Good for You (7 page)

Chapter 13

REID

I was wondering when an uninvited film crew was going to show up. I’m actual y surprised it took them this long.

Paparazzi, as careless as they appear, know better than to trespass on personal property. But the Habitat property is tiny, and telescopic lenses are standard for these guys.

Camped out in adjacent yards, the shrewd ones undoubtedly paid the neighbors off to get closer. This is the sort of thing George would term “free positive PR”—an occurrence that I, apparently, can’t get too much of. The only hitch is the fact that I have to be here the rest of this week plus two more; this situation could morph into insanity central if it isn’t managed.

Stripping the heavy work gloves off as I go, I wander inside to find Roberta. She’s talking to the general contractor about what grade of insulation to use in the attic.

I could fal asleep from extreme disinterest any minute.

Luckily, they finish up in a minute or so and she turns to me warily. “Yes, um, Reid?”

“I just wanted to let you know that there are photogs out there—paparazzi—not
on
the property, but as close as they there—paparazzi—not
on
the property, but as close as they can legal y get. With me outside, it’s gonna be a zoo.

Thought I should warn you.”

“Oh.” She’s immediately flustered; obviously this is something new for her. She moves to a rear window.

“They’re out there now?”

“Yeah.”

Peering out, she narrows her eyes, scanning, and then gasps softly. “What in the world? There’s someone balancing on top of a swing set… and on the
roof
next door!”

I shrug.

“What should we do? I guess I should have considered this probability…”

“They’re not going anywhere, now that they know where I am. I already cal ed my manager. He’s sending bodyguards to make sure they keep their distance from me, and he’s alerting the police to make sure they respect property boundaries.”

“The police? Oh, dear.”

Roberta continues to stare at the guy on the roof next door while I push off from the counter and head back outside, pul ing the work gloves on. Frank says we’re demolishing an old fence at the back of the property—so termite-ridden that one good kick could turn it into a cloud of splinters. Painting wal s was tedious. Tearing shit down?

Not.

Predictably, the photogs wake up when I exit the back door. Some of them try cal ing to me, like I’m walking the red carpet or something, which pisses me off.

I’m
working
. Can’t they see that?

*** *** ***

Dori

As I fel asleep last night, I considered tel ing Roberta to finish this job without me. I miss my VBS kids and their joyful, artless voices practicing the choral arrangements. I miss singing along with them. I miss babysitting people who are immature because they’re
five
, not because they’re arrogant buttheads. Most of al , I miss being unacquainted with Reid Alexander.

Just when I think to myself
what next
, it turns out I shouldn’t have wondered. Of
course
the paparazzi would show up. There’s an A-list celebrity on the premises.

Pressed against the living room wal like a ninja assassin, I peek out the window. Reid continues to work, paying no attention to the photographers, who are simply
everywhere
. They remind me of a nature special about army ants that I watched in a state of unmoving horror when I was six. Devouring everything in their col ective path, ants swarmed across the landscape in a bold undulating line of black. I couldn’t sleep for a week, until Deb convinced me that African army ants weren’t general y known to raid urban California.

Exhausted after a night of tossing and turning, I consider whether or not I’m hungry enough to risk appearing in even the outer fringes of those photos. This is ridiculous. Several hours stand between me and my next meal. I shouldn’t feel the need to skulk around inside because of some sil y photographers. Besides, they aren’t interested in
me
.

The Plan: go out, grab something to eat, dash back inside.

Minutes later, I’m skirting the crowd with a bowl of fruit and an iced tea when one of our corporate volunteers veers directly towards me, ogling the photographers gathered on the neighbor’s roof. Realizing too late that she doesn’t see me, I scoot as close to the patio edge as possible. As she passes, our sleeves grazing, I exhale in relief. And then she whips around and accidental y elbows me right off the patio’s four-foot no-railing-instal ed-yet drop.

Everything is slow-motion. Eyes widening, mouth rounding into a shocked “O,” she grabs for me as I lurch over the edge, backwards. She catches nothing but air, and neither do I. The bowl flies up, chunks of fruit tossed in every direction. The tea levitates from the cup in an arc above me. And though I know I’ve generated a squeak of surprise, I can’t hear anything—it’s as though the world has been muted.

If you’ve never fal en and been caught by someone before, I am here to tel you that the landing is not as smooth and effortless as Hol ywood portrays it to be. In reality, parts land where they land, and though hitting a human body is probably less painful than hitting the ground, it’s not like landing on a sofa or a trampoline or anything that
gives
.

My limbs stil flailing uselessly, my head slams against a shoulder and I knee myself in the chin as the body I’ve tumbled onto goes down under me. “Oof,” he says as he hits the ground, my elbow jabbing into his abdomen as he absorbs my entire body weight.

I don’t have to see his face—I know the voice—but I can’t help looking. With a yard ful of people looking on, plus several yards ful of photographers, I’m lying halfway on top of Reid, who is sprawled on the ground, holding me tightly, blinking as the blue sky rains fruit on top of us.

Camera shutters whir and snap in the distance. And to think, I feared being in the peripheral background of a photo taken of him.

I scramble to rol off of him, and he releases me slowly enough that I’m pul ing against his hold for a couple of seconds, until he realizes we’re not actual y fal ing anymore.

My iced tea has splashed a swath across both of our white t-shirts, and pieces of pineapple, cantaloupe and various berries tumble from our clothes and hair as we move to sit upright.

People who a moment ago were al frozen, agog, are rushing towards us, asking if we’re okay, helping us to our feet.

Mortified, I stare down at my soggy, fruit laden outfit. My legs are wet, too—rivulets of iced tea dripping from my shorts and snaking down the bare skin. I can’t look directly at Reid. “I’m so sorry,” I say in his general direction before mumbling, “I need to go clean up,” in answer to offers of assistance from half a dozen people.

Grabbing a stack of napkins, I walk inside, fighting the urge to run. The bathroom plumbing has been hooked up, thank God, though mirrors haven’t been hung yet. After mopping the tea from my legs, I press a damp napkin into the shirt where the tea has stained it, though it’s a hopeless gesture. Running my fingers over my head, I pluck out bits of fruit, struggling not to picture what might get into the gossip rags or, oh gol y, on the
Internet
tomorrow:
Unbalanced Fan Tackles Heartthrob, see page 2
.

Clumsy Girl falls for Reid Alexander—Click Here for
Photos!

Good grief.

“You missed some cantaloupe.” Reid stops me from turning, one hand on my shoulder, his fingers in my hair, plucking a thin slice of orange melon from my ponytail. “It could be worse, you know.”

“Oh?” I’m sure he’s correct, but at the moment, I can’t imagine how.

“Sure. Spaghetti and meatbal s would be worse.

Chocolate milk. Sangria. That stuff stains anything, trust me.” He dislodges a blueberry from my shoulder and it lands in the sink, rol ing, leaving a purple trail. I make a mental note to get some bleach-containing cleaner from Roberta to scour the sink so it won’t discolor the white porcelain.

Picturing myself covered in spaghetti, I turn and face him without even a hint of a smile. “We don’t usual y serve pasta. Or sangria.”

“I guess you’re safe from tomato sauce and red wine stains then.” His expression is serious, but his eyes dance.

“Yes.”

“Hey, make sure I don’t have any stray fruit in my hair, wil you?” He angles the top of his head towards me. “I ran my hands over it, but I think I missed some.”

“I don’t see anything… oh, wait. There are a few strawberry bits.” I try to remove the squishy stuff without actual y touching his head, which proves impossible.

Raspberry seeds are tangled along a strand a few inches over, and I give up and comb my fingers across his scalp, checking for concealed fruit.

“Mmm,” he says, as though he likes my hands in his hair, which is softer than I would have imagined. The bathroom suddenly feels very smal .

I drop the berries and seeds next to the one he flicked into the sink. “I don’t see any more...”

He lifts his head, his eyes stil playful, and I have no idea what he’s doing until he does it. At first I think he’s spied another piece of fruit in my hair, so I don’t react right away when he lifts his hand. The wal is only a foot or so behind me, and it takes little effort for him to push me to it, one hand cradling the back of my head and the other skimming my hip as he leans down. Something in my brain sparks awake and I jerk my face to the side as his mouth grazes the outer edge of my jaw. My hands come up to his chest and shove him. “Reid,
no
.”

He backs up immediately, hands up and out. Smirking, one corner of his mouth turns up and he shrugs. “Sorry.

Won’t happen again. Just, you know, curious.”

“About
what?
” My voice is somehow steady, when I’m anything but. He almost kissed me.
He almost kissed me
.

