Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (20 page)

Again—sorry, Mary.

“Well, at least you'll have a place ready when you move up.” Mom plated an omelet and slid it to my dad under his newspaper. “Mary's coming down for your graduation, right? I hope so, so you two can drive up together. I do not like the idea of that old car making that long drive.”

This is the point where I could have come clean. I could have said, “Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something.” And I almost did.

“About that. Actually—”

“But of course you're going to
have
to take your car,” my mom continued. “You have to get to campus somehow.”

My dad looked at me over the top of his paper. Then he laid the paper aside. “But first we have to get it fixed. Now, I called the tow company first thing this morning. Your car is already at the repair shop. They'll have it right as rain. Is that what you're worried about, peanut?”

“I mean, the car is a problem, but . . .” I said, pushing my eggs around on my plate.

“Well, consider it taken care of,” Dad said, forking up a piece of his omelet but still looking at me. “Soon enough, you'll have much more interesting things to worry about.”

“And we won't have anything to worry about at all.” My mom smiled at my dad, who frowned back at her.

Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something
.

“Right,” I said. And left it at that.

*  *  *

If I was going to chicken out on telling my parents the truth, I suppose I'd have to do something else with my Saturday. Luckily I had experience with this.

List of Things Lydia Bennet Would Usually Do While Avoiding Her Parents on an Average Saturday

1. Go shopping at the mall.

2. Tweet.

3. Vlog.

4. Cut up Dad's newspaper for papier-mâché.

5. Glitter something.

6. Groom Kitty.

7. Bandage scratches from Kitty.

8. Practice French kissing with stuffed version of Mr. Wuffles. (Note: this practice stopped upon my first real French kiss in eighth grade. Stuffed Mr. Wuffles couldn't compete.)

9. Hang with sisters.

10. Get kicked out of sisters' rooms.

11. Put together killer outfits for whatever party was happening that night.

12. Answer texts from a guy.

Unfortunately, most of those either don't apply anymore or aren't things I really wanted to do (especially grooming Kitty—she can sense when the nail clippers are coming), except maybe that last one.

Cody: Hey, what happened to you yesterday?

Lydia: Nothing. Did I miss anything in class?

Cody: Nothing. But I'll share my notes with you if you want.

Lydia: God, I'm bored.

Cody: I can fix that. ;)

You might be thinking that, considering how last night ended—and the night before—going out was the last thing I needed. And I totally agree. Last thing I needed.

Only thing I wanted.

Lydia: Pick me up at 8.

*  *  *

“OMG, I'm soooooo glad to be out!”

I rolled my shoulders back the second we walked into Carter's. I was so done tiptoeing around my house. Walking by Mary's/Jane's empty room is like, “Way to be reminded of your total failure in life, Lydia.”

I didn't need to be reminded. I just wanted to have fun. Again.

“Wow, it's crowded,” Cody said as he entered the bar behind me.

“Duh, it's Saturday.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Just want to make sure we can get a table. But you know if it's too crazy for you, we can always go back to my place . . .”

“Cody. It's never too crazy for Lydia Bennet.” I pointed to the seating area. “See, a table just opened up.”

“Oh, cool—I'll grab it; you go get drinks?”

Cody shuffled over to the table before I could say anything. Okay, then.

I elbowed my way to the bar, knowing to stand by the pass because in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“Chris!” I said as the bouncer stepped through the pass to begin his bartender duties. “My adversary. We meet again.”

“Lydia. What can I do for you?”

I gave him our order.

“So,” he said, pulling the taps for our chosen microbrews. “Third night in a row?”

“Um, yeah, I guess,” I said, frowning a little. “Is that a problem? Afraid I'll beat your Just Dance record?
Again?
”

“Nope.” Chris shook his head. “But . . . what are you doing, Lydia?”

The question wiped any trace of a smile from my face.

“I'm just having fun, Chris.” And I would. If it killed me.

“Uh-huh,” Chris said, and slid the beers across the bar to me.

I picked the money out of my pocket (no way I was gonna run a tab if Chris was going to be all judge-y) and headed back to the table.

“Man, a chick who asks me out and buys the beers. I think I'm enjoying this whole feminism thing,” Cody said, raising his glass to me before taking a big swig. I sort of toasted him back and took a smaller sip of mine.

It tasted funny.

Not in an “Oh my God, someone spiked my drink” kind of way, but in a “This is not nearly as satisfying as I want it to be” type of way. Like, something sour on my tongue was getting in the way of enjoying my delicious beverage.

Or something sour in my brain.

It was as if there was an echo in my head. Things I'd managed to hear but not really absorb all decided that now was the time to worm their way into my brain.

“I knew there was something interesting about you the second we met,” Cody said.

“Hmmm . . .” I replied, taking another sip of my beer. Maybe this one would be better. . . . Nope. Darn it. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, now you're just angling for praise.”

That's when I heard the first echo. And it sounded like Mary.

I don't know why I expected anything else.

I wanted to be so mad when she'd said that. Mad because she was leaving, and mad because she'd said it. But I was too tired. Not because of being drunk and nearly asleep, but because . . . I don't know why I expected anything else from myself, either.

But I had. I'd expected more from me.

Why had I stopped doing that? Why had I just . . . given up?

“I don't want to be all psychoanalytic,” Cody kept talking. “But you have a little bit of player in you, don't you?”

“Player?” I said, tuning back in to my date. Yup, date. I was on a date. Pay attention to him. Not to the refrain of my cousin's voice in my head. “Okay, you're gonna have to clarify that one, and no, I'm not just fishing for compliments. If I was, I'd direct your attention to my pretty eyes.” I batted my eyelashes at him, and he laughed.

