Reality TV Bites (12 page)

I let him lead, closing my eyes after a moment and resting my head on his shoulder. Everything is spinning. I hardly feel my legs or my arms.

“Where'd you learn to dance?” I say after a moment.

“Three older sisters.”

I glance up at him. God, his mouth is so close. It seems like I've never wanted to kiss a guy as much as I want to kiss Dave right now. “Three sisters?” I force my lips to speak, so I don't kiss him.

“Yeah. They all took dancing lessons—ballet, tap, and ballroom—then graduated to the high school drill team. I was the token male ballroom partner. I can dip and twirl in my sleep.” He dips me, and I laugh as my head spins.

“Did you really go to homecoming with Hunter?”

“No. He was homecoming king. I was queen. We never dated.”

“Why not? Rory?”

“No, he's just not my type.”

“Who's your type?” He glances down at me, and I can't take it anymore. I don't know if it's him, or too much to drink, or me just being an idiot, but I tug his mouth down to mine and kiss him. His hands tighten on my waist, and I feel the muscles of his shoulders bunch when I slip my tongue in
his mouth. He responds, meeting me more than halfway, and then my head is really spinning. And then I'm falling because he's pulled away.

“Sorry,” I say when everything isn't spinning anymore. “I don't know why I did that. You're just such a good kisser.” Did I really say that? His jaw is set, and he's not looking at me, staring instead across the room. Cindy!

“Dave, I'm sorry. I'll tell Cindy it was my fault—”

“Shut up. I'm enjoying this way more than you think.” His hand skims across my back. “Did you put your underwear back on?”

“It's in my purse.”

“Oh, man.” He drops his forehead on my shoulder, then straightens again.

With a laugh, I wrap my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest. I really don't get Dave. We talk like we've been friends for years, he makes it clear he thinks I'm attractive, but he doesn't want to take things to the next level. Okay, so maybe I overreacted a few weeks ago when he said he didn't want to sleep with me. I mean, that was like our seventh date, and I still didn't know where I stood with him. And, okay, maybe I pushed him a little because I wanted to see what he'd do, and because—oh, just admit it—because I liked him, and I couldn't tell if he liked me, and I hate uncertainty.

So now he's with Cindy! but dancing with me, and he's hot and bothered because I'm not wearing any underwear but he won't kiss me. I'm beginning to remember why I was so pissed off with him before. And still, if I had another chance…

“Come on, Red. Time to go,” he says, and his voice is far away. Then Gray is beside me. The next time I open my eyes I'm in a tank, moving really fast on the freeway.

Gray's next to me, and Cindy! and Dave are up front.

“Where's my car?”

“We decided not to let you drive,” Gray says.

“We'll pick it up in the morning,” Dave says.

I'm not sure how that's going to work, but I'm at that stage of drunkenness where everything is pretty much okay.

“Right up here. The lofts,” Gray says. I lift my head and study Gray's trendy neighborhood. Dave pulls the Hummer over, and Gray shakes his hand, then says good night to Cindy!

“You still going to the lake tomorrow?” he asks me.

“Yeah. I'll be okay.”

He leans over and kisses my temple. “Call me in the morning, kiddo.”

I lie down in the backseat, lulled by Dave and Cindy!'s voices, and the next time I look around, we've stopped. I sit up, wondering if they've abandoned me in the tank, but when I look outside, I see Dave and Cindy! standing on the porch of a small house. There are five other cars in the driveway and grass, so I'm assuming Cindy!'s got roommates. As I watch, Dave bends down and kisses her. It's not a long kiss, like this afternoon, but it's not exactly short, either.

She turns to go inside, and I flop down on the backseat hastily.

Oh, fuck. I mean, fudge. Mistake. Head fallen off body.

Dave opens his door and looks over the seat at me. “You still alive?”

“I don't know. Is my head attached?”

“Yeah. Want to sit up front?”

“No. Drive on, James.”

Dave doesn't turn on the radio, and we're quiet for three minutes. I know this because I can see the little clock on the
dash from my position. “When did you get the Hummer?” I say.

“Last week. Bonus from the Y and Y account.”

“What was wrong with the Land Rover?”

“Blue, sticky, and smelled like Gatorade.”

“Oh.” I feel my face heat.

More silence.

“Dave?”
Shut up, Allison. Whatever you say now will make you cringe in the morning. Pretend you're asleep
. “You were kissing Cindy.”

He glances at me, then back at the road.

Another minute.

“How come you kiss her but not me?”

“I did kiss you.”

“But you didn't want to.”

“I don't want to get into this right now.”

We slow for a light, and I sit up. “I don't get it. She's like twelve.”

We turn the corner, and I recognize the convenience store. We're almost to my town house.

“Look, Allison, you're drunk. You don't want to talk about this stuff now.”

“Yeah, I'm drunk, but I know what I'm saying. I think I'd hate myself in the morning more if I
didn't
say all this.”

“Okay, let's test it. If you still want to talk about this in the morning, call me, and we will.”

“Goddamnit, Dave! Just tell me what the fuck is going on. Are you fucking seeing Cindy or not? Do you fucking like me or not?”

