Good for You (15 page)

Mom and Dad are asleep, the slit of space beneath their bedroom door dark. My bedside lamp is on. The curtains are drawn. Clothes I left in the dryer are now folded and stacked on my dresser; various toiletries cover the top of my desk. Esther waits on my bed, her tail thumping the mattress slowly, like a drum. I run my hand over her silky head and she nuzzles into it, her tongue lol ing out one side head and she nuzzles into it, her tongue lol ing out one side of her mouth. She looks like she’s smiling, this beloved expression of hers one that usual y brings an answering smile to my face.

Tonight, my lips feel numb. No, not numb. Bereft.

When he asked me to dinner, he said
You’ll be off to
your life and I’ll soon be off to mine
. No false promises, no option or threat of postponing the oh-so-inevitable end. The dinner, the conversation, the kiss—these were al part of a pleasant but no less certain goodbye. Since the moment I met him, I’ve looked forward to the end of our frustrating association.

Now it’s over, he’s gone, and I feel a hol ow place inside, like he’s taken a slice of me with him as a souvenir.

Chapter 30

REID

“So, think you’l do more volunteering after this?” Frank asks as we lay out a recent donation of decorative pavers from the patio to the back gate.

“After my court-ordered penalty is complete, you mean?” The flagstone slabs vary in size. Making a pathway of them consists of what Frank terms puzzle-piecing and I cal guesswork. Frank is usual y easygoing, but when it comes to stone placement, he’d give Dori a run for her perfectionism money.
Dammit, I don’t want to think about
her
. I glare at the cloudless blue sky, removing one glove and using the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. LA is enjoying another summer heat wave, and since the saplings we’ve planted amount to tal sticks with very little foliage, there’s zero shade in this yard.

“Dori’s not here, you know,” Frank says.

My eyes snap to his. “What?”

He takes a generous few gulps from his water bottle.

“You may be here under court order, but you could have been a bastard about it, could’ve given a lot less effort than you have. As far as I’m concerned, you’re volunteer enough to go by the title. I’d be happy to have you back.” This echoes what Dori said the night before last. And clearly,
I
can’t stop thinking of her
. “Thanks, Frank. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Yep.”

Frank dislikes compliments, no matter how vague. Last week, Dori whispered, “Watch this,” after making me promise not to react, and then she told Frank that he looked
very
handsome in teal. He glanced down at his teal linen shirt and blushed, mumbling something resembling,

“Mmmph,” before bul eting to the other side of the patio.

Dori turned back to me with the naughtiest look ever on her face. With effort, we suppressed our laughter as I fought to disregard the desire to pul her onto my lap and kiss her.

Shit. Stop
thinking
about her
already. I’m almost out of here. This day and one more.

“Volunteering for real—I don’t know. It’s possible,” I tel him, recal ing my conversation with Larry a few weeks ago about doing manual labor charity work, when I retorted something along the lines of
no way in hell
. Wow. I’m a grade-A dick.

Tomorrow is my last day at the Diego house, and George cal ed last night to let me know that production has moved the dates up on my Vancouver project. I’l be on location in three weeks—the day before Dori returns from Ecuador. I have less than a month to beef up and pack on the last five pounds of the twenty I promised to add in order to land the role. George warned me that the director and some of the production team were against hiring me because they wanted the character to be older and bigger, but the guys financing the film wanted my name in the credits. Money talks, but if I screw this up, I could depreciate my future value and seriously lessen the chances of anyone giving me another shot at a film like this one.

To that end, Olaf has promised to kil me starting this weekend. Awesome. If nothing else, maybe I’l be able to get some sleep after he shreds me every day. I tossed and turned so much last night that I found myself up at 4 a.m.

Googling Vancouver’s weather, popular attractions and hot night spots… and then Quito’s weather, topography, possible safety issues and time zone (two hours ahead of LA and Vancouver, which are the same).

I’ve got to get this girl out of my head. I need time and distance, and I’m about to get both. Despite how she responded to me physical y, despite this insistent pul towards her that I’m trying (and failing) to brush aside, she knows and I know that we would never work. Everything about us is different—every damned thing. I’ve never given a shit about that before. I’ve never
thought
about that before. When you’re hooking up with a girl, al that matters is what she looks like and how fast and hard she’l put out.

Who cares about her past, her beliefs, her aspirations.