“You're determined. Determined to be yourself. To have a ball. To not let crap from the past get you down.”

I was? Then why had I just given up?

That's when I heard the second voice.

And this one sounded like my dad.

Is that what you're worried about, peanut?

I was worried. About something. I thought I was worried about not getting into school and having to tell my parents and Lizzie and everyone else, and what I was going to do with the rest of my life. But was that
actually
what was getting to me?

At that second, with sour beer churning in my stomach, I'd have to say no. Because what was worrying me was that Cody thought I was only determined to have a good time. No matter what.

And yeah, maybe I came into this bar for that reason tonight, but . . . stupid voices in my head were getting in the way of that with their morals and their questioning.

“I don't think I'm really like that.”

Cody leaned in, sincere interest on his face. “You're not? So . . . the past does get you down sometimes?”

“Umm . . .” I replied, not really sure how to answer that. “Oh, hey, look! The pool table is free! Let's play!”

I jumped up, pulling Cody off his barstool. He didn't really have a chance to object.

I was more than happy to give ignoring the voices in my head one last-ditch effort. And it worked. For a little while.

We played three rounds of pool, which was all we had the quarters for (hey, I just blew all my cash on those beers). But at the end of them, I felt a lot better. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't scratch on the eight ball and Cody did—twice (his face got soooooo red the second time). Or maybe it was the beers he had to buy me after each lost round, which were tasting progressively less sour. But by the time we were forced to give up the table to the next set of quarters, I was pink in the face and laughing.

“Woo-hoo!” I cheered, flush with victory and beer.

Amazingly, my bar karma had remained and our table was still vacant—or vacant again; the place had thinned out a bit.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cody grumbled. “You have better cue-handling skills than me. Not a shock.”

I frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Cody backtracked. “Are you going to ask me what I mean all night?”

“Only when you're being weird about stuff.”

“I suppose that's fair.” Cody winked. “Didn't mean to guy double-speak you, like others have.”

I didn't have to ask what he meant by that. “I . . . don't really want to talk about my ex. It's not relevant.”

“I know, but . . . it has to be on your mind a little, right? Going out with someone new is always hard, brings up bad memories.”

I just looked at Cody. Really looked at him, for the first time all night. Maybe the first time since we met. His body was leaned forward in that way Ms. W does when she's trying to pull something
out of me. The only difference is, Ms. W is my therapist. Our relationship is all about us getting to the bottom of things.

My relationship with Cody is . . . not that.

You know what his major is, right?

Harriet's voice burst into my head.

“But for you it has to be extra weird because you filmed the whole thing. You're essentially famous for having a bad boyfriend. What was his name? George?”

I flinched. Who is this guy? Why is he even here with me?

“It's kind of weird for me, too,” he said when I didn't speak. “If that helps at all. Dating a girl with that past.”

And then . . . I started to really listen to what Cody was saying.

“You can tell me what it was like. It's . . . safe. I'm a good guy, you know?”

Here's the thing about good guys. They don't tell you they're good guys. Much like when we first met, Cody told me he wasn't hitting on me when he asked for my number. The winky faces that followed said otherwise. And everything Cody was saying, all the prying, was really starting to make me uncomfortable.

It was becoming stupidly obvious that this was the Worst Date Ever.

And Lydia Bennet doesn't do bad dates.

“Yeah, I said I don't want to talk about it, so we're not talking about it.” My expression went pure bitch-face, which every girl needs to have in their repertoire if they don't already.

“Come on, Lyds—”

“I said no. You should get used to that.”

And then I hopped off the barstool, and I walked out the front door.

God, I thought, breathing in the cool night air, when had I become so . . . weak? So distracted by everything that I let myself get lost in a little guy-attention. I'm not that person. I'm someone who can stand on my own two feet and handle myself.

I'm Lydia freaking Bennet.

And I'm done being lame.

Or so I thought.

“What the hell, Lydia?” Cody's voice came from behind me, the door to Carter's swinging shut behind him. “You're just gonna walk out?”

“I told you I was uncomfortable with the conversation, but you just kept going.”

“You have to talk about it with someone.”

“I don't have to talk about it with you.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “But because you have big eyes and a soft voice you expect me to be sad and quiet and vulnerable. To pour all my secrets out to you?”

“Come on . . . I know you were hurt, Lydia.”

“Right—and that's
the only thing
you know about me.” I turned on him.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “You're drunk.”

“No, I'm not,” I said. The beers I'd had were quickly wearing off and things were becoming very clear. “You don't know anything about me. You never wanted to. You only wanted the gory details about my ex—‘It must be weird coming back here to Carter's, Lydia' or ‘My ex doesn't have anything on yours—tell me about it' and just now, you were all ‘What was it like, being recognized? Must be weird. Especially being famous for having a bad boyfriend.' ”

“You don't get to be mad at me for looking you up online,” Cody said. “You left all that stuff up there.”

“Yeah, and the second you found out about it, you started salivating. Like one of Pavlov's dogs,” I said. “Now, I don't know if you're interested in me because you like damaged girls, or you think because I had a sex tape I might be an interesting fuck, but I don't care to find out.”

His eyes got super dark. And scary. More scary than I'd ever seen.

“What the hell is this?” he said. “I thought you liked me. I take you out; I'm a nice guy! And now you're shoving me off?”

“Yeah, I'm shoving you off. Because you don't give a damn about me. You just want to tell your frat brothers about how you dated that crazy chick from the Internet over the summer, and then maybe write a story about her for your next composition class. Guess what: my life is not your story, jackass.”

He looked down and away, for just a split second. But I'd been paying enough attention in psych class—and in my sessions with Ms. Winters—to know what it meant.