We slow and he pulls in front of my house.

“Oh, just fucking forget the whole thing.”

I open the door, fall out, and curse all tanks and their
drivers. When I finally make it to my door, it's locked, and I can't find my purse or my keys. I rest my forehead on the door.

A moment later, Dave nudges me aside.

“Go back to your tank. You might need to invade Michigan Avenue.”

Dave unlocks the door, pushes it open, then, without even asking, picks me up and carries me inside. I want to yell at him, but I can't summon the energy to argue. I hear him kick the door shut and drop my purse and keys on the tile floor. He heads upstairs and straight for my bedroom, and when I make a hasty check of his face, he looks pissed.

“Light?” he asks.

“Wall on the right.”

He flicks it on with his elbow, and the lamp on my night-stand illuminates the room. Dave stands in the doorway for a moment, staring at my room. “That bed is huge.”

As the bed dominates the room, it's a little hard to ignore. “It's a tester bed, king-size.”

“It has curtains.”

“Just whispy sheers strewn through the canopy.”

“Right.”

He strides forward, lays me on the edge of the bed, then stands there looking at me. I scrutinize his face, but I can't tell what he's thinking. I'm shaking. I don't know why. I've done this before. With another guy, I'd grab him, pull him down beside me, and rip his clothes off. But I honestly don't know what to do with Dave.

“I don't know what the fuck is going on. I'm not seriously seeing fucking Cindy, and yes, I fucking like you.”

I stare at him. He hasn't moved, and his face is still completely unreadable. “So, what are you going to do now?”

He looks around. “Your cat's sitting by her bowl. I'm going to feed her.” He heads into the kitchen, and I hear Booboo Kitty meowing for dinner.

I sit up, brushing my hair out of my face, and wait to see what will happen next. I'm completely on edge. Dave might do anything—leave, watch TV, come in here and kiss me senseless. I hear him walking back down the hallway, and then he stands in my doorway, his shoulder against the jamb. “Do I get to ask questions?”

“I didn't sleep with Nicolo,” I say, slurring his name.

“Okay.” He looks a little thrown by my admission. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don't want you to hate me.”

He looks more confused.

“Not that I didn't sleep with him because of you. I wasn't really thinking about you.”

He inclines his head. “Good to know.”

“No, what I mean is—remember when you said that thing in Rory's bedroom?”

“What thing?”

“You know what thing. What did you mean, maybe you didn't sleep with me because you like me? Is that some kind of prefeminist holdover?”

“Whoa.” He holds up both hands and walks toward me. “Don't even play the feminist card, and I'm not going to talk about this if you won't listen.”

“Hello? I'm listening.” I flop on the pile of pillows.

I expect him to argue, but he props himself on an elbow beside me. “I'm friends with Hunter and Rory. You're friends with Hunter and Rory. We can't have a one-night stand because we're going to see each other again. We can't have a relationship because I don't know if I want that with you
yet. I was trying to walk a middle line, but you're sort of a right or left girl.”

“I can walk a middle line,” I say, flipping on my side to face him. “You're the one who's right or left. You're all friendly around other people, and then you act like you don't know what to do with me. Then I see you kissing Cindy—who's all wrong for you, by the way—and FYI I'm
not
saying I'm right for you, but we've been out half a dozen times or more and you won't even touch me.”

He lies back and closes his eyes. “Things aren't that simple with you.”

“Why not? I'm a simple girl.”

He laughs and spreads his arms as if encompassing the canopied bed, the white chaise longue, cherrywood dressing table, cheval mirror, and silk sheers on the window.

“No, you're not. You're high-maintenance, and I'm not a very good mechanic.”

“Oh, poor baby. That's why they have Viagra.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You're not going to rip my clothes off and make mad, passionate love to me?”

“Not tonight.”

“But sometime?”

“No comment.”

“Are you going back to Cindy's?”

“No.”

“Good.” I scoot closer and he turns, fitting me against him. He's warm and solid, and he smells like a man—a man with a hint of pinewoods, lime margaritas, and Frank Sinatra. I'm asleep in no time.

When I open my eyes, the comforter is tucked around me, Booboo Kitty's
sitting on my pillow staring down at me, and Dave's gone. I don't even have to call out or look around for him. A place feels different when it's occupied. People give off certain vibes—casual, neat, artsy—and I'm good at latching onto those when I decorate. Dave's vibe, sort of casual and sexy, isn't present.

I sit up, and Booboo, seeing signs of life, jumps onto the nightstand, wrapping her tail around a glass of water that wasn't there last night. Next to the glass are two aspirin and my car keys. I take the aspirin, drink the water, and pad to the foyer to peek out the curtains. My Z4's parked in the driveway, and I'm betting it has a full tank of gas. I sigh and
go back upstairs to feed Booboo, but that's been taken care of as well. Her bowls—food and water—are already full.

Okay, if Dave's taken the trash out, I'm going to propose.

Thank God the trash is still full, and I don't have to start calling myself Allison Tivoli. Later in the car with Gray, I don't have to think too hard to know what Dave's trying to tell me. A guy sneaks out in the morning, doesn't say good-bye, doesn't call, he doesn't want a relationship. See what happens when a guy sees the real me?

