Life Swap (24 page)

His arms reach around my waist, and now I'm pressed against him, my dance moves grinding my hips into him. His body is hot, and I wonder if it could melt away this ice. Face against my cheek, lips breathing by my neck. I feel myself responding without a thought.

It's been so long since I've been touched like this.

When he tugs me off the dance floor, I don't resist. I'm dizzy but still sober enough to follow him into the dark corner, through a door. My back is pressed up against a wall, and his lips are on mine before I realize I'm back in the bathroom, just inches away from where Will destroyed me.

I close my eyes. Hands on my waist, my hips, my ass. He's pressing into me, hard, inching my skirt up with one hand on my bare thigh, the other pawing at my chest.

I don't feel a thing.

Bending his head, he begins to kiss and lick at my neck. I stay, motionless, blinking back the tears in my eyes. I catch sight of us in the mirrors: dirty graffiti, dim lights, and my own blank face. It's empty, hopeless.

And then I snap.

“No.” I push him back. He reels, surprised, but comes right back in, hands on me again. “I said no!” I shove at him, harder, and wrench myself away.

“What the fuck?” He narrows his eyes, breathing heavy.

“I'm done,” I tell him, a weird calm settling over me. This won't make anything go away. I'll just hate myself in the morning.

“Don't tease.” He crinkles his eyes up in what I'm guessing he figures is a smile, reaching out to stroke my cheek. I slap his hand away. His eyes darken. “Come on, stop playing. I know you're up for it.”

“Changed my mind,” I say coolly, making to push past him, but the boy grabs my arm.

“No way, you're that girl, the one from the video.” He's still trying to be charming. “You were hot.”

“Thanks,” I say, but he doesn't get the sarcasm.

“So, how about it—wanna make a sequel?”

And that's when I get it, taking in his drunk eyes and slurred voice. Tyler was different from this; I actually wanted to be with him, for
him.
He was cute and charming and kissed like a dream, and maybe he wasn't worth the cost I'm doomed to keep paying, but at least I hooked up with him out of real desire and not this angry ache to make the world go away.

So I go.

“Bitch.”

I've already turned to go when he swears, and I don't bother with a reply, striding out of that place with way more dignity than I had going in. I find Holly and let her know I'm leaving early, grab my coat, and head back to Raleigh. It's damp and windy on the dark street, but I don't feel the cold. Something major just happened, and I need to think it through.

I'm worth more than this.

The boy, the drinks, the way I just gave up and figured I should be the girl they think I am—it's all beneath me, and I don't think I got it until now. With cold splatters of rain spiking my face, I finally figure it out. Fooling around with Tyler wasn't wrong or bad, no matter what everyone tries to make me feel, but if I let their dumb preconceptions rule my life, then I'm acting like they're right.

It won't ever go away, but I can get past it. I am past it. Sure, there are people like Carrie who can't deal with the fact I wanted to be there—to make out with a guy I wanted, to fool around because it felt damn good, not because I'm brainwashed or damaged—but that's their problem, not my fault. Will still cuts me and it hurts, but now the pain is dulled with disappointment because I know that the guy I thought was so great is just weak. Holly stood by me, Emily propped me up even though the girl's never met me, but the one person I figured knew me better than anyone now couldn't take it. He bailed.

I'm stronger than them. It's a crazy thought after spending the past twenty–four hours on the constant verge of a breakdown, but as I cross into the Raleigh quad, I know in my bones it's true. Will can't handle the idea that I have a past, Carrie can't deal with me not fitting her vision of a “real” feminist, but I'm the one who's kept going. Emily was right: I'm braver than I ever knew. I came to Oxford, I made people see me differently, I scored top marks on my essays, for god's sake, and they can't take that away from me no matter what mean things they say.

I let out a slow breath, pausing a moment to take in the old stone buildings and soft golden lights spilling out over the grass. I'm strong enough to take this.

And just like that, it hurts a little less.

By the end of the week, I'm overwhelmed with emotion: excitement over Ryan, nervous anticipation for our big screening, growing unease about my return home, and a final layer of guilt about hiding the truth from Morgan. In short, I'm a mess.

“What do I do?” I appeal to Carla for the hundredth time this week. “Surely I have to say something?”

“Why bother?” Casting a critical eye over my now-uniform denim skirt/polo shirt combination, she pulls a black dress from her wardrobe and passes it to me. “It's your premiere night—go sexy for once.”

I take it without complaint and turn, quickly stripping down to my underwear and pulling it on. “But I'm lying to her—all the time!”

“So tell.” Carla doesn't seem bothered by the moral ramifications of my situation. “Just get ready for a world of drama.”

“Oh god, you're right.” I pause, imagining yet again how my roommate would react—with tears and tantrums, no doubt. “I just have to keep quiet until the end of next week. Then I'm gone and everything will be back to normal again.” The words sound reassuringly rational as I turn to assess myself in the mirror. The dress buttons up the front in a military style, but the cut hugs every one of my barely–there curves. “Isn't this sort of… tight?”

“That's the point; Ryan's going to flip.”

“Oh, well… all right.” I look at myself again, secretly warming to the idea of any boy flipping over me. “You're sure it's all right for me to borrow?”

“You're still going to lend me the party government papers?” I nod. “Then we're cool.” Carla carefully applies a layer of bright scarlet lipstick and blots. “Let's go. Your big debut awaits!”

Professor Lowell has organized for all the class film projects to be screened in the auditorium as if it's a proper premiere, with a student audience seated on the tiered red seats and drinks afterward. The room is already full when we arrive, and I hunt through the crowd for a glimpse of Ryan.

“I'm nervous,” I whisper to Carla, who's looking around the collection of film students and drama kids with all the focus of a hunter seeking out her prey. “What if it's awful?”

“Then you'll feel like crap,” she says matter–of–factly. “But it won't be; it'll rock. I mean, is it really going to be any worse than
their
movie?” Carla nods toward the clique of gum–snapping girls who have sat passing notes and copies of
InStyle
in the back of every class.

“Good point.” I try to relax. “And besides, I've only been studying film for two months. I'm never going to be as good as the others.”

“There you go.” Carla grins. “It's all about perspective.”

“And rationalizing the bad things away,” I agree, before being swept up into an enthusiastic hug. “Ryan!” I catch my breath as he releases me.

“Ready for battle?” he says. Then his eyes widen as he takes in my outfit. “Wow. Uh, I mean…” He swallows. “You look great, Em.”

“Thanks,” I say breezily, but inside I'm dancing. Somehow I don't mind being objectified when it's Ryan—and he's doing it with such blatant admiration. “You're looking rather dapper yourself.”

“Why thank you,” he jokes, adjusting the smart jacket he's wearing over that favorite Thermals T–shirt and jeans. “I figured I'd better make an effort. You know Lowell's invited industry guests, right?”

“What?”

Ryan nods, glancing around. “People he knows from studios, some agents.” He's trying to sound nonchalant, but I can sense nerves radiating from his body. I slip my hand into his and squeeze it gently.

“We'll be fine.”

“Sure you guys will,” Carla agrees. “I mean, your obsessive film–geek perfection plus Em's planning. How can you fail?”

My grip on Ryan's hand grows tighter as we sit through the other films. Some are terrible, some are fun, and although privately I think ours is far better than any of them, I can't help but wonder if I'm blind to the reality of the situation. After all, somewhere along the way, hundreds of people thought that
Blonde Ambition
should get a theatrical release. What if this is our
Blonde Ambition
?

Oh god.

Finally, I see our opening credits flash up on–screen. Ryan's entire body goes tense, and I find it hard to breathe. It dawns just how important this project is to me. For what must be the first time in my life, I don't care about my class grade, only about everybody around me. I want them to love it the way I do, to believe in the story I worked so hard to create.

