Austensibly Ordinary (17 page)

I'd rocked that round of twenty questions, but rather than pump my fist in the air, I shifted so that my head was propped against the side of the couch. Was it possible he was playing me? Concocting a story that cast him in the role of a sexy, mysterious computer geek? Well, it had worked like gangbusters. I'd assumed the shivery thrill I'd felt as the questions started to roll fast and furious were caused by the excitement of the moment, but now I knew the truth. I was a little turned on.

Then again, it was possible I was going into shock. The way this evening had been going, it could be either. I'd gotten all dressed up for a wedding, danced under the stars; I'd sipped champagne and slipped into something very comfortable. . . . And then one of my best friends had confided that he was living a whole secret, sexy life separate from the one I knew about.

First of all,
what the hell?
I'd known the man for two years, during which he'd been in the loop on virtually every aspect of my life while I had been shut out of everything but school and Scrabble. Had he been intentionally keeping secrets from me, or had I simply been too self-involved to pay attention? The significance of this suddenly hit me full force:
Ethan has an alter ego.
Admittedly it was as a computer geek, but still. It made me wonder if he only wore his glasses to teach, stripping them off for top secret. . . translations. . . or upgrades. . . I shut my eyes in exasperation. I still had no freakin' idea what the man did. I just knew he did it for the government. And that my head was starting to hurt.

Ethan was going to be back in probably three minutes, and I was going to have to sit here and look at him, and finish out the twenty questions, and hide the fact that in my head, I was wondering if computer geeks who worked for the government in real life were as buff as they were in the movies.

I let my mind float. Away from the surreal quality of the entire evening and onto a little mini-vacation. I checked into the Hotel San José, a cool oasis nestled at the heart of South Congress. I'd never actually stayed there, but it had been the site of many little escapes, with its boxwood-trimmed bungalows, crisp, cool sheets, and calm. . .

Next thing I knew, I smelled coffee, and pearly light was waiting just beyond my eyelids to be let in. I had a crick in my neck, and my bra was MIA. And as curious as that was, it paled in comparison to the reality that I'd spent the night at Ethan's, and the slightly fuzzy memory that I'd uncovered some rather juicy little secrets.

 

When I finally staggered bleary-eyed into the kitchen, after a quick search-and-rescue mission involving my bra, I was charmed to see that Ethan had set a mug out for me. Realization came swiftly: He'd no doubt hoped to curtail any potential snooping. Smirking ever so slightly, I filled the hefty navy blue mug halfway up with coffee and then scrounged through the refrigerator looking for something to use as creamer. Skim milk was the closest thing I found, and that was disappointing. Next I rifled through various cupboards and every shelf in the pantry (so much for not snooping) looking for sugar and ended up utterly exasperated. I was well aware that Ethan drank his coffee black, and it was now obvious that he wasn't prepared for guests. At least those who took the liberty of inviting themselves.

I took my first warming sip and felt my tongue try to reject it—this brew had run roughshod over the pale, thin dollop of skim I'd added. I looked down at the mug of coffee, giving my mouth a chance to acclimate, seriously thinking about checking the freezer for some vanilla ice cream, and that's when I noticed.

In bright white relief against that handsome navy blue background, a seal stood out on the mug. A shield, topped with the profile of an eagle's head, was encircled with the words “Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America.” I stared as my synapses slowly snapped to attention, pondering the possibilities. I took another sip of coffee and nearly gagged. Slipping onto the nearest bar stool, I set the coffee down, pushing it slightly away to save me from myself.

When Ethan had found me asleep on his couch last night after he'd finished his phone call, had he decided to steal the thunder of Question #18 by leaving this mug for me to find? Or had Ethan found this at a souvenir shop and been amused by the implications? Impossible to tell. I'd just pretend I hadn't seen it and pick up where we'd left off as soon as Ethan found his way out of bed. Until then, I had every intention of making myself a coffee milkshake.

My hand was literally on the freezer door when Ethan appeared, wearing the same pajama bottoms, now paired with a CIA T-shirt. As I stood staring, sizing him up, my eyes jerking from his face to his chest, Ethan propped a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, scrunching up the “C” and “A,” while the “I” stared back at me.

“Morning,” he said, looking me over.

I ignored my rumpled state and answered in kind. “Good morning. I couldn't find any sugar or creamer, so I was checking for some vanilla ice cream. Do I have a prayer?” Refusing to wait for an answer, I whipped open the freezer door and tipped my head forward, letting the frigid air cool my face and the search give me a moment to regroup.

By the time I resurfaced, without ice cream, Ethan had set a tiny little canister of sugar out on the counter.

