Love the One You're With (3 page)

“We probably won’t even see them once we get there, right?” Avery pointed out. “Anyway, it’s nice that they want us to invite
friends. You should bring Rhys,” she suggested, changing the subject.

In the most subtle of ways.

“I guess so. Look, I think I’m going to skip the ‘family’ dinner and head over to Hugh’s. He’s having some people over.” Owen
went into the bathroom and closed the door. The triplet meeting was clearly over.

“Fine!” Baby said in a singsongy voice, not wanting to indulge Owen’s pouty mood.

“Fine,” Avery echoed. Owen was being seriously immature, but if he was going to hang out with the swim team guys, he’d have
the perfect opportunity to invite Rhys on vacation. Avery could picture herself on a beach, in her Milly bikini, the salty
air blowing through her hair as a bare-chested Rhys offered her a daiquiri with a dainty straw. “Fine,” she said again, but
it was better than fine. It was
perfect.

Here’s hoping Mr. Manners doesn’t have plans of his own.

Remington looked up from the green beans he was sautéing. “Baby, I hope you don’t mind, but I took a look at some of your
photographs.”

Baby glanced up from her cell, where she’d just texted Sydney with an invite to the Bahamas. Next to Remington was the digital
camera Baby had left on the table, filled with shots she had taken this weekend, for
Rancor
, the school’s art magazine. It was run by her best friend, Sydney Miller, a multi-pierced and tattooed girl who described
her sexuality as “flexual.” Baby had always been sort of interested in photography, but had only been taking pictures with
an artistic sensibility for the past couple of months.

“I like to look at art while I’m cooking. It inspires me,” Remington added. Weird banjo music filled the room, and he was
shuffling from one earth-friendly woven hemp moccasin to the other.

“Oh,” Baby replied uncertainly as she retrieved the camera.

“I couldn’t help myself. You’ve got an amazing sense of perspective. Just like your mom,” Remington said thoughtfully, as
he passed Baby a clove of garlic. “Mind chopping that?”

“Sure.” Baby took a knife and began slicing the white clove into teeny-tiny squares. Even though she’d just made a mental
note to hide everything in the apartment from now on, Remington was nice, and actually pretty cool, as old men went. And Baby
was just happy her mom was happy.

“You know, Baby, my daughter, Layla, is just a few years older than you. She’s a sophomore at Oberlin. Smarter than me, that’s
for sure. A straight-A philosophy and math double major. I think you and she will really get along,” Remington mused proudly.
He peered over her shoulder. “Good chopping!”

Baby smiled, pleased with the compliment. Just then, her cell beeped with a reply from Sydney.

You elitist bitch! Sorry but I have to spend Thanksgiving in Bedford with the senile grandma, so she can be disappointed in
me before she dies. Thinking of what else I can pierce/tattoo before then. Have fun for me. I won’t.

Baby smiled at her friend’s allover randomness. Knowing Sydney, she probably
would
get a tattoo before Thanksgiving. She already had a star on her arm and a fish on her ankle.

Maybe she could consolidate and get a starfish on her ass.

“Your friend coming?” Remington asked, not even turning around. It was weird how he seemed to notice
everything.

“No,” Baby mumbled, her excitement dwindling. Without Sydney, she was staring down a string of days hanging out alone. After
all, Avery would be with Jack, trying on sundresses and drinking mojitos and whatever the hell else their newfound best friendship
was based on, while Owen and Rhys would swim and run and parasail together.
But,
Baby thought,
it’s the beach!
Even if she just sat on the sand alone with a book, she’d be happy.

The doorbell rang, interrupting Baby’s thoughts. “I’ll get it,” she announced. Remington smiled gratefully, his hands covered
with the gooey orange innards of the squash.

Baby ran to the front entranceway, swung open the door, and found herself face-to-face with a petite girl with crazy blond
curls piled under an enormous purple wool knit hat. She wore an oversize gray American Apparel dress, black leggings, and
a huge, furry brown sweater instead of a coat. She was carrying a large black guitar case covered with stickers from old-school
girl bands like Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney and Le Tigre. She looked cool and like she didn’t give a fuck.

“Hello?” Baby asked suspiciously. Was this really Remington’s daughter? She didn’t look like a math-and-whatever double major
at all. In fact, she looked a little bit like a girlier version of Sydney.

Ask and you shall receive….

“You must be Baby. Or are you Avery?” the girl asked in a lilting voice. She dropped her duffel on the floor, then pulled
off her hat and shook her blondish-brown hair out of her face. “I know it’s so weird, but I feel like we need to hug. I’m
Layla Wallis,” she said as she pulled Baby into an embrace. Layla smelled sort of like patchouli, and they were exactly the
same height of five foot zero.

“Yeah, I’m Baby. Nice to meet you. My sister’s… somewhere.” Baby shrugged. She pointed curiously to the guitar. “You play?”

“Yeah, my boyfriend and I are in a band together. Do you?” Layla asked, an eager grin spreading across her face. Baby shook
her head. Maybe she could learn, though. She wondered idly if Layla might be able to teach her.

“Layla!” Remington strode across the room, easily picking up his daughter and swinging her around.

“Is she here?” Edie’s voice carried from her studio. “Layla, darling, you’re more stunning in person than in pictures!” Edie
cooed as she walked into the foyer. There was a smudge of green paint on her high forehead.

“So, how’s the math going?” Remington asked jovially, setting Layla down.

“Daaad,” Layla rolled her eyes, mock annoyed. “You
know
I’m not majoring in math. I changed to gender studies. Women’s studies was too limiting,” she explained to Baby. “Besides,
I figured, why not get as useless a degree as possible to annoy my father?” Layla shrugged and looked over at Baby, as if
they were sharing an inside joke. Baby smiled back, just glad to be included. Owen and Avery were still in their rooms, probably
calling Rhys and Jack and planning their fun buddy-trip at this very second. But suddenly it seemed like Baby might have a
buddy of her own.

“Anyway, Edie, thank you so much for having me. My father told me you were an artist; I’d love to see your work,” Layla said
sincerely. Edie positively beamed.

“So, tell me honestly.” Layla whispered conspiratorially as she and Baby trailed their parents toward the kitchen. “What do
you think of my dad?” An impish smile formed on her face.

“He seems cool.” Baby shrugged. Really, she was thinking
Layla
seemed cool. Sydney not being able to come no longer seemed like such a big deal.

“Even though he dresses like an eco-yuppie, he’s really great. If you could help me with the clothes, it’d be amazing.” Layla
companionably linked arms with Baby’s. “I just know we’re going to have so much fun!”

Baby nodded and smiled. She and Layla already had the same taste in clothes and in music, and they shared a set of crazy-in-love
parents. Add to that staying in the same room, and she knew that by the end of this trip, they’d be sharing secrets—they’d
be sharing everything.

And she means
everything
.

“Fuck!” Owen exclaimed as the doorman opened the door and he stepped out into a downpour. He hadn’t bothered to bring an umbrella,
and it wasn’t like he wanted to go back upstairs to get one. He huddled under the green awning, hoping that a cab would pass
by, but Fifth Avenue was practically silent. The chance of getting a cab was about as good as him having a super time during
the upcoming family bonding vacation. Hopefully, Rhys would be able to come and they could just hang out as far away as possible—like,
preferably another island away—from Remington.

Owen balled his hands in his pockets and began to walk north, toward Hugh Moore’s house. Hugh was a teammate from the St.
Jude’s swim team and had decided to throw an impromptu party when Coach announced they had tomorrow off. Owen had planned
on checking out the scene at Hugh’s after dinner, but once Remington announced his plan, he’d lost his appetite. It wasn’t
like Remington was a bad guy. If he were the dad of one of his buddies, he’d be pretty cool. But everything just seemed a
little
sudden
. After years of never dating, his mom was practically married to this guy.

He reached Hugh’s town house on Eightieth and Park. The limestone steps were flanked by two large lion sculptures. Owen patted
one on the head as he jogged up the steps, and rang the bell.

“Hello, sir!” Hugh flung open both of the large black oak double doors. He wore a velvet jacket belted loosely around his
frame, possibly in an attempt to look like Hugh Hefner. Hugh sometimes bragged that the
Playboy
founder was his namesake.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” Hugh noted, shaking his head. Hugh was a muscle-y blond junior whose home was the de facto St. Jude’s
swim team party house, since his parents were practically always traveling in Europe. He ushered Owen down a large mirror-paneled
hallway. “I’m trying to change up this gathering a little. Maybe give some of our guys something to do this weekend. Just
follow my lead.”

