reverie he looks—for a beat or two—as though he’s never seen me before in his life.

I stop in the doorway. “Hey, Dad.”

I’m relieved when he peers over the top of his glasses at me, his hands never leaving the keyboard. This is good.

He’s working. Writing sermons has been grueling for him the past few weeks. He’s always grumbled good-naturedly about striving to hear God speak; when I was little he’d step into the hal way and tel me semi-sternly that he couldn’t hear God while I practiced cartwheels in the living room, or when Esther and I roughhoused on my bed, her playful barks mingling with my laughter. Now, I suspect that the impediment to hearing God comes from a different source.

“I’m going out. I won’t be late.”

He nods, looks back to the screen. “Tel Kayla and Aimee hel o.”

For a moment, I don’t correct him, and then I shake myself internal y. There’s no reason to omit the truth of what I’m doing. “Actual y, I’m seeing Reid.”