Love in the Time of Cynicism (2 page)

“Hey.” My voice is a squeak so I give it another go, this time more forcefully.

The boy peeks at me briefly then gradually drops the book to his lap. “What’s up?”

“Listen,” I sigh, “I’m only saying this because my manager is really anal and will fire me if I don’t, but you need to order something or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He shrugs as if completely uncaring about the whole affair. “I don’t have the money on me.”

I get the impression he doesn’t have spending money
anywhere
, much less in his pockets. Not wanting to get rid of the only mildly interesting person I’ve seen in years, I say quietly, “On the house.”

His brown eyes, precisely the color of sweet tea on a blistering afternoon, pop wide open and he smiles broadly in a way most guys our age wouldn’t be caught dead. Better not show any kindness or they might see beyond the overly-gelled exterior. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. I’m enjoying this. “Why not? What’ll you have, then?”

“Whatever’s your favorite.” The guy’s smile is ridiculously wide and not in the least bit flirtatious. Being a teenage girl surrounding by entitled douchewads, the friendliness without expected benefits is encouraging. I’ve only got one proper friend, but maybe I can find another outside the circle of rich country clubbers.

“Name for the cup?” Of course, I’m supposed to routinely ask this question, but I’m also an expert in subversive interrogation and question, by which I will get the mystery boy’s name.

He ponders this for a moment before saying, “Jay Garrick.”

“Nice try.” I smirk, happy to catch him. “Your real name, please.”

He returns my chuckle with one of his own, “How’d you know?”

“Jay Garrick? Name of the original Flash. I’m impressed.”

“As am I. Nobody around here appreciates classic nineteen forties comics, although I should’ve guessed you were different with the, ah, hair.” His eyes drift over me like he’s seeing me from head to toe for the first time.

I roll my eyes. “Name for the cup, and possibly an explanation for why you don’t want me to know your real one?”

“Rhett Tressler, and it was mainly a test to see if you have the right to wear that shirt.” The newly christened Rhett beams and gestures to my
Wolverine
tee. “Glad to see I was wrong about you.”

“You don’t even know my name, unfortunately for you.” It’s hard
not
to be flirtatious with him. It just bubbles out of me. Which is strange, considering I have the relational experience of a socially awkward baby koala (and am about as attractive to the opposite sex as one).

“I’ll figure it out. Give me five minutes.”

When I stand straight to make his caramel macchiato (that being my favorite drink), Rhett follows suit. He tucks the small book into the back pocket of his black jeans and trails directly behind me. As I go through the memorized steps behind the counter – steam milk, grind espresso beans, drizzle caramel – my perfect stepsister walks in with her conniving bunch of bitches. One of her very few pastimes, which include getting fake tans and bleaching her hair to death, is harassing me during my shifts. Here at Ebony’s is better than at Twin Rivers, but it’s still an undeniably gruesome situation.

I try not to look at Rhett, praying internally he’ll leave before Amanda and the Goons converge, while I hand over the caramel macchiato.

“Coffee girl?” Amanda’s BFF since, like, forever, Rachel Brannigan, sashays up to my work station and snaps her finger in my face. “I’ll have a…” She smirks, glances curiously at Rhett, then glares while reciting what I’d call her usual at this point. “Large one pump caramel, one pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice frappuccino with two shots poured over the top with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped. Thanks!”

“Aren’t you worried that’ll make you fat?” I pause for affect. “Actually, I guess it’s too late for that.”

“Better watch your mouth or I’ll complain to your manager.”

The rest of the clan come up and recite orders while I make loads of drinks, each of which takes more than five minutes and I have to remake them. My heart pounds as Rhett watches every minute, probably wondering how someone can be so incompetent at making coffee. But the girls press on without noticing him; they comment and jeer at everything from my complexion to the size of my thighs until every single order is done to completion.

Finally the charade reaches a crescendo when Amanda, with her sugar free, non fat, no foam crap, brings Rhett into it.