“Sounds good, man.” Owen was glad to have something to think about besides his mom’s love life. “What’s the master plan this
time?”

“Basically, our pansy teammates aren’t getting action. And it’s like, sometimes you have to bring the fucking mountain to
them,” Hugh said cryptically as he flung open the glass-framed French doors to a large formal living room. Kids were lounging
in the leather wingback chairs and stiff leather couches, Riedel highball glasses in hand. A projector screen flashed some
weird movie against the wall, the images distorting the large Manet painting hanging over the fireplace.

“Look who’s here!” Hugh called to the motley group. He held out his own glass in a mock toast. Owen glanced around. Amongst
the usual crew of varsity and JV swimmers were a couple of random girls he’d never seen before. “Ladies, for those of you
who don’t know, this is Owen Carlyle. Owen, this is Sabine, Salome, Sabrina, and Simone. These lovely ladies agreed to come
to our French film-fest. They’re all in Le Cinéma Français Society at L’École. It’s sort of like a cultural exchange program,
with alcohol and nudity.” Hugh leered up at the wall. The image was grainy, but the characters on-screen were definitely naked.

“Right now, we’re watching Bertolucci.
Last Tango in Paris.
A masterpiece,” he explained to Owen.

Owen nodded. So that was Hugh’s plan: to act like an artsy, sensitive, foreign film–loving guy when he really just wanted
an excuse to screen a pseudo-porn movie in mixed company. And with girls from L’École, nonetheless—the girls from the all-female
French school had a reputation for being, ahem, looser than their American counterparts. They certainly seemed to develop
faster.

“Hey.” Owen flashed a smile at the four girls. Each of them smiled back.

Parlez-vous français?

“Here’s a seat,” said one, practically shoving puppyish freshman Chadwick Jenkins off the couch and onto the floor. Chadwick
didn’t even notice. His eyes were still glued to the screen, where the characters were engaged in some extremely explicit
foreplay involving a stick of butter.

“I’m cool, but thanks.” Owen scanned the room for Rhys, brushing past another one of the girls Hugh had introduced. She had
dyed black hair, a nose ring, and a belly ring Owen could see through her off-white off-the-shoulder T-shirt. What was her
name again? It began with an S….

Skanké?

“Hey man!” Rhys called from a corner, standing up hurriedly. His blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt was unbuttoned, and his dark
brown hair was mussed.

“Dude, did you see that girl I was sitting with? She’s crazy,” he hissed, pulling Owen into the large, country-modern kitchen.
“She’s not wearing a bra or underwear. She told me that. Then she showed me. She
showed
me. Is that what girls do now?” Rhys shuddered.

Owen grinned at his uptight buddy. He sounded like his mom, the society hostess of the television show
Tea with Lady Sterling.
It was a talk show about manners in contemporary society, shown in the afternoon and rerun on the screens in the backseats
of cabs. For some reason, Avery was obsessed with the show.

“Dude, just grow one,” Owen said, not unkindly. “She’s not going to bite.”

“Oh, she does bite.” Rhys rubbed the side of his neck, and Owen could just make out two sets of faint reddish toothmarks.
“Seriously, these girls are fucking dangerous,” Rhys finished, shaking his head.

“I need a beer,” Owen announced. “You need, like, ten,” he added, laughing at Rhys’s shell-shocked expression.

“You’re telling me!” Rhys pulled open the door of one of the two matching Sub-Zero refrigerators that flanked the rear wall
of the kitchen. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, opening the bottle. “First I was attacked by a French vampire girl, and tomorrow
I have to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to go to England.”

He sat down on one of the stainless steel stools surrounding the marble island in the center of the kitchen. “Just for once,
I’d like to do a real Thanksgiving, you know? Instead I have to go to my awful cousins’ awful manor house. You know what we
do there? Go on a foxhunt. It sucks.” Rhys shook his head grimly.

“Well, consider this your lucky year.” Owen chugged his own beer, slamming the empty bottle against the hammered stainless
steel counter. “We’re all going to the Bahamas. It’s this lame family bonding trip with my mom’s boyfriend,” Owen explained.
He couldn’t say the word
boyfriend
without cringing. It wasn’t like he wanted his mom to be lonely or alone, but she and Remington had only been dating for
a little over a month. Still, there was the prospect of warm weather, lots of booze, foreign girls… “Anyway, you’re invited.”