Who cares if she has kind eyes or endless patience or the ability to put the needs of everyone on the goddamned
planet
ahead of her own.

***

We’re not a mile away from the house when we pass Gabriel e on the side of the road, standing in front of her piece of crap Cutlass—smoke pouring from under the hood and hazards flashing. Some guy in a truck has pul ed over in front of her car. He looks about twenty-five and I don’t recognize him. “Hey Luis, pul a U-turn, man. I know that girl back there.”

Gabriel e’s eyes widen when she sees the Mercedes pul up behind her car. As I exit, the guy standing next to her glares at me with undisguised loathing. He’s dressed and tattooed like a gangbanger, which doesn’t preclude him from knowing her, but I suspect he’s a complete stranger who only stopped to help a hot girl into his car. “Car trouble?” I say, ignoring him.

“Yeah. It does this every month or so, no biggie.” She shrugs, noticeably embarrassed. This car isn’t just a late model, it’s
ancient
. Unlike one of my dad’s cars—a pristine 1968 Mercedes 280S—this Olds Cutlass, at least a decade younger, hasn’t been wel -cared for. There are rust spots in the doors and sidewal s, the headliner is hanging down like curtain swags, and the tires are too bald to be remotely safe. The fact that it’s not running isn’t much of a shock.

“So… is your mom or dad coming to get you? Or a friend?” I ask. Her would-be rescuer stands there regarding me icily, and I’m al kinds of glad Luis is in the car behind us.

“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always

“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always get reception at work…” She shrugs.

“C’mon then. I’l give you a ride home.”

She grins ear-to-ear, but then her smile falters. “Um, I promised my little brothers I’d pick them up early from daycare and take them for ice cream. I guess… they can just stay ’til Mama or Papa picks them up...”

“Ice cream sounds good after today. If you guys don’t mind being stuck in the car with me. I’m sweaty as hel .”

“You know this
pendejo
?” Ah, so her roadside companion speaks—if only to cal me an asshole.

One hand on her hip, Gabriel e answers him in Spanish, which I understand
just
wel enough to know I’d better steer her to the car before she gets bitch-slapped. “Thanks for stopping, man,” I tel him while taking Gabriel e by the arm and quickly directing her into the back seat.

An hour later, her car’s been towed and we’ve got the twins in the car. Since they’re nine, they’re way more impressed that they can make faces through the dark-tinted windows that other drivers can’t see than the fact that I’m a movie star. They’re also awed by the fact that I’ve got a guy to drive me around wherever I want to go; their sister better comprehends the way I miss my own wheels.

Gabriel e directs Luis to an ice cream shop in her old neighborhood and the boys go into raptures when I tel them to get whatever they want. I don’t think the words
get
whatever you want
have ever been uttered to them before. It takes them a ful ten minutes of discussion to decide what to get, and since we’re the only customers, the woman behind the counter takes the break to watch entertainment news on a tiny television by the register. One of the commentators says my name and I feign inattentiveness as the clerk glances between me and my image on the tiny screen. Final y she stares at me, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows elevated to the level of her pink visor, and I smile at her. When we leave, she’s grabbing up her cel and taking photos of our retreating backsides.

Luis raises an eyebrow when we exit, the boys with what looks like quart-sized cartons each, and Gabriel e and I each holding an overloaded cone. “Dinner is official y
spoiled
,” I tel her as one of her brothers cal s shotgun and the other squeezes between us in the back seat. “Your mother is going to kil me.”

Gabriel e smiles prettily. “No, she won’t. Mama likes you.”

“Oh?” I’m taken by surprise, even though Mrs. Diego thanked me for working on the house just a couple of days ago. I mean Jesus, I ran into her house with my car. “Must be my infamous charm and good looks.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “She says you’re a hard worker. That’s the
only
thing that ever impresses Mama.”

*** *** ***

Dori

I was in line for airport security at 7:00 a.m. for the flight to Miami, and from there, I caught my connection to Quito. I’ve made this trip twice before—each of the past two summers

—but having experience in LA-to-Quito travel doesn’t make the thirteen-hour trip feel any shorter. It’s almost midnight by the time I get settled into the women’s dormitory, and I’l probably be lucky to get five hours of sleep before it’s time to get up.

There’s always a lot to be done. Children in Quito are sent into the city in droves to beg or shine shoes to help support their families. My first year here, we refurbished a school and organized learning activities with children whose parents spared them from a few days of work. I asked one group of little boys whether they attended school during the regular school year. Al of them said no, but some had siblings who did. When I asked why some of their siblings were al owed to go and they weren’t, one replied, “My sister is smart, so she goes to school and we work.” It broke my heart. These kids were exceedingly bright, but they were al resigned to the impression that they weren’t.

In some ways, returning last year was even more depressing. We’d made an impact that first year I volunteered, and returning a year later to find nothing improved made me want to scream with frustration. I’d never ful y understood my parents and Deb when they talked about social progress in terms of two steps up, one step back—sometimes two. Deflated, I cal ed Deb in San Diego, where she was doing a summer research internship before her last year of med school.

“Dori, smal gains are stil gains. Sweeping changes occur over time. They’re hardly noticeable while they’re occurring. Think about the difference thirty, forty, or a
hundred
years have made in things like race relations, animal testing, or recognition of addiction as a disease.” Her rational words calmed me, but couldn’t stop the whine that seeped into my voice. “It’s not fair.” She chuckled softly. “I know, sweetie. But the world doesn’t operate on fairness. You know that as wel as I do.” Talking to Deb can be like having your hand held while you swal ow nasty-tasting medicine or get a shot. She can’t make the bad stuff go away, but she makes it easier to take. “If you want to make a difference eventual y, you just keep on.”

I heeded her advice then and over the past year, and here I am in Ecuador for a third time, more prepared for the conditions I’l find and ready to tackle them.

Using this time to overcome the reckless feelings I’ve developed for Reid is something else I have to do. I vow to return to LA in a more rational frame of mind, because over the past 48 hours I’ve done little but recal abstracts of him like a series of film clips: His disdain the morning I met him.

His sarcasm and charm, and the unsettling way they combined to make him impossible to ignore. The pride on his face when he finished the shelves. The surprise in his eyes when he blurted out the truth about his parents over dinner. The gentleness of his kiss.

Once I get through customs, I’m met by Ana Diaz, a missionary who resides here year-round, trying to reach and educate as many Ecuadorian kids as possible.

“Welcome back, Dori,” she says, hugging me.

By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above me, restless and awake, surrounded by the soft, slumbering breaths of the women I’l meet tomorrow. I could blame my sleeplessness on the cold—the nighttime temps in Quito are around fifty degrees year-round—but I’m not dense enough to think a bit of a chil would keep me from sleeping after this exhausting day.

The truth is, I’m sufficiently warm, recal ing Reid’s fingers playing through my hair, holding my face and trailing down my bare arms, his mouth on mine. The sensations that warm me are the same delicious sensations responsible for my insomnia, but my mind refuses to meditate on something else, anything else. For tonight, I surrender, my hands restless under blankets softened and worn from use.

Tomorrow wil be soon enough to begin erasing him.

Chapter 31

REID

“You’re certain about this?” I can’t recal Dad ever looking at me with such an incredulous expression, and believe me, I’ve witnessed incredulity on his face a mil ion times.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Saturday mornings, my father is in his home office, catching up on whatever work he didn’t vanquish in his sixty-hour work week. The idea that Mom or I would disturb him before noon is inconceivable, since we’re usual y asleep. So when I knocked on his door at 9:00 a.m., he seemed disconcerted by my appearance. Then I told him I had a financial matter to discuss, apart from our monthly consultations over my expenditures and investments. He regained his composure quickly, obviously expecting me to request additional cash because I’d run through my al otted spending money ahead of schedule.

Instead, I told him I wanted three cars purchased and delivered to the Diegos, anonymously, on the day they get the keys to their house.

“But the anonymity…” he says, brows drawn together.

“No PR? No tax break? It’s a significant financial output for no personal advantage.”

His tone says he’l do what I want, even if he’s baffled by the uncharacteristic request. It’s
my
money, after al ; he just manages it for me, since I’ve never taken much interest in anything beyond spending it. “It has to be anonymous. And you just described most of my expenditures, when it comes down to it.”

He chuckles in spite of himself. “Point taken.” He frowns one final time. “And this has nothing to do with the girl.” I smirk. “Dad, what exactly are you suggesting?” He huffs a breath through his nose and scowls, his gaze never leaving my face, ever the legal eagle. “I think you know damned wel what I’m suggesting, Reid. I usual y overlook your… indiscretions… but the Diego girl is underage.”

Deep breath, in and out, through my teeth. “Yes, I got the idea after seeing firsthand the unreliable piece of crap she’s driving around LA.” I hold up a hand to silence him.

“But I don’t want any of them to know about my connection to this, so it can hardly be used as bait. As out of character as this may seem to you, it’s something I want to do.

Reparation for the harm I caused. Humor me.” He’s silent for a moment, after which he shrugs. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but al right. These are the vehicles you want?” He points to his monitor, where he’s pul ed up the links I sent last night.

“Yeah. John and I built them online to confirm which features were available, so those are the exact specs.

They’re al reliable, but not flashy.”

They’re al reliable, but not flashy.”

He nods. “Flashy wouldn’t do them any favors in their part of town. I’l request al available security components as wel , to discourage theft.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I stand up to leave, but turn back.

“Needless to say, don’t tel Larry. Don’t even tel George, just in case. I think he’d play along, but… better to keep this between you and me, I think.”

He’s looking at me with that same incredulous expression. “Al right.”

I turn and leave his office, wondering why it took me so long to discover this sort of high. The month with Habitat affected me more than I thought.

*** *** ***

Dori

“You’re as difficult to get hold of as I am these days.” Deb laughs. Hers is the first phone cal I’ve had since Mom and Dad cal ed me last weekend. We’ve been playing phone tag for the past 24 hours, and I’d almost given up having an actual conversation with her. Quito and Indianapolis are only an hour off, but she works al night and I work al day, our times overlapping at both ends. “How’s it going?” Perfect timing. I’m sitting on my bunk, sifting through sheet music for this afternoon. “Real y wel . I’ve got an enthusiastic group this year—I’m teaching them songs that help them learn math concepts. They’re al so smart! But here’s the coolest thing—I’ve been tutoring a couple of girls close to my age in English and math.” It’s impossible to keep the excitement out of my voice. “When I met them two weeks ago, they both assumed they’d drop out of school weeks ago, they both assumed they’d drop out of school soon to get married or start working ful -time. Now, one is determined to at least finish high school, and the other is talking about going to
college
.”

“That’s awesome, Dori.”

“I feel like I’m making a tangible difference this time.” My bunkmate comes in then, climbs the ladder to the top bunk, and col apses with a moan. She’s Mom’s age and arrived in Ecuador the night before last with a group of women from her church in Oklahoma. “Everything okay, Gina?” I cal up.

“Aaaaugh... this altitude is
killing
me.” She leans over, peering at me from her upside-down position. “Are you talking to your sister? Did you ask if she has any recommendations for me?”

“She would tel you the same thing I told you yesterday.

No over-exertion and lots of fluids.” Deb chuckles in my ear.

People—from friends and family to complete strangers—

have been asking her for medical advice since she began med school. “You’l feel fine in a day or so.” Gina flops back onto her bed. “God, I hope so. This is not cool.”

“You sure you don’t want to study medicine?” Deb asks, stil chuckling.

“I’m
positive
,” I whisper, hoping Gina wil go to sleep instead of butting in on what wil probably be my only conversation with my sister while I’m in Ecuador. “Now, let’s talk about
you
. Have you and Bradford progressed from making out in parking lots yet?”

The smile in her voice remains when she answers. “Oh, maybe…”

“Deborah Cantrel ,” I say, struggling to keep my voice low. “What are you hinting at? You sound absolutely guilt-ridden.”

“I’m tel ing you first, and then Mom and Dad, and then Sylvie…” Sylvie is Deb’s best friend from col ege. She married her col ege boyfriend, has a two-year-old and another on the way, and has been setting Deb up with every eligible friend of her husband’s for years. None of them have worked out, and a couple of them are only summoned to be witty anecdotes when she and her female med school friends discuss relationship-hunting fails.

“Wel this sounds promising…
wait
. Deb.
Tell me
.”

“He proposed last night.”

I forget to whisper. “
What
?”

Gina hangs down. “What? What is it?”

“He
proposed
? But you’ve only known him a few weeks!” I say, and Gina’s eyes go round as she makes an excited
eeeeeeeeee
sound. I want to knock her on the forehead so I can share this moment with my sister,
alone
, but of course I don’t.

Deb’s reply is calm, unperturbed after my outburst.

Expecting it, probably. “Dori, I know what you’re worried about—whether or not I’m sure. I
am
. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“Oh my gosh.” My eyes tear up, but I’m smiling, and Gina is grinning ecstatical y, stil upside-down. A tear snakes down my cheek and I wipe it away. Gina disappears momentarily and reappears with a tissue. “Have you worked it out with hospital administration? When do I get to meet him?”

She sighs. “We aren’t sure how to reveal it or what it might mean once we do. No one at the hospital knows yet except a close friend of his and one of the nurses—who caught us kissing in an empty room.” She giggles, and I’m struck again by how
sixteen
she’s sounded since this man came into her life. “That was the first time he said he loved me. When she came in, I tried to pul away, but he held tight, smiled and said, ‘Marta, have you met the woman I’ve fal en in love with?’ She stared at us a minute and then said,

‘Wel , I knew
something
was going on, doctor. You’ve been so pleasant for the past few weeks that we figured you were either in love or dying. Glad to know it’s the former.’

We swore her to secrecy.”

I’m laughing and crying at the same time, and strangely, so is Gina, who hands me another tissue while she mops her eyes with her own. “Wow,” I say, stunned.

“I have a couple of days in a row off in September, so we’re planning to make a quick trip home then. I assume you can make it home from Berkeley for an evening?”

“Heck, yes. I wouldn’t miss it. When are you tel ing Mom and Dad?”

“As soon as we hang up, I’m cal ing them. But first, how are you doing with the Reid Alexander situation? Is the distance helping?” Hearing his name is a jolt.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Haven’t thought of him much at al .” I’m crossing my fingers under my leg.

“You haven’t heard from him, then.”

“No.” Like he predicted—he’s gone back to his life, and I’ve gone on with mine. “Out of sight, out of mind.” My voice rings falsely impassive in my ears.

“I can’t imagine any boy being stupid enough to put you out of his mind so easily, baby girl. Even him.” I’m real y glad that Gina, who’s stil eavesdropping shamelessly, can’t hear Deb’s portion of the conversation.

“Wel , thanks. But I think they’re al kind of the same.” Deb knows I’m referring to Colin.

“No, they aren’t, but guys like Brad are rare. It took me twenty-six years to find him, and look how far from home I had to go. What if I’d done my internship elsewhere? We’d have never met. Brad and I were meant to be.” I turn onto my side, repressing words I’ve said to Deb before, words I wil not repeat now because I’m determined not to take anything away from her happiness. I know Deb believes that God brought Brad to her. That they were fated to be. But if this is so, then were Colin and I fated? Was what he did to me meant to be? Or perhaps he was a test that I failed, foolishly trusting a boy who exploited some inadequacy that made me blind to reality.

I can’t believe either of these. What happened with Colin was simply a failure to heed my own common sense. I made a mistake in judgment, and I paid for it.

“I’m glad you found each other, Deb,” I tel her, turning onto my back. “I hope you’l be real y happy.” She sighs blissful y. “We already are. It’s almost too much joy.”

I shake my head and smile. “No such thing.”

“I hope you’re right. You can probably expect a giddy cal from Mom soon. I think she thought I was al ergic to boys—

or they were al ergic to me. I love you, baby girl.”

“I love you, too, and I’m so happy for you.” When we hang up, it seems that Gina has forgotten her altitude sickness for the time being. She tel s me she’s a hopeless romantic who drives her husband crazy buying every romantic movie ever made. “I think I’ve watched
The
Notebook
about a thousand times,” she confesses, without even a hint of embarrassment. “I want to hear al about your sister and her new fiancé, but first—who is this boy you left behind? Was it a breakup? Not because of your volunteer efforts here, I hope.”

“No, nothing like that. We only went out once. It was nothing.” I’m crossing my fingers under my leg again, though I’ve spoken nothing but truth.

“Not meant to be, then,” Gina says, and it takes al the control I can manage not to rol my eyes. Holy cow, you’d think people never made their own decisions about anything, weren’t in control of any direction their lives took.

“Yep. Not meant to be.” I force myself to uncross my fingers. Nothing I’m saying is a lie or a fib or even a disputed truth. Whether or not my life is orchestrated by God or some form of fate or nothing but the choices Reid and I make individual y or together, we’re not meant to be.