Isn't She Lovely
Page 42

When we were together, everything felt so mapped out for me. In a good way. Then the relationship fell apart, and I just needed … a break? A change? It’s why I pushed to do the summer class with Martin Holbrook even though I didn’t know the first thing about film.
And it’s why I lied to my parents and told them I had a new girlfriend when I didn’t.
I wasn’t ready to go back to being the old Ethan. The Ethan who was the perfect son, the perfect boyfriend, and the perfect heir to the company.
I guess one could say I’m on vacation.
Stephanie is my vacation. Or something.
My dad finally lets out one of those parent-like sighs. “Fair enough. I forget that you’re only twenty-one sometimes. I suppose everyone deserves a chance to sow their wild oats.”
I mentally congratulate myself for not rolling my eyes at the sheer dad factor of that phrase. “Is that what you think I’m doing this summer? Sowing wild oats?”
Dad shrugs, the ice clinking against his glass. “Your mother seems to think so. Says that this Stephanie girl’s just a bit of fluff you need to get out of your system.”
“Before settling down with Olivia,” I say, not bothering to keep the derision out of my voice.
My dad shrugs again. “Personally, I like Stephanie. Sweet without being sugary, you know?”
I smile a little as I picture the real Stephanie with her goth glower. “She’s definitely not sugary.”
“It’s good to see you happy again,” my dad says.
I pause in the process of scraping the last bit of frosting off my plate with the side of the fork. It’s not a statement I’d expect my father to make. The man’s good-natured enough outside the office but not exactly effusive.
“Yeah, well, breakups tend to be a blow to one’s mood.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m not talking just since the breakup. I’m saying you seem the happiest you’ve been in years.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know what he’s seeing, but that can’t possibly be true. Olivia and I were happy. Enough. I mean, maybe we’d gotten a little comfortable with each other. And perhaps a little more settled than we should have been for being barely twenty-one.
But I was happy.
Wasn’t I?
The stupid girly song ends, and the DJ must be starting to wind down the party for the night, because it’s another slow song.
My dad grunts and sets his empty glass on a nearby tray. “I suppose that’s my cue to go find your mother. She always complains that I never ask her to dance.”
Huh.
My dad finds my mom, who accepts his hand with a reserved little smile as he leads her to the dance floor. I watch them for a moment, wanting—wishing—that I could look at my mom without thinking about that day. That I could go back. Which is stupid, obviously.
I’m so busy watching my parents that I don’t see Stephanie until she’s at my side, her presence surprisingly comforting.
She doesn’t suggest that we dance again, and I don’t either. It’s like there’s an invisible line, and we both know that dancing again would push us across it.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask.
“Hell, yes. My feet are killing me.”
I want to tell her that it’s her own fault for wearing skyscraper heels. It’s like part of some female code that they have to wear the most uncomfortable shoes imaginable and then complain about them.
But I know she’s wearing them for me. That if it were up to her, she’d be wearing her scary black boots and glowering in the corner. Another reminder that none of this is real.
The thought is more depressing than it should be.
“So how’d I do?” she asks after we’ve slipped out a side door into the warm summer night.
“You mean did anybody catch on to the fact that you have major Wiccan tendencies? Nah, I think we’re good.”
“Excellent,” she says with a pleased little smile as she grabs my arm and lets me half support, half drag her along the sidewalk as I keep my eye out for an available cab. “Two down, one more to go.”
I’m not following. “Two of what down?”
“Our Pygmalion adventure. When we started, you said you needed me for three events: dinner with the parents, the wedding, and the party in a couple of weeks.”
“You happy about that?”
“Happy about what?”
“That we only have one more of these shenanigans left before our deal is over?”
She’s quiet for several seconds, and I think she’s not going to answer. Then …
“I’m not sure.”
She sounds as confused and conflicted as I feel. As far as admissions go, it’s not much. It’s probably nothing. But I feel a little surge of happiness at the confession.
“If we don’t find a cab soon, I’m gonna freaking kill someone with the heel of my shoe,” Stephanie says as her gait becomes even wobblier.
I’ve moved before I realize I’m going to, and suddenly Stephanie is in my arms and I’m carrying my fake girlfriend through the Upper West Side as she mutters threats in my ear, and even though my delicate little flower is cursing up a storm, I find myself grinning.
My dad was right.
I am happy.
Chapter Fifteen
Stephanie
“How do we know Martin even knows what he’s talking about?” Ethan asks.
I take a long sip of Diet Coke and try not to roll my eyes. “Well, here’s my way of thinking—and it’s just a hunch—but Martin has a couple of Golden Globes and an Oscar under his belt. For screenwriting. There’s gotta be at least a fifty-fifty chance that he knows his shit.”