I turn on Wrigley Drive in downtown Lake Geneva, and Booboo Kitty wakes from her nap, starts meowing, and scratches Gray's leg in an effort to sniff the vents.

“How does your cat know?” Gray steadies Booboo so she can sniff without flaying his knee to bloody shreds.

“She's smart. Or maybe the air smells different in Wisconsin.” Less smog, more patriotism. All the little downtown shops have American flags flapping in the breeze, and up ahead there's a banner stretched across the street that reads “
WIN BIG! MEMORIAL DAY AT THE TRACK
!” Booboo meows.

“No, Booboo. No track for you. Those dogs will eat you up.”

We stop at a light and wave to Kristen Browning. She's on the corner talking to Ashley Smith-Roberts, and both women are flanked by small children. Ashley turns and waves at us, too, lifting the hand of the toddler locked in her grasp.

Gray shakes his head. “Man. I used to date those girls. Now they've got kids. Makes me feel old.”

“You
are
old.”

He glares at me until Booboo swishes her tail in front of his mouth. “Ashley's your age,” he says through a mouthful of fur. “And Kristen is only a year ahead.”

“Two,” I say, but I know what he means. I
do
feel old
when we come to Lake Geneva. It's part of who I am, my history. As soon as we exit Route 12, my childhood floods back to me: the first time I went sailing, the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I skinny-dipped. I have as many friends here as in Chicago, and over the years those friendships have served me well professionally. But there's something bittersweet about coming back. I'm no longer the little girl who did cartwheels on the lakeshore and twirled a baton in the Fourth of July parade. I'm not Allie Bo-bally anymore and yet, I am. In so many ways, I am.

My parents' house on Geneva Lake has a balcony on the second floor, and when I was in elementary school, Rory and I used to dress up in princess costumes—mine was a pink tulle skirt, pink leotard, and sparkly tiara—and twirl about on the balcony, looking out at the lake and hoping a prince (or Jedi, in Rory's case) would sweep us away. My prince would sail in on his pirate ship (he was a bad-boy pirate prince, of course) and rescue me.

I'm not sure what I wanted to be rescued from, since my life was pretty good, but I think I saw enough of my parents' world that I realized my idealized life couldn't last. I would have to grow up, and even at eight, very little about adult life seemed innocent or uncomplicated. My parents' friends divorced, remarried, divorced again; lost fortunes, made fortunes. My dad was always worried about money, and my mom worried about the lines on her face, and then there was all the drama with Gray. Certainly adult life was not as simple as spinning around and around until Rory and I were dizzy and falling down in a heap of giggles and pink tulle.

And how much has really changed? Nowadays, my princess clothes are a bit more expensive and any dizziness I suffer is probably alcohol-induced, but I still want to be a princess. I still want that magical, fairy-tale life. And the
stupid thing is that more and more, I know there's no fairy tale. As if the fudging kamikaze show has infected me, I keep trying to fix parts of my life that aren't broken.

But I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to let go of the fantasy. And that really messes up my life. And I know I'm doing it, but it's like I can't see the details as clearly as the big picture. This has always been my flaw as a decorator, and it's my downfall in life and love, too. It's like hanging a picture. I should measure, calculate, use a level, but I never do. I blindly pound the nail in every time, supremely confident—and supremely wrong—that I've eyed it perfectly.

With men, sometimes it seems like I throw the tape measure out the window. I ignore the details, always ready to try a new relationship on for size. And I'm always looking for that dream guy—the one who in my reality probably doesn't exist.

I turn down the drive to Maytag Point, where my parents' house overlooks the lake.

“Ow! Jesus!” Gray yells as Booboo Kitty tries to squeeze through the air vents. Gray struggles to keep ahold of her. “I don't get it. The air downtown can't possibly smell different than the air here. It's only three miles away. How does the cat know?”

“Instinct, I guess,” I say, patting Booboo's head. “The same way she always knows who doesn't like her and goes to rub against their leg.”

“I wish I had instincts like that.”

“Me, too.”

“What's with you this morning?” Gray says. “You're really quiet. Sure you don't have a hangover?”

“I'm just—Gray, whose car is that?”

Our parents' house is up ahead, and next to my dad's Lexus in the driveway is a Porsche Carrera.

“I don't know. Cool car, though.”

I pull in behind the Lexus, shoo Booboo Kitty into her carrier while Gray gets our bags from the trunk, and we're coming up the walk when my mother opens the screen door.

“You're just in time! We've been holding lunch for you.” My mother is wearing a sundress and heels, full makeup, and a hat over her blonde hair. She's not a real blonde, but she tells everyone she's been one so long they gave her an honorary membership.

She kisses Gray and then me, closing the door behind us.

“Mom, why are you so dressed up?”

“I'm not dressed up,” she says. “I've had this old sundress for ages.”

“Mom, it's Christian Dior, and I was with you when you bought it last month.” I set Booboo's carrier down and let her out. She immediately runs for the back of the house and the deck. I'll have to bribe her with tuna to get her back in so we can leave tomorrow.

“Yes, well, it wouldn't kill the two of you to dