Good for You (22 page)

Chapter 41

REID

It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m sitting in the formal dining room with my parents and our catered meal, counting the minutes until Dad and I can pretend fixation on a footbal game that neither of us cares about. China, crystal, white linens, and we’re barely speaking. Mom is drinking wine, abstaining from the hard stuff at the table, but the hand attached to the stem of her wineglass is trembling faintly. I suppress the urge to mix her something stronger, and myself, too.

There was a time when Mom cooked. Not every meal, but whenever the staff had a day off. Before my grandmother died, the two of them would get up before dawn on Thanksgiving Day to start everything. By the time I’d wake up, the whole house was suffused with the aroma of roasted turkey and a conglomeration of spices from the stuffing and pies—rosemary, thyme, nutmeg, cinnamon.

Mom would wrap me in an apron that fel past my knees and I’d mash the boiled cranberries and sugar through a mesh strainer until only the pulp remained, and later I would tel Dad I’d made the cranberry sauce by myself.

Dad’s foot is tapping; he’s already anticipating the horror of an entire day with no escape to work, wondering how long he has to perform this farce of family togetherness. There couldn’t be a more uncomfortable silence over a holiday meal.

Dori and her parents are dishing out donated portions of turkey and dressing to LA’s homeless population now, but she’s coming over later tonight. She’l be tired after being on her feet al day, but I don’t want to let her go early. A pang of guilt hits me with that thought, and I think about what might make her want to stay longer.

When she arrives, she confesses that she had very little to eat today. I offer to reheat some of our leftovers and she nods grateful y, which tel s me she must be ravenous. “Be right back. Make yourself at home.” I press her down to sit on the end of my bed. From the half-lidded look on her face, I wouldn’t be surprised to come back and find her curled up asleep in the center of it.

Instead, she’s nestled into the pil ows at the head of the bed, reading. I wonder which book of mine she found interesting and then I get closer. Oh, hel . She smiles up at me, bookmarking her spot with a finger and turning the cover towards me. Her smile is more of a smirk. “I didn’t realize you were a fan,” she says, reveling in her discovery.

Nearly every girl in our age group owns this recently popular novel while younger girls snatch up dol s and graphic novel adaptations with stylized manga artwork. What the book
doesn’t
have are many male fans.

I shrug, setting the plate on my desk and turning towards the bed. “My agent sent me the screenplay, and I thought I the bed. “My agent sent me the screenplay, and I thought I should check out the novel before I decide if I want to represent it.”

Her smirk disappears. “They’re making this into a movie? And you’re being considered for—”

I nod, climbing onto the bed. “What do you think? Am I a viable contender for the role? Could I bring him to life on the big screen?”

“Um,” she says, her wide eyes on mine.

I shake my head slowly and chuckle. “I
knew
it. You were one of those brainy girls who only got in trouble when caught after bedtime with a flashlight and a
book
under the covers.” I push her hair behind her ear on one side and can’t help the widening of my evil grin; as usual, her ears cannot be trusted to keep her secrets. “I’m right, aren’t I?” She pins her lips together and doesn’t answer. She has no idea what she does to me. I’m used to calculating girls—

aware of their sexual power and not afraid to use it. I’d swear on the hood of a new Porsche that Dori is aware of every other power she possesses, but when it comes to this sway over me, she’s oblivious.

“Do you remember a few nights ago, when I offered you a proposition?”

Her lips fal open and she blinks. “You said something about objectives. And recklessness. But you didn’t propose anything… specific.” She swal ows, staring down at the book in her hands.

“Hmm. Then I’l clarify.” I take the book, turn it face down on my bedside table. When I turn back, she’s wary. I remain on the edge of the bed, facing her. “If you want to
experiment
… use
me
, rather than some stranger at a bar who could chop you into manageable portions and bury you in a shal ow grave.”

Her eyebrows elevate. Final y she says, “Manageable portions?”

Our laughter mixes together, dying away when I take her hand. “Okay, though?”

She nods, her eyes sliding away. “Okay.”