I mean to keep watch on Carla's face and study her reactions, but before I know it, the scenes are flying past on that big screen and then it's over. I can hardly believe it: two months of work for just those few minutes in the spotlight, our piece over quicker than it takes to cook a bowl of pasta or give my computer a thorough clean.

“Well?” I hear Ryan's low whisper.

“I don't know,” I breathe back, dazed, as the audience bursts into applause. I twist around in my seat to try and gauge the general reaction. They're smiling and clapping, but is it sincere? Are they just being polite, the way I applauded some of the terrible films? I can't tell, but when I force myself to look over at Carla, she's beaming.

“You guys!” she exclaims. I gulp.

“Really?”

“Seriously.” She nods, eyes sparkling. “Would I lie to you? Wait, I would, but I'm not, I swear!”

I slowly exhale. “That was…”

“Terrifying,” Ryan finishes from my other side. We sit in silence for a moment, adrenaline still dashing through my bloodstream. “Come on.” He finally gets up. “We still have to face the real critic.”

My pocket begins to vibrate. I check the caller: it's my father. “I'll catch up with you.” I push Ryan down toward the front of the room, then retreat through the crowd to the hallway outside.

“Dad, hi!” I exclaim, overflowing with happiness. “They liked it—our film! We just had the screening, and it went really well, I think. I hope!” I know I'm babbling, but I want him to understand that this is a success. My time here hasn't been the waste he thinks it is.

“Of course it did, Emily.” He sounds more relaxed than usual. “Well done.”

“I didn't think we'd get it done in time.” I keep talking, the fluorescent–lit beige corridor striking me as the wrong place to celebrate such a victory. “But we've been working all week and—”

“That's wonderful,” he interrupts. “But I've got even better news. You got a letter in the post this morning, and I'm sure you can guess what it says.”

“You opened my mail?” I try to keep up, but I can't help glancing back toward the auditorium, wondering what Lowell is saying.

My father laughs. “I knew you'd want to hear right away. You got it!”

“Got what?” I watch two of the gum–snapping girls from my class stalk out of the doors, obviously displeased. “What are you talking about?”

“Your internship, silly. With Sterns, Cahill, and Coutts. I'm sure you'll get other offers, of course, but this is the big one.”

“The big one,” I echo, only half listening.

“It looks like my time on the golf course with Giles paid off, eh? Not that your sterling record didn't have anything to do with it, but every little bit helps. Now, I've already started looking into flats you can rent for the summer, something in the city, I think, perhaps Pimlico or Marylebone. Perhaps even buy outright if the price is right; you'll be needing somewhere after you graduate, and if I cosign your mortgage…”

I listen to him ramble about property–value appreciation and the right neighborhoods while I try to take the news in. So I did it, after all. The prized internship is mine, and I'm one step further along in my five–year plan. California hasn't ruined my chances: I'm still set for a summer beavering away in the offices of one of the most prestigious law firms around, and after that they're almost certain to offer me a job.

The future unfolds before me in that corridor: certain, secure, and clear as if I'd mapped it out on my miniature whiteboard with indelible ink. Summer, then my final year in Oxford, then a move down to London and that well–located flat Daddy is so intent on buying. Everything is just as I planned.

“That's wonderful,” I say, a new sense of satisfaction mingling with the elation from before. Everything is just as I planned. “It all worked out.”

“Of course it did! It's like I always told you: you've just got to follow the plan.” He's so proud, I can hear it beaming in every word.

“Thank you.” I feel a weight ease, that creeping discomfort that's loomed whenever I think about going home. Now I know how everything will be, I don't have to panic. I don't have to worry anymore.

The doors slam open again, and I look up to see Ryan barreling toward me, a huge grin on his face.

“I have to go, Daddy,” I say quickly. “But it's great news, it really is.”

“I'll call when you get the other offers, and we can go through them all.”

I hang up and turn to Ryan with a smile. “I've got some news,” I start, but he puts a hand to my lips.

“Me first!”

He's so full of excitement, he's practically bouncing up and down. I giggle and thread my fingers through his. “All right, you go.”