“Finally taking my advice and paying someone to go out with you, huh, Del?” She looks him over with sharp blue eyes. “He’s exactly your type, though; poor, dirty, clearly not from a good family. Mom would have a heart attack. Hope you bring him to tonight’s party so I can watch you crash and burn! Toodles, darling. See you this afternoon!”

Unlike me, Rhett fights back. Before she can leave, he calls out, “God, aren’t you a waste of two billion years of perfectly good evolution?”

My eyes practically burst out of my head right then. He’s so new to Lightfoot it’s painful; any social standing he could’ve cultivated will be dropped now that he’s insulted the queen bee.

Other than the second-hand embarrassment suddenly flooding my pale cheeks, I’m impressed by the speed and wit of the insult.

As Amanda returns to glare at me and Rhett, she declares, “I’ve never even
seen
you before, but you have an attitude I
don’t
like. Jesus, if you want to get anywhere around here, figure your shit out.”

“I don’t have an attitude, Barbie. Just a personality you don’t know how to handle.

I honestly don’t know how to jump in, so I simply let it happen. “Man, Del, your new boyfriend is a real charmer. Hope they don’t run out of stock so I can get my own.”

“I take quite a lot of pride in my unbounded charisma, thank you very much.”

Amanda employs a new tactic. “So you
are
Del’s boyfriend? You should be aware she’s not allowed to date guys like you.”

Rhett’s retort is sharp and instant. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Poor,” Amanda clarified with a haughty sneer. “We’re from a Twin Rivers family, kid. You wouldn’t fit in with Del’s friends or our family.”

“I’m sure as hell going to try,” he replies.

I’m shocked. This strange-looking and -acting guy I’ve barely known for ten minutes has not only come to my defense but pretended to be my boyfriend to shift Amanda’s vicious remarks toward him. If chivalry existed here, this is what it’d look like. Knight in shining armor seems obsolete after seeing one in a leather jacket.

Amanda smirks at me knowingly. “Can’t wait to see you and your
boyfriend
at Twin River’s tonight, dear sister.”

Rhett calls while she’s walking away, “Looking forward to it, Barbie!”

She leaves without another word and I whip around toward Rhett. To keep from yelling, I whisper harshly. “Are you serious right now? Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in if I bring you to my mother’s party?”

“No. Enlighten me, Del.” His smile at learning my name is so wide and satisfied, it’s nearly enough to quell my anger at him.

Nearly. “First off, don’t
ever
call me Del. My name’s Cordelia, but my entire family has decided the name given to me at birth is too girly for someone like me. Second, my mom will
flip
; if she hates me now for being too weird and not enough like Amanda, she’ll murder me for bringing anyone besides the country club elitists to one of her parties.”

Trying to battle back obvious pain, he flashes a sarcastic smile and jokes, “I hadn’t pegged you as the type to care about how little money I have,
Cordelia
.”

“It’s not that. My stepdad’s friends are dicks, anyway, but-”

“I’ll wear a suit. Comb my hair. The whole nine yards.” Before I can argue, convince him that my mother and the socialites will rip him to shreds on sight, Rhett goes on, “If you want, we could stage a big dramatic fight to get you out of this boyfriend lie. What time is your mom’s party?”

I think it over. Having him there might be fun, and especially so if I get in trouble. Maybe he’ll give me the momentum needed for mom to stop trying to raise me. Maybe I can make her give up. Suddenly, Rhett seems less like a knight and more like a pawn. I concede with a hidden grin, “Party’s at eight.”

“Want me to pick you up at your place? Like it’s a proper date?”

“As close to eight as possible. I only live a minute or two from Twin Rivers.” I scribble my address on a napkin and hand it over. “Now I’ve got work to do, if you’re done interrupting my life.”

But he doesn’t move. Even when I’m back behind the counter filling the orders of the three or four customers I’ve kept waiting, Rhett stands against the bar reading that book. I’ve gotten a glimpse of the title by now –
A Collection of Sylvia Plath
– and start to wonder whether he’s reading it for school or pleasure. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past him. He could easily be the type of guy who’s spectacularly invested in good grades or the type who reads depressing poetry for fun. Yet another area of intrigue. I’m not one for poetry, never have been, and especially not the works of Ms. Plath.