“Good. Now let’s get you fed while I kil demons.” I slide off of the bed, handing her the book and picking up the plate on the way to the media room.

I’m going to kiss her before she leaves tonight, that’s a goddamned certainty. Enough of this playing around crap.

I’l send her home with visions of me as a widely lusted-after literary character, but instead of remaining safely ensconced in the pages of a book, I’l be solid and real and right
here
.

*** *** ***

Dori

The plate Reid hands me is loaded with odd gourmet versions of typical Thanksgiving fare, but it smel s good and I’m starving. Tel ing myself this is no time to be finicky, I sample a bite of something that looks vaguely potato-y.

“
Mmmm
.”

I realize I’ve said this out loud when Reid grins and says,

“I’m glad
someone
can enjoy that meal.” I finish that bite and decide to try the green beans and—

whatever that is—on top of them. “You didn’t enjoy it?” I ask, fol owed by another
Mmmm
.

Shaking his head, he perches on the edge of the sofa, elbows balanced on his knees as he points the control er and pushes buttons,
click-click
,
click-click
. Eyes never leaving the screen, he smiles again. “I’m enjoying listening to you eat more than I enjoyed eating.”

Uncertain how to take that, I attempt to muffle the appreciative sounds.

The gore-level on his game is high, but thankful y the volume is down low. Without the soggy-sounding death blows, the carnage is somehow less revolting. Or maybe, considering that I’m watching him play while I
eat
, I’m becoming inured to the violence. Weird. Even weirder, I sort of want to play, too, though I’m sure I’d be inept. Maybe I’l ask him to teach me next time.

Having been here half a dozen times over the last couple of weeks, I assume there’l be a next time. I refuse to think about the point where that wil no longer be true.

When I finish eating, I lean back into the sofa cushions and thumb through the novel. I read it multiple times just before I started high school. Like many of my friends, I had a crush on the male lead—sensitive and strong and yes, a bit brooding. I remember lunchroom disputes over which current star would be perfect for the role if it was a movie, laughing with fel ow bibliomaniacs when we ultimately concluded that any of them would put the boys in our school to shame. Now I’m friends with a guy who may star in the movie adaptation. Friends with Reid Alexander. Surreal.

movie adaptation. Friends with Reid Alexander. Surreal.

He pauses the game and tosses the control er aside. “I think there’s pie. Want some?”

I nod and start to get up, but he tel s me to stay. Soon after he leaves the room, I hear a noise at the doorway.

“Forget something?” I ask, turning to look over the back of the sofa, and standing in the doorway is a woman who must be Reid’s mother. She’s petite and beautiful and holding a drink in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I stand up and smile, hesitant. “Mrs. Alexander? I’m Dori.”

She doesn’t move from the doorway, so I walk towards her. Her blue silk blouse swishes as she straightens. She’s wearing black dress pants and heels. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, and her words are slurred. “Where did you say Reid is?”

I’d hoped he was exaggerating about the alcoholic mother. As I get closer I see that her eyes—the same dark blue as Reid’s—are bloodshot, so disguised by intoxication I almost can’t see the resemblance. Her skin appears sal ow, even with the indirect lighting. I’m too familiar with the indicators of chronic drinking to discount the symptoms. He wasn’t overstating.

“He’s getting pie.”

She frowns. “Oh.”

“Do you want to join us? I think we’re deciding between
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
and, um,
Goldfinger
.”

“Ah, Sean Connery. One of Reid’s favorites. Favorite Bond, anyway.”

“Real y?”

“Mmm-hmm. I’l just leave you two alone.” She tilts her head and a trace of a smile hovers around her mouth.

“You’re a friend of Reid’s, you said? A girlfriend?”

“I—I’m a
friend
.”

She nods, lays a hand on my arm. Her breath is sour—

whiskey, I’d bet—and again, I’m more familiar than I’d like to be. “You seem very sweet.” She leans closer, and I concentrate on breathing through my mouth as she says,

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s very sweet, too.” She turns and walks a meandering path down the hal way just as Reid tops the stairs with a plate of pie smothered in whipped cream, and two forks.

