Party Girl (14 page)

“Who else is here?” Max cuts her mother off.

Vivian sighs, guessing, I’m sure, that Max is trying to distract her. She slips her hand into Charlie’s lovingly and allows the subject change.

“Miran couldn’t come home. Some excuse about schoolwork or something, but really, I think it’s a new boyfriend.” Vivian pauses long enough to sip her wine and Charlie picks up the conversation as if she’s tossed him a slow underhand pitch.

“And Liam stayed with his mother’s family, but your other brother is around here somewhere,” Charlie says, looking off over my shoulder. “Oh, here he is.”

Max looks up and smiles at someone behind me.

“Brody, this is Landon. My new roommate, remember?”

Brody?
What are the odds that another Brody might be behind me? Given my luck, not great. I turn as slowly as I can without seeming like I’m having a stroke, but I know who I’ll find before I even look up into his too-perfect face.

Oh man.

For a second he doesn’t school his features and I see surprise. But then it’s quickly replaced with that same bland expression that seems to be his go-to.

“Landon, is it?” He says it like an accusation.

“Yes, happy Thanksgiving,” I answer, because I’m not sure what else to say but now I wish I’d just said nothing at all because even that comes out awkwardly. Inside my head is a tumble of incoherent screams that sound an awful lot like someone speaking in tongues. Apparently my inner voice is Pentecostal.

I turn back to Max’s parents, purposefully cutting off further communication with Brody. The family around me goes back to friendly conversation, but I’m still in shock. I can’t even wrap my head around this much exposure to him in less than forty-eight hours. And I fully intend to deal with him as little as possible. He’s Max’s brother? How is this even possible?

Against my will the words pop into my head.
Silly. Little. Girl.

“Would you excuse us for just one moment?” I interrupt the conversation, reaching out to tug on Max’s arm, and all eyes look at me. “I just—I need to, um—powder my nose.” So now I sound like an idiot
and
a senior citizen!

Max is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, but she follows me across the room into a far corner where I pull her up next to what is probably a real Warhol.

“How is
he
your brother?” I whisper forcefully.

She looks off to our right to where Brody is chatting with his parents.

“Who, Brody?” Max looks back at me with suspicion.

“No, the guy who jogs backwards down Sunset Boulevard,” I hiss. “
Yes
, Brody! How is he your brother?”

Her eyes narrow.

“How do you know each other?”

“We just did an event at Twenty-Five,” I answer quickly, and I suddenly remember his words from the night before . . .
If you were my little sister.

Knowing he was talking about Max takes a little of the sting out of the memory.

“But that’s not the point. Your last name is Jennings, how are you related?” I demand.

“We’re not related, really. My parents divorced when I was little; my mom married his dad a couple years later.”

“But that means your family owns, like, fourteen hotels and half the restaurants in this town! Your family founded Barker-Ash!”

“Yeah?” she says, like it’s of no great consequence.

How is she so nonplussed? This is huge, crazy news! If my family was this cool, I’d probably have it tattooed on my face!

“How come you didn’t tell me any of this?” I demand desperately.

“You never asked.” Max shrugs.

I manage to spend the rest of the cocktail hour avoiding further awkwardness with Brody by throwing myself into a conversation between two serious-looking older men who are debating the Burden installation at LACMA. It takes at least ten minutes, but I finally gather what exhibit they are so worked up about. Serious guy number one thinks it was “sheer genius.” Serious guy number two keeps throwing out words like “gauche” and “maladroit.” I decide not to mention that the first several times I’d driven by the installation, I’d thought it was some sort of giant streetlamp delivery.

Dinner is called, and I follow everyone out to the back patio of the Ashtons’ house and into the tented space beyond. Underneath the tent are six square tables, draped with luxurious paprika silk linens and autumnal centerpieces. Each place setting has a gold charger and stunning china, topped by a napkin and a chocolate-brown seating card with the guest’s name calligraphed across the top . . . So not exactly the potluck that is happening at home back in Texas. I find my seat next to Max, and only after I glance around at the other seating cards do I realize I am sitting with her at the family table. I smile to myself . . . That is really sweet of them.

The rest of the guests take their seats and then our table is full. Her parents sit next to Max; Charlie’s brother and his wife and their teenage son are next to them. When Brody sits down next to me I take a fortifying sip of my wine. I excel in this type of situation. Parents
love
me, always have. I will not act like an idiot in front of them! I will not let him intimidate me into silence, whatever his opinion of me.

I take another healthy sip of wine as the servers bring the first course of pumpkin soup that is contained inside actual little pumpkins. Vivian leans over to whisper to Max, but I can’t help but overhear.

“Yours has fat-free milk instead of cream, Kenzie. They made it special.”

I find it incredibly thoughtful that her mom would go so far to help Max stay on her diet, but the subject in question just looks annoyed by her mother drawing attention to it. Charlie must notice it too because he leaps into conversation, I’m guessing to break the tension between them.

“So, Landon, Mackenzie mentioned you work at SSE. How’s that going?”

I look up from my soup nervously. Er, how to answer this? I haven’t really spoken much this evening and starting off with a bitter diatribe doesn’t seem like the polite thing to do. All around the table, pairs of eyes look in my direction as if they are genuinely interested in what I have to say. Normally I’d be honest about how tough it is, but surely etiquette prohibits insulting the host’s business partner before the entrée has even been served.

“It’s great. I’ve already learned so much,” I answer brightly.

Max looks up, her soupspoon halfway to her mouth, and stares at me like I’m insane.

“What are you talking about? You work, like, seventy-five hours a week, and your boss is the Antichrist!” she barks.

Around me all eyes turn curious or pitying.

“Kenzie, I don’t know that the Antichrist is appropriate holiday conversation,” Vivian scolds her lightly.

“It’d only really be inappropriate on Christmas.” Max waves a hand in her mother’s direction like she is batting at a fly.

“Or Easter,” Brody adds helpfully, and I don’t know what surprises me more, the fact that it’s the first time he’s talked about anything besides work or the fact that he’s trying to make a joke.

“That too.” Max points at him with her spoon. “And besides, it’s true in this case.” She looks back at me.

“Yes,” I answer her finally, “but it’s not really anything I didn’t sign up for.” I look over at Charlie. “And my daddy always said that a dictionary is the only place where success comes before work. So I don’t mind where I’m at now because it’s a road to somewhere better.”

I absolutely refuse to look at the person sitting next to me. How is he responding to the declaration that this silly little girl is interested in hard work?

Charlie smiles in recognition. “That’s a Lombardi quote. Is your dad a big fan of the sport?”

“Sir, I’m from Texas,” I say with mock severity. “It’s not a sport, it’s a religion.”

“Oh, I bet Charlie and Paul could give your father a run for his money as superfans. Especially when Green Bay is playing,” Vivian says, patting her brother-in-law’s arm.

“I might have to challenge that. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone as crazy as my dad when it comes to team obsession.” On this point I am absolutely certain.

“Paul,” Charlie calls across the cornucopia centerpiece, “as the only lawyer here, you’ll agree that we’re going to need some supporting evidence.”

“Without question.” Paul smiles at me from across the table. “Charlie and I have sat in more than one snowstorm to watch the Packers; we’re pretty hardcore.”

“Psh—” I wave my hand at him in dismissal. “Tom Brinkley has sat through dozens of snowstorms watching Dallas play, and in his case he drives twenty-six hours for the pleasure.”

“That can’t be the best you’ve got,” Brody says from beside me.

I’m surprised to find him joining a conversation directly involving me, but even more surprised by the look on his face. The tiniest smile is playing around his lips, so I’m not sure if he’s teasing or patronizing. But seeing the smile there makes me irrationally agitated, and I so badly want to get the last word, even if it is over something ridiculous.

I am going to have to bring out the big guns. I could tell them about the Cowboys flag my dad raises and lowers every day with military precision. Or the time he punched a tourist for badmouthing Troy Aikman. Honestly, though, none of the stories that come to mind really paint him in the greatest light, and I won’t do anything to disparage the best man I know. I force myself to look away from Brody and back at the others.

“There are so many to choose from,” I say, racking my brain. “Though truth be told, few of those stories would be appropriate if you found the Antichrist line offensive.” I smile at Vivian. “OK, how about this . . . My middle name is Meredith.”

“And?” Max looked at me.

“Lan-
Don
Meredith.” I say it slowly. Surely they’d get it. “For Don Meredith.” Still nothing from the group. “Dandy Don?” I try again. “Really?” I look around at the confused faces staring back at me.
What is wrong with these people?
“And you call yourself football fans!” I scold the two older men. “Don Meredith was one of the greatest quarterbacks Dallas ever had! He played all nine seasons of his professional career in Texas and led them to their first winning season.” Everyone stares at me like I’ve just grown horns; clearly, little blonde girls rarely spout sports history for them at the dinner table. “Come on, guys, you’re Green Bay fans, you have to remember the Ice Bowl?” Finally, comprehension lights up their faces. That game is so famous almost anyone their age has to remember it.

“I remember now,” Charlie says, chuckling, “and I’ll admit defeat on the grounds that I didn’t recognize the name immediately. Your father, and his daughter for that matter, are far more knowledgeable on the topic than we are.”

They all chuckle, and I smile happily at having proved my superiority on the topic. Vivian asks Max about her current course load, and Max launches into a tirade about one of her idiot professors. I glance up to smile at one of her particularly colorful descriptions and find Brody looking at me like I’m some unknown species.

After our last confrontation I know I should ignore that look, but I can’t seem to stop from wondering what he’s thinking. There are so many questions I could ask, but the one I whisper is:

“Why do you look so confused?”

He stares a second more, then leans in a little, like he’s going to tell me some kind of secret.

“You’re—” He pauses, struggling for the word. “Unexpected,” he says, finally.

I’m momentarily surprised, but I recover quickly and grab for some sarcasm, wrapping it around me like a shield.

“Well, I suppose that’s better than silly.” I whisper it so as not to be overheard over the other conversation, but I refuse to drop eye contact with him.

He doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed or guilty.

“Is it now?”

I can’t tell if he’s actually trying to piss me off, but he’s succeeding marvelously.

“It is.” I try and match his tone. “Unexpected could turn out to be a lot of things, but being described as silly, beyond the negative connotations, implies that you’ve somehow already figured me out.”

“Can I offer you some advice?” he asks sardonically.

“No,” I reply with equal sarcasm, “I don’t think my ego can handle your advice twice in one week.”

Brody’s face brightens in surprise and then the stoic, pompous executive—whom I’ve never even seen crack a full smile—throws back his head and laughs. It’s so incongruous with the person I’ve come to know that I’m actually startled by his response. A quick glance around the table tells me that this is just as shocking to the rest of the group because they’ve all stopped to wonder at the sound as if it’s a new one for them too.