While I ponder Rhett’s unlikely existence as he mulls over the pages of his book (very intensely, might I add), my shift passes faster than it ever has and soon enough Trent’s honking for me outside.

Before I can make it out the door or even hang my apron on the hook, Rhett runs up to me and practically shouts my name. Feeling the eyes of customers on my back, I contemplate walking out and acting as though I hadn’t heard and quickly decide that’s my best plan.

“Who, being loved, is poor?” That makes me turn around. The question in my eyes is enough to make him elaborate. “Oscar Wilde said that. Your sister-”

“Step-sister,” I correct automatically.

“Whatever. She seems to believe the most important thing about me is how much money I have, but that’s bullshit and I think you know it, too. People like her – who don’t have the ability to love deeply and without boundaries – are a whole lot poorer than I’ll ever be.”

Unable to respond intelligently to a statement so out-there, I pull out some of my trademarked crap and ask as flirtatiously as I can manage in a public setting, “Are saying you’re in love with me?”

He’s oozing with that almost romantic quality in his voice, a smirk plastered across his face as he answers, “I’ll see you tonight, Cordelia Kane.”

My name on his full and foreign lips sounds nice, new, fresh. When my mom say’s it, the name is a shriveled up curse and when Michael says it, the sound is nothing more than a burden on his tongue.

This is…a good change. Maybe it’ll get better.

“See you.”

Chapter Two – A Night to Forget

“Alright, slut, it’s time to fess up.” I’m with my best – and, I guess, only – friend, Sky (whose full name is Skylar Arabella Waverly), sitting on my over-sized, over-stuffed leather couch, and she’s interrogating me about Rhett. My fault for mentioning that I had a date to tonight’s shindig, I suppose.

“You know, generally speaking, ‘slut’ really isn’t a term of endearment,” I say even though she insults me every time we speak. It’s part of her badass persona, which she’s very proud of.

“Fine, bitch. Tell me who you’re boy toy is or I will mess you up.”

There’s something very laughable about a barely five foot girl with debutant blond curls threatening to beat up someone eight inches taller. One of her many charms, besides being the only country club child worth hanging around.

“He was loitering around the coffee shop today reading poetry.”

“Sounds hot.” She listens intently as if I’m reciting the most interesting story ever told. Sky’s always been, to put it delicately, crazy about guys. Even when she was going through her rebellious phase: thirteen, going by Saw, with a shaved head. That was about the era I started questioning our friendship. But our moms were best friends, which sort of forced me into spending a ton of time with her as a kid. Otherwise there’s no way in hell we would’ve ended up so close.

I laugh, “I assure you, he is. His name’s Rhett.”

“Rhett Tressler?!”
When I nod, her perfectly round blue eyes go China-doll wide. Her words mash together in practically unintelligible streaks. “Oh my god I cannot believe you, you whore.” Sky gives me a small shove. “You
do
realize, of course, that your mom will murder you the second you’re outside of Twin Rivers. Not to mention Michael. I’ll speak at your funeral, if you want.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the moral support. Pissing off my mom and Michael is sort of the point.”

“My little rebel! I’m rubbing off on you.” Sky gives me a proud mama glance and then her eyes take on that all-too-familiar mischievous glint. As she stands, he voice is devilishly pleased. “If you really want to make your mom and stepdad mad, come with me.”

Trepidation sparks in my chest. Sky’s been known for being an expert at subtly torturing her parents. Before her newest blonde hair and perfect makeup phase kicked in a few months back, she was into coming home with new piercings and new haircuts and colors and anything that would get a reaction out of her hyper-conservative mother. I understand now, of course, how thrilling the look of sheer terror on a parent’s face is when they see your newest tattoo. (I haven’t yet gone that far, though I think Sky’s up to her third).