He scowls. “Was that my mom?”

“She stopped in to say hel o. I invited her to stay, but I think she was afraid of intruding. Either that or Sean Connery is not her favorite Bond guy.
My
mother prefers Roger Moore.”

He looks at me a long moment, then hands me the forks and uses his free hand to tug me close. “Feeling reckless yet?”

I nod once and he doesn’t wait for further affirmation, lowering his lips to mine. I forget the pie in his hand and the forks in mine as he opens my mouth with his. He kisses me once, twice, three times, pul ing back a hair’s breadth each time while reeling me closer and closer until I’m completely off-balance and curving into him. “I real y have to know,” he says, holding me securely, our mouths an inch apart, breath mingling, “how delicious you’l taste after you have a few bites of this pie.”

I giggle and he smirks, taking my hand and pul ing me down to the front where we sink onto the sofa. He feeds me a bite of pie before setting the plate and utensils aside on the ottoman. “I think you stabbed me,” he breathes against my neck before brushing my hair aside and kissing the base of my throat. The feel of his mouth on my skin triggers waves of need in my bel y that coil and spring like stretchy filaments of connection to every nerve ending I have.

“I’m—sorry?” I gasp, because his fingers are stroking the skin under my shirt, fanning out over my sides. He pul s me onto his lap as his lips move up my jawline, lighting an explosive pathway to my ear.

“Didn’t hurt. I barely noticed.” His voice is soft and near, a murmured caress. “My brain was occupied with more important things than minor flesh wounds.” And then his mouth is on mine, his tongue sweeping through my mouth.

“Mmmm,” he growls softly. “My God, Dori.” He doesn’t speak again, does nothing but kiss me—with occasional pie breaks, like marathoners downing cups of Gatorade for endurance—until it’s time for me to leave. I’ve never been so kiss-drunk; if he hadn’t pointed out the time, I wouldn’t have noticed it.

He pul s on a hooded jacket and a pair of Vans before walking me to my car. My lips are swol en and my skin is flushed head to toe. Like gravitational attraction, I can’t resist his pul when he’s within my reach. My teeth chatter as he presses me against my car, unzipping his jacket and folding it around us both, the hood up and shading the edges of our faces from the unobstructed moonlight overhead. “Cold?” he asks, and I shake my head. The shudders racing along my core have nothing to do with temperature. If anything, I’m burning. His mouth returns to mine and it’s no longer strange, no longer new. The feel of his heartbeat and the sinewy muscle layered over it is familiar under my hands, as is the manner in which he coaxes my responses forward, every nuanced turn and dip anticipated.

I drive home thinking
this is me in manageable
portions
.

Chapter 42

REID

“Man, you suck.” This is John’s professed assessment of me when I sink the last solid bal on our second round of pool. Translation: I don’t suck and he wishes I did, because I’ve already beat him once and am about to make it twice.

“So, since there’s a pool table between us,” he says,

“and I’m sorta sober—enough to dodge if I have to—I have a question.” Considering that the only time I’ve ever been physical y violent with John was over Dori, I assume he’s letting me know that she’s the subject of this proposed interrogation. He’s either a lot braver or a lot stupider than I thought.

“Right corner pocket.” As I lean to take the shot, he clears his throat and I scratch. At my glare, he throws both hands up as if he had nothing to do with it. Standing the butt of the cue stick on the floor and holding it like a staff, I say,

“So talk.”

After taking al day to line up, he pockets his last two bal s with one shot, and then sinks the eight bal . Bastard.

I rack the bal s for another round as he gulps down the last of his beer, which makes me more curious about what he’s got to say. “Your turn to break,” he says.

“Not until you start talking. And please tel me this has nothing to do with my love life.”

He sighs, chalking his stick, not looking particularly guarded but not getting any closer, either. “Wel I don’t know, you tel me—
is
it about your love life?” He air-quotes
love life
.

John real y is oblivious to how many times during our relationship I’ve wanted to punch him. This is one of them.

“Cryptic, John. What is this, a very special episode of
90210
?” I slam the cue bal into the rest and scatter them across the table.

“Fine. Just… don’t get al hands-on. It’s about that Dori chick.” He’s directly opposite of me stil , the wide expanse of table between us. Smart.

“What about her.”

Palms up, he says, “See, you’re doing it already, man.”

“What?”

“Looking like you’re gonna beat the shit out of me, that’s what. How am I supposed to be a bro and ask the hard shit if I’m afraid you’re gonna kil me for it?” He takes his shot and sinks the thirteen.

While he’s lining up another shot—remaining, conspicuously, on the other side of the table—I say, “Keep from talking about what I should
do
to her and you can ask whatever.” He sinks another stripe and quirks an eyebrow.

“Within
reason
,” I add.

“Okay. You’ve skipped out on a few parties lately. For like, the last several weeks. You get a text, you leave.” One shoulder lifts and fal s. “And?”

He eyes me. “Okay. The texts are from her?” I nod, leery of where he’s going with this, and he rol s his eyes. “Reid, I’ve known you since we were sixteen. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I think I’m pretty qualified to say—
what
the hell
, man? You’ve never—I mean
never
—gotten remotely pissed over anything I’ve said about a girl you’ve hooked up with. Not to mention going al caveman apeshit.” He misses his third shot and I line mine up.

I wonder if John’s jealous in some way. Not that I can ask him that—I’d never hear the end of it. “What’s your point?” I sink my shot, move around the table to sink another. He’s fixated on a couple of girls playing one table over, one of whom angles indecently over her table in the shortest shorts possible. Glancing over her shoulder, she’s making certain we’re watching.

I’ve pocketed another two bal s by the time he answers.

“Uh, my point is, are you
seeing
that
?” He tips his head at the two girls, who are openly appraising us and by the looks of things, about to come over.

I stand straight. “Yeah, John, I am a
guy
. I noticed. I just don’t care.” Every guy in the place noticed them the moment they walked in. Heads swiveled, bodies turned, mouths hung open. Your standard male reaction to females in tight, short, cleavage-baring clothes.

“See, that right there—what
is
that? You don’t
care
?

What does that even mean?”

“Hey.” Both girls saunter up right behind him.

“Hey, yourselves, ladies.” John’s standard hunter smile is in place. “What can we do for you?”

Short Shorts has an expression that matches John’s, but she’s aiming it at me. “You guys are pretty good. Thought we could get some pointers. We’re wil ing to buy the next round for your trouble.” They know who I am. Girls don’t buy the drinks, guys do. And in a pool hal ful of guys more than wil ing to do just that, they come to our table and offer to buy? I couldn’t be less interested.

“Sounds like a deal to me,” John says, giving me the please-don’t-screw-this-up-for-me face. Shit. He’s going to be
pissed
by the end of this night.

*** *** ***

Dori

“So you’re dropping out of col ege? Before you even start?” The shocked look on Nick’s face elicits a new heaviness in the pit of my stomach. “I haven’t decided yet. But I get spacey sometimes lately. I just… zone out. I can’t go to school at
Berkeley
and do that. I’d fail.” Nick reaches out before I know what he’s doing and places his hand over mine where it rests on the smal bistro table. “Dori, Deb wouldn’t want you giving up on your dreams because of what happened to her.” His hand is warm, covering mine completely. I stare at his square fingertips, the flat, short nails clipped evenly. So different from Reid’s tapered fingers—long, like a pianist, his hand stil big enough to dwarf mine.

“I know that.” I withdraw my hand to pick at non-existent fuzz on my sweatshirt, hoping the rebuff isn’t too conspicuous. As selfish as it is, I don’t want to lose Nick’s friendship—even if I no longer want anything other than that from him. He knows this, though it took him a little while to accept it. Staring at his hand, stil on the table between us, I try to explain. “I feel lost without her, and detached from those dreams. Maybe they weren’t ever real y mine.” He frowns, pul s his hand back to the steaming mug of green tea in front of him. “What do you dream of doing now, then?”

Reid’s image flashes across my mind like one of those ads with a subliminal message inserted—a single frame of a face inside a strip of film. What I dream of now is Reid; everything else is fil er. This realization should scare me to death, but it doesn’t. “Nothing,” I say. Before he can form another question, I ask him how he likes Madison, where he goes to school.

“Wel ,” he gives me a stern look, “everyone isn’t quite as fond of cheese as we’ve been led to believe.” One side of his mouth sneaks up.

“False advertising?” I ask, smiling back.

When he settled on Wisconsin as one of his top university choices last fal , he bewildered his parents—who are innately incapable of detecting sarcasm—by insisting that “an abundance of cheese” was one of his motives for wanting to attend. Nick’s parents don’t get his sense of humor. “Definitely.”

I sip my latte and smile. “Cheese aside, how’s col ege life?”

He considers for a moment. “Chal enging.”

“Ah, you must love it there,” I tease.

“Pretty much.” Dunking the teabag like he’s operating a marionette, he adds, “So what can I do to convince you to go to school, Dori?”

I heave a sigh. “Everything just feels pointless right now.” His serious brown eyes regard me closely. “Because of Deb.”

I nod. “I guess so. But it doesn’t feel like it’s
her
, or what happened to her, exactly. I feel more like… like I’m final y seeing everything for what it is, and nothing is what I thought.”

“Hmm,” he says.

We sit in our typical companionable silence for a few minutes, watching bag-laden Christmas shoppers scurry in and out of nearby stores. A few nights ago, Reid pul ed me into his house, tel ing me we were going Christmas shopping. “But—?” I said, fol owing him upstairs and into the media room.

He’d hooked his laptop to the screen, and while we ate dinner, I watched him give new meaning to the notion of online shopping. Armed with a list of people and addresses from his manager, he spent more money in a couple of hours than I could keep track of. When I wouldn’t let him buy me anything, he peered at me for a moment before pul ing me into his arms and asking, “So you only want me for my body?”

I bit my lip and nodded, and he growled and kissed me senseless. Once it got dark, Immaculada handed us senseless. Once it got dark, Immaculada handed us thermoses of hot chocolate and Luis drove us around to look at Christmas lights.

As though the thoughts in my head are transparent, Nick says, “If you don’t mind my asking—what’s the deal between you and Reid Alexander? I don’t fol ow Hol ywood gossip even when I’m in LA, but the whole country was speculating over the date—or whatever it was—you two had a couple of weeks ago. The one preserved for posterity on every website from
TMZ
to
People
. So I hear.” Before I left his house last night, Reid asked me to sing something, threatening to tickle me if I refused. When I told him I couldn’t sing without accompaniment—which he knows is a lie, he produced a guitar from his closet.

“Do you play?” I asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.

His mouth pul ed up on one side. “Not wel .”

“I could teach you.” I tuned the instrument, which was top-of-the-line, expensive. “I mean, you’ve taught me to massacre Nazi zombies. It’s the least I could do.”

“I’d like that,” he said, watching me.

He sat next to me while I strummed simple chords, singing “Fal en” by Sarah McLachlan. After, we lay on our sides, staring at each other. He ran a finger over my lips, down my throat. “You do have a beautiful voice, Dori.” I knew he was withholding something more, but I didn’t ask him to say it.

I pul out of the Reid reverie, shrugging at Nick. “We’re friends.” How can I explain to him, or to anyone, that without Deb, Reid is the only person in my life who sees me for who I am?

When it’s clear I’m not going to offer any more, Nick inclines his head and shifts his eyes to his mug. “Just, you know, proceed with caution. He’s not exactly in our league.” He bobs the teabag restlessly. “I don’t want you to get hurt.

You’re vulnerable right now.”

I know he’s right, and I’m sliding headlong into something that can’t end wel . Avoiding his gaze, I promise,

“I’l be careful,” and just like that, I’m official y lying to everyone I know. Everyone except Reid.