“Where'd you find this?” I demanded.

“In its normal spot,” he said calmly. “Ready to talk, or are we pretending last night never happened?”

This sounded so off in my head that I was distracted all over again, imagining—for one harmless moment—that we'd spent the evening on other, more hands-on means of discovery. I imagined that would have made this conversation considerably more awkward, so it was lucky the option had never presented itself. I stared again at his chest and then pulled my gaze farther up to his expectant smile.

“Oh, it happened,” I assured him. “What's with the props?” I said, gesturing between the incriminating mug and T-shirt.

“Thought I'd save you a question.”

“How thoughtful,” I said. “If only I could trust T-shirts to give me the whole story.” I paused for effect and was surprised to find myself suddenly caught up in a wave of shyness. “So, you really work for the CIA?”

“Yes.”

“For as long as I've known you?”

“Yes.” His voice was soft but level. And suddenly I wasn't overawed with him any more—I was irritated. And hurt.

“What the hell?
Were you
ever
planning on telling me? And don't you dare tell me I'm over my limit of questions.”

Now Ethan looked slightly uncomfortable, which was just fine with me.

When he didn't immediately answer, I snapped, “Yes or no.”

“Yes.” That one little word felt like it had been wrenched out of him. I felt pretty wrenched myself. But I rallied.

“Okay!” I said, turning and tipping my coffee out into the sink. “Pretty painless, huh? I am going to change back into my own clothes and then jog home for a real cup of coffee. Because I really need my coffee.” I plastered on a bracing smile and dodged past Ethan on my way out of the kitchen.

Seconds later, I was back, looking considerably rougher than Grace Kelly at her absolute worst. Turns out I could slip into the dress as easily as I could slip out. Good to know. I came out babbling, not really wanting Ethan to get a word in, because right now, I wasn't ready for anything he had to say. I ended on, “Not sure about Scrabble tonight—call first!” And then I was hoofing it up and down the hills of Travis Heights, all dolled up, walking home in the sharp glare of a Sunday morning.

I
couldn't decide if I wanted to think about it or if I wanted to avoid thinking about it. I'd stormed up the steps, a woman on a mission, and beelined for the kitchen. Brewing myself a cup of hazelnut coffee and dousing it with crème brûlée creamer, I'd traded the dress for a sweatshirt and pj's of my own and dropped down onto the couch to take the first steadying sip.

Better. I breathed deep and let it out slowly, trying to relax.

Now came the dirty work. I was essentially going to have to go through a post-date analysis, and Ethan wasn't going to be able to help me with this one.

Rather inexplicably, I'd had a change of heart. Last night I'd been psyched, thrilled to have finally cracked the mystery of Ethan Chavez wide open, and this morning, not so much. Maybe I'd been floating on the bubbles from the champagne, maybe I'd been distracted by the chance to flirt with Jake again, or maybe I'd simply been thrown for a loop when I'd entered Ethan's secret lair. I didn't have a clue.

All I knew was that I now felt unbearably awkward. Ethan and I had been friends for two years—
good,
close friends. Before this morning, I would have said best friends without the slightest hesitation, but now I couldn't. How could I? Friends don't keep gargantuan secrets from each other. Yes, I had toyed with the idea of keeping my sexy new alter ego a secret, but that had lasted less than a week, and for all I knew, Cat Kennedy might not last out the month. Ethan's situation was soooo different from mine, notably because mine was more or less make-believe, and his was seriously real.

Never would I have imagined Ethan as a Darcy, but I did at that moment as I self-righteously slurped down my latte. The Pre-Smackdown Darcy, before he gets a taste of the force of nature that is Elizabeth Bennet, when he's unfeelingly dismissive, intolerably arrogant, and oblivious to everything that matters. I took another, steadying sip of coffee. How could he possibly imagine I'd be cool with being made to look like a complete idiot?

He probably figured I was used to it, but dammit, it was different when I did it to myself.

This was exactly the sort of thing that could ruin me for Mr. Darcy. There was an element of Frank Churchill in this too, I remembered,
Emma,
as it was, being fresh in my memory. Frank had been keeping secrets too, playing fast and loose with Highbury's good opinion of him. Knightley had never been fooled. Knightley, the constant, steady influence, the confidant, the sexy neighbor who was never more than a brisk walk away.
Where the hell is my Mr. Knightley!?

I recognized that I was being a trifle two-faced, seeing as my epic search for Mr. Darcy had just fizzled two seconds ago.

My thoughts touched briefly on Ethan and ruthlessly skittered away again. Knightley would never keep such a secret; he had too much respect for Emma. Which was rather depressing when you considered my current predicament.

Perhaps Jake was Mr. Knightley material. . . . And if not, I might just be willing to forgive and forget if it turned out he was a Darcy. I lifted my latte for an imaginary toast and decided it was time to have a little chat with Gypsy Jane.

Reaching under the couch, I set aside my near-empty coffee cup and pulled forth the dust bunny-encrusted volume. I wasn't in the mood this morning to pore over anyone else's happily-ever-after, so the key, which I'd been keeping inside the front cover flap, stayed put.

I skimmed back over the first few pages of the journal, now sporting only a spotty collection of words imbued with some sort of hidden meaning.

 

 

Reading them all together, it seemed possible that they could be referring to my friendship with Ethan and the secret he'd been keeping from me and—
I assumed
—everyone else. As clues went they were pretty nebulous, and a couple of them didn't even really fit in that context. Ethan and I were far from perfectly matched. As best friends. . . or
not.
And there was nothing romantic going on between us. At all. Perhaps it was all part of the puzzle. This whole thing was going to be a sore subject for a little while, and ambiguous or not, I needed a little advice.

 

 

I lifted my pen and stared down at those last two words. Best friends. Were we still best friends? Could things go back to the way they were? If not, I was going to be spending a lot of time with Courtney and her ghosts. . . or Mom and Mr. Carr. . . and potentially the Geek Freak if my laptop went wonky on me. Oh crap. I let my head fall back in self-pity before righting myself, determined to get on with it. Things were just going to have to go back to normal—I had too much invested in Ethan to quit him now. But I could punish him a little. . . .

 

 

A new e-mail pinged its way into my in-box, and needing just a moment's distance from this topic, I grabbed my phone to check it.

 

 

My smile bloomed as I read the details and imagined the pleasure of showing up with Jake after we'd slept late and “lounged” for a while. I envisioned the novelty of Sunday plans that didn't involve Scrabble. But I quickly tamped down on the possibilities, forcing myself to deal with my current reality instead. I'd give myself a few days to think about it, weigh the pros and cons, then I'd decide. Spirits slightly buoyed, I turned back to the journal.

 

 

I tipped the journal closed, feeling very mysterious—roguish, but ladylike. I'd whiled the morning away on good coffee and bad, exposed secrets and covert decisions, and now I really needed to get a few things done. But I couldn't resist a little peek at someone else's happily-ever-after.

Retrieving the key from the inside cover, I slid it, ever so slowly, into the keyhole and silently watched the magic happen. I watched a different kind of secret come alive and felt thrilled to be a part of it. I flipped past Miss Piano, ready to move on to someone new, and when I found her, I settled in to read.

 

 

I pulled back, intrigued. This one sounded feisty. I was poised to flip the page and read on, the day's to-do list be damned, when the phone rang. It was Dad. I balked and considered sending him to voice mail but, on the last ring, decided to pick up.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, patently chipper. I unfolded my legs from under me and examined my toenails, promptly deciding I could use a pedicure. “How are you?”

“Hey, Sprinkles.” The nickname, barreling down the phone lines, made me smile and ache just a little. But I knew what was coming and braced myself for the eye roll. “Better than I deserve.” Dad was obsessed with Dave Ramsey, and no amount of nagging had convinced him to relinquish his favorite, irritatingly overused quote. “And you?”

“Great,” I assured him. “School's the same, but good. Mom's”—I briefly debated how to phrase this—“dating, but I'm not. Ethan is good, and Austin is weirder than ever.” It was pretty much the same spiel I gave him every time he called. Well, minus Mom dating.

“Who's your mom dating?” he asked. He sounded genuinely curious and not the slightest bit jealous. I supposed that train had left the station for parts unknown a long time ago, but I couldn't seem to squelch the wishful thinking.

“A teacher from school. History. You'd like him.” And he would.

“Well, if he's smart, he'll hang on to your mom, and I'll get to meet him before too long.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” I allowed, wishing he'd been smart enough to hang on to Mom himself. “You dating someone better than you deserve?”

When he answered, I could hear the smile in his voice. “No, not dating. But I do go country and western dancing with Chris's mom most Saturday nights.” Chris was his assistant manager and most experienced zip-line guide.

“How come you and Mom never went dancing?” If Dad thought it was a weird question, he didn't say. Mom and Dad had been friends for years before they'd gotten married, and they seemed to have everything in common. . . until, suddenly, inexplicably, they didn't.

I couldn't help but wonder nervously if that was what was happening to Ethan and me. Minus the part about being together . . . married.

“We were busy doing other things, I suppose. We were always happy, Cate. I hope you know that.”