Crushed (8 page)

I’m silent, waiting for the rest of it, but she just stares at me.

“What?” she asks finally. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, the way you said that makes it sound like I’m going to accomplish this goal in exchange for something.”

“Beefcake. You’re my personal trainer. It’s your
job
. Are they not paying you well? Because I know this guy with a finance degree he’s not putting to use; maybe—”

“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “I’ll get you into a tennis skirt, but promise me one thing: that you’re not doing it for Devon Patterson.”

Chloe runs a tongue along the front of her teeth. “Okay. I promise.”

She’s lying. We both know it.

Hell of it is, I also
get
it. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d have done anything to impress the girl I loved.

Here’s hoping Chloe’s story has a happier ending than mine.

Chapter 8

Chloe

Two weeks later

“You
have
to come to our Fourth of July party.”

Michael moves around to the other side of the bench and switches out the weight.

“Okay, let’s try this,” he says, moving into spotting position. “I think you’re ready to press a bit more weight.”

I make no movement to grab the bar. Instead I stare up at him.

“Chloe.”

“Beefcake.”

“Get on it, Chloe. We only have twenty minutes before my next client gets here.”

“Ugh, Mrs. Rubio?” I ask, reluctantly wrapping my fingers around the metal bar. “She’s totally looking for a fling, you know.”

“Chloe, most of my clients are looking for a fling.”

“I’m not.”

“Thank God for that. Okay, you ready?”

I glance dubiously at the weights, which are way bigger than anything I’ve tried so far. “If this falls on my chest, can it, like, smash my heart?”

He moves his hands under the bar, legs braced. “Well, don’t drop it, then. But I’m here if you do.”

“You know, if you wanted to kill me, this would be a brilliant way to do it,” I say as I move the bar off the rests.

I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even lowered it yet.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it the second you started calling me
Beefcake,
” he says. “No more talking. Focus.”

So I do. I get through only seven reps, but Beefcake looks pleased.

“What now?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face with the towel he hands me and readjusting my ponytail.

But Michael’s not looking to me. All of his attention’s on the other side of the gym, and I know before turning my head who he’s looking at. There’s only one person that makes Michael go all soft and quiet like that.

I glance over my shoulder, and immediately I’m on my feet. I figured Kristin had come to flirt and make sure everyone noticed her new honey highlights that she’s been claiming are from the sun,
cough cough, bullshit,
but one look at her tearstained face tells me that something major is up.

Kristin would never be so gauche as to be an ugly crier, but she doesn’t exactly look her best with tearstained cheeks.

She’d show her blotchy face in public only if she was really,
really
upset.

My heart is in my stomach as I dash over to her, my mind already sorting through the worst possibilities.

Car accident.

Melanoma.

Rabies.

“Kristy?”

She sniffs. “I hate when you call me that.”

I drag her into the hallway. “What’s going on?”

Her chin wobbles just a little and my heart breaks, but then her face freezes for a second, and she looks me up and down. “Have you lost weight?”

Okay, so we’re probably not talking about a cancer diagnosis of a family member then if she’s worrying about my weight.

“Um, I don’t know,” I say in response.

“What do you mean you don’t know? What does the scale say?”

“Michael made me get rid of the scale.”

Kristin’s head pulls back in horror. “Get rid of the scale?”

“Is this why you’re all blotchy?” I snap. “Because I may or may not have lost weight?”

Although I’m pretty sure I have. Lost weight, I mean. I’m not lying about Michael forbidding me to pay attention to the scale, but my clothes are looser and everything feels less wobbly. I’m not a size two or anything, and I still feel like a jumbo loaf of Wonder Bread next to my sister, but . . .

“Seriously, why are you crying?” I ask, feeling atypically impatient with her.

Kristin presses her lips together and looks around before nodding toward an out-of-the-way corner.

I follow, crossing my arms and looking at her.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and blurts out, “Devon wants to go to law school.”

I stare at her. “And?”

Her lips do an ugly floundering thing. Sissy dearest is really not at her best today. “On the East Coast,” she emphasizes.

I reach up to tighten my ponytail. “Which I know means more long distance for you guys, which sucks, but it’s not exactly a surprise.”

Kristin’s eyes focus on me. “What do you mean it’s not a surprise? He was supposed to come back here and work for his dad’s company in Dallas. That’s always been the plan.”

Your plan,
I want to say.

I gentle my voice. “Well, yeah, I know that’s been a
likely
option, but law school’s always been a dream. Good for him for chasing it, you know?”

For a split second, Kristin looks like I’ve slapped her. “It hasn’t always been his dream.”

Oh my God, I’m so over this conversation already. “Okay, not
always,
but since, like, sixth grade, at least.”

“He just came up with this stupid law school idea just now!” Her voice is shrill.

Realization slides over me like ice water.

Devon’s never told Kristin he wanted to go to law school.

I’m both shocked and . . . not shocked.

Anyone who knows Kristin well knows she’s a terror when her boat is rocked.

And learning that the guy she planned to marry was even considering doing anything other than putting a two-carat diamond on her finger and settling down in Texas would definitely rock this princess’s boat.

And yet they’ve been together for years. I can’t believe, in all that time, they’ve never talked about what they wanted for the future.

Because Devon has told me. Bunches of times.

From the horrified look on Kristin’s face, I think she knows it.

“So what’s next?” I ask. “Is he going to apply?”

She gives a harsh laugh. “Yeah, he already did that. Claims he did it on a
whim
. Like, how can you take the LSAT and apply to Harvard Law on a whim?”

“He got in?”

She looks at me closely. “Why the hell are you so happy about this? I’m trying to tell you that my boyfriend wants to move to Boston, and you’re acting like he won the lotto.”

He did!
I want to cry.
This is his jackpot.

She sighs. “He was on the waiting list and just got the call this morning that a spot opened up. He has until the end of next week to decide.”

“That’s awesome—for him,” I correct quickly, seeing her death glare.

“I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you about it,” she snaps. “You’re all holier-than-thou and think there’s nothing as important as school, so of
course
you’d take his side.”

I cup my elbows, a little stung by her sharpness. “Hey, that’s not fair. But I’m friends with Devon, too, and he’s wanted this for a long time. I’m happy for him. And you don’t have to break up—”

“Who said anything about breaking up?” Her voice is quick and maybe just a little shrill.

“That’s what I mean,” I soothe. “It’s just a few more years of doing the long-distance thing, right? And then you’ll be dating a
lawyer
.”

Kristin would love that shit.

She takes a deep breath. “Right. Right. Okay, well . . . I’m going to go call Tina. She’ll have some
useful
advice about how to change his mind.”

“Wait. Change his mind? Did you hear anything I said?”

Kristin tilts her head. “When did Devon tell you? That he wanted to go to law school, I mean.”

Her voice is sweet. Too sweet.

“Umm . . . I’m not sure. It’s just . . . well, like you said, I’m a nerd. He probably thought I’d be more interested about it than you would be.”

“Huh. K. Oh, and Chlo?”

“Yeah?”

“You might want to see what upper-triceps exercises Michael can walk you through. You’re all flabby up here.” She gestures to my upper arms that are exposed by my tank.

She gives me a fake smile and prances out the door, and I take a deep breath, ordering myself not to let her get to me.

I can see right through her. She’s feeling threatened by the fact that her boyfriend told the wrong sister about his life dreams, and she’s feeling insecure.

Putting me down is the easiest way to get her confidence back up. God knows I’m an easy target.

I reach up and feel the area of my arm she’d been talking about. It
is
kind of flabby. What was I thinking, getting all bold and wearing a tank top today instead of my usual baggy T-shirts?

“Hey, Chloe.”

I turn and see Michael in the doorway of the gym, giving me an unreadable look. “Sorry,” I say. “Sister emergency.”

“No prob, but Mrs. Rubio’s here for her appointment, so—I’ll see you tomorrow, K?”

“Okay,” I say, tugging on a curl.

He disappears only to reappear a second later. “Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?

His eyes are unreadable. For a second I’m confused by the question. Nobody ever asks me that. Ever.

I fake-smile at him. “Totally!”

He holds my gaze, and I know he doesn’t believe me, but before he can press further Gail Rubio’s bleached-blond head appears at his shoulder and she sees who’s been keeping her boy toy from her. “Oh. Hey, Chloe!”

I don’t miss the way her expression goes from catfight-ready to relief when she sees that it’s “just me” that Beefcake’s talking to.

“Hey, Mrs. Rubio. I love that coral top—it’s a great color on you!”

“Thanks, sweetie. Give your mom a hug for me, K? I’ve been missing her at Junior League.”

“Will do!” I give them both a happy little wave and head toward the locker room.

Feeling oddly out of sorts, I’m just talking myself into a little pity-party ice cream and debating which flavor to splurge on when I get the text message.

Devon:
Hey, you busy?

Me:
Nope. What’s up?

Devon:
Can we talk?

Just like that, my mood’s improved.

Me:
Absolutely. Tell me when and where.

Chapter 9

Michael

When Chloe mentioned the Fourth of July party, I had absolutely no intention of going.

None.

Not because I had other plans, but because I understand the way these things work.

This isn’t some section of middle America where the butcher rubs elbows with the mayor who’s married to the kindergarten teacher whose sister is a wealthy entrepreneur who’s engaged to the football coach at the local high school.

Cedar Grove is a lot more like the Upper East Side or Aspen or Beverly Hills, where there are two very distinct groups of people and a very deliberate line separating them.

In this world, employees of the country club don’t mingle with the members of the country club.

And I had no interest in trying.

At least not until I’d overheard one tiny, trivial conversation in the gym that changed everything:
Did you hear Tim and Mariana are back from Tuscany?

Tim and Mariana.

Tim and Mariana
Patterson
.

As in, my biological father and his wife.

More eavesdropping had revealed another crucial detail.

The Pattersons just happened to be best fucking friends with no one other than . . . the Bellamys.

As in the Bellamys and Pattersons cohost an annual Fourth of July party.

The very same one that Chloe had invited me to.

This is my chance.

My very reason for being in the Lone Star State.

I’ve stalled long enough. At first it was because I told myself it would be better to observe the man from afar. Hence, getting in good at his club.

Only, by the time I got the job as tennis pro/personal trainer, the Pattersons were off on an extended wine-tasting trip in Europe.

That’s the
technical
reason I’d never come face-to-face with the man who’d given me half my DNA.

The real reason . . . the one that creeps up just as I’m falling asleep: I don’t know what the fuck to do about it. Any of it.

Which is why I need to get to the damn party. I need to see the man. Look him in the eye.

Figure my shit out.

And for that, I need Chloe Bellamy.

Which is why I’m standing outside on the porch of the house where I rent the basement as she pulls up to the curb. She honks, followed by a huge wave and smile that I don’t return.

The trunk of her silver Audi A4 pops open and I drop my leather duffel bag next to her hot-pink one, and, for the tenth time that morning, consider backing out.

An entire weekend rubbing elbows with people I work for?

Pass
.

But then I get in the car anyway.

“I told you I’d drive,” I say irritably, slamming the door shut.

“Um, I’ve seen the way you talk about your car. I’d be too scared to eat snacks in there.”

“Snacks?”

“It’s a three-hour drive,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

I glance back and see a cooler and a paper bag with Lay’s potato chips perched on top. I can just imagine what other junk-food monstrosities lay beneath.

“Three hours,” I repeat.

“Lots of time to get to know each other, Beefcake.”

“Nope.”

She grins and pats my leg. “Okay, no problem. How do you feel about Broadway tunes?”

I turn my head to look out the window, hoping she’s joking.

An hour later I know she’s not.

“Okay, I give!” I say, interrupting a very dramatic version of the title song from
Phantom of the Opera
.

“I always wanted to see that show on Broadway,” she says dreamily. “I’ve only been to New York once, and my parents dragged us around to all of the boring museums and a dull-ass play instead of the musicals.”