He shrugs a second time, which makes me want to punch him. He’s so
whatever
. “I didn’t mean anything.

Seriously. Won’t happen again.”

There’s no responsibility to accept, because everything just
happens
around him, as though he’s at the eye of a storm he has nothing to do with causing or sustaining. I shove past him, my heart hammering. He barely touched me, and he stopped the second I protested. He said it wouldn’t happen again. Twice, in fact.

People glance up as I pass, ask if I’m okay, and I fix a fake smile on my face, tel them I’m fine, even while I feel like I might hyperventilate.
Why
? Because he’s a rich celebrity? Hardly. Because he’s beautiful? Because of his casual arrogance—that intangible thing he exudes that some women find so irresistible? No, and
no
.

Okay. Then
why
?

Because everything I wanted to feel when Nick kissed me last Friday, I felt in the near-miss that just occurred.

Chapter 14

REID

Shit. Wel ,
that
was stupid.

On the other hand, what the hel ? I haven’t been shoved away that decidedly in a while. If ever. I’m getting, like, Stockholm syndrome or something, and Dorcas is my jailer. That’s why I tried to kiss her, obviously. I need out of this situation as soon as possible.

Maybe I should have let her hit the ground, but when I saw that woman knock her off the patio, I just reacted. It wasn’t the most graceful fal or the most adept catch in the history of accidental dismounts. The consequences: my shoulder is bruised and one elbow is scraped raw, my abdominal muscles narrowly managed to withstand rupture, and I discovered—inadvertently, I swear—that Dorcas Cantrel is concealing some noteworthy curves under her col ection of enormous, altruistic t-shirts.

Once I’m in the car, I cal George—again. “Reid?” He’s surprised to hear from me within hours of the previous cal .

“Yeah, just an FYI on some photos that are probably being uploaded as we speak—a girl at the house sorta fel off the patio, and I sorta caught her.”

off the patio, and I sorta caught her.”

“
Fell
off the patio?”

“Someone ran into her. Knocked her right off.”

“Jesus.”

“No, some inattentive middle-aged woman.”

He ignores my quip. “So this girl you sorta caught—

she’s not underage, married, an il egal alien, a meth dealer…?”

I laugh. “Eighteen, single, and straight as the road to hel .”

“Um-hmm. Anything else I should know?” He hangs the question out there as he always does, no leading statements, no fishing for details. One of the many things I love about George. I trust him more than pretty much anyone and he knows it. He knows, too, that I’l be up front with him, even if I seldom fol ow his good advice.

“Nothing anyone would be privy to. She’s not interested in me, man.”

Outside the car window, East LA flies by, everything worn out, decrepit—the buildings, the sidewalks, even some of the light poles leaning—weary of the dismal setting. A guy with massive tattooed biceps steers his wheelchair around a fire hydrant that might or might not work if needed to put out a fire. Inches from the curb, he whips around the hydrant like it’s part of some serpentine course for wheelchair racing. If he misses a hairpin turn, he’l be in the street and run over. Extreme sports, disability-style.

“Oh?”

I’m flattered by George’s disbelief. “Yeah, she’s a genuine do-gooder.”

“Ah, I heard we had one of those in LA.” George is a funny guy. “I guess it would be too much to ask that you leave her as you found her.”

Minutes ago I was impatient to be finished with this Habitat gig—and Dori. Tel ing myself that this too shal pass. George’s al usion to the end of my association with Dorcas Cantrel , or rather my reaction to his al usion, tel s me I wasn’t ful y connecting those two things. I’m surprised to find that I’m not ready for this to be over.

George sighs. “Oh wel , the suggestion was worth a shot.”

I tel him what I always tel him—and it’s the truth, for what it’s worth. “Thanks for the advice, man. I’l consider it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

*** *** ***

Dori

I’m. Such. A.
Chicken
.

I woke up at 3 a.m. last night, dreaming about him. In the dream, I didn’t turn my head away. His mouth landed on mine rather than grazing my jaw. My hands pul ed him closer rather than pushing him away. And instead of backing away with a mocking grin, he moved closer, pressing me to the wal in a kiss that went on and on until I woke with a start, breathless.

Esther raised her head from the end of my bed as I sat up, her ears lifting in a canine question and her head angling when I pounded the bed with one fist and whispered, “Son. Of. A.
Biscuit
.” I touched my lips, half expecting them to be swol en because they were tingling, and then threw the covers off and stomped to the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. Esther jumped down and fol owed out of either curiosity or solidarity.

I cal ed Roberta early this morning and told her they needed me at VBS and I couldn’t report for Habitat duty the rest of the week. It wasn’t exactly a lie. It wasn’t exactly the truth, either, so I find myself clinging to the uncomfortable gray zone in the center. She was great—al
no problem
and
of course those kids miss you
, and I felt ashamed until I thought about Reid and that almost-kiss. I need a break from this temptation, because that’s al it is for me.

Temptation. For him, it’s nothing more than gaining the upper hand, and I’m not about to let him do it.

I’m supervising pool time and thinking about what we have left to do at the Diego house when I catch myself daydreaming about him again, as though al thought patterns eventual y lead to Reid. The earthy smel of him in that enclosed space. The contradiction of him shoving me to the wal with one firm hand while cradling the back of my head with the other. The deep blue of his eyes right before he dipped his head closer. Right before I pushed him away.

With effort, I force my thoughts to the kids and their impending performance, Deb and the chal enges of residency, my col ege checklist, Nick. Dad’s waterproof watch on my wrist wil beep when it’s time to go inside. If I could get it to zap me when my thoughts wander to Reid, I’d be golden.

Forcing him from my mind isn’t working so wel . I think I need an exorcism.

When I’m finished for the day, I scrol through my texts. A couple are from Aimee and Kayla, friends from school I’ve only seen twice since graduation. The two of them have been BFFs since junior high. They al owed me within the circle of their friendship during the first month of tenth grade. I’ve never been as close to either of them as they are to each other, but that’s okay. Neither of them have a sister like Deb.

Aimee: so when were you gonna tel us about REID

ALEXANDER???

Kayla: Srsly, there are pics al over the internet of you two at that habitat place and you are ful frontal ON TOP OF HIM

I cal Aimee, knowing there’s a ninety-nine percent chance she’s with Kayla after their coordinated texts. At school, everyone cal ed them the twins because they did
everything
together. They took the same classes, joined the same groups, dated boys who were friends—or brothers. In a few weeks, they’re starting at UCLA.

Rooming together, of course.

“Dori!” Kayla answers Aimee’s phone. “Are you
friends
with Reid Alexander? Are you
more
than friends?

Ohmigod, the parties we could get into… you
will
take me and Aimee,
right
?”

“We aren’t actual y friends, and we’re certainly not more than friends.”

“But that picture! You’re stretched across him like he’s
wearing
you!”

Ugh, I can’t believe she just said that. Can the photos be
that
bad?

The phone jostles and Aimee’s hyper no-punctuation voice takes over. “Dori I know you don’t real y trust guys and Reid Alexander is the last guy on the planet to trust but honestly this is not a trust or not trust sort of moment this is a once in a lifetime sort of moment!”

I don’t trust guys? What?

I sigh, knowing they would strangle me with their bare, perfectly manicured hands if they knew what happened in private a few minutes
after
I landed on top of Reid yesterday. “You guys know how the press manipulates things to look a certain way…”

“Dori need I repeat myself you were
on top of him!

Unless you are suggesting
superb
photoshopping that was not press manipulation.”

Wow. This is not good. “I fel . He caught me. That’s al that happened.”

She sighs, as though I’ve just confirmed a passionate affair. “That’s what the stories are saying—that you tripped off the edge of the patio—freaking
brilliant
by the way! And then he caught you. So romantic…”

My head stil feels bruised, my knee is abraded, and I’m pretty sure I got felt up when we were going down, even if Reid wasn’t aware of doing it… not exactly my idea of romantic.

“Dori.” Kayla has taken the phone back. “You honestly aren’t friends with him?”

“No, I’m real y not.”

“Wel , crap.” I hear Aimee saying something in the background, and then Kayla’s voice returns. “Could you
make
friends with him?”

I can’t help laughing. Aimee and I grew up with Hol ywood down the street, and Kayla moved here when she was a kid. We should al be a little less easily starstruck. “I’m not even going to be there again until next week, and I leave for Ecuador the week after that. Besides, he’s a bigheaded celebrity. He’s not interested in ordinary girls.”

“Hmph.” Her tone is sul en. “I guess we’l just have to look forward to regular col ege boys, then.”

This is particularly funny, considering the fact that I’ve listened to the two of them wax poetic about col ege guys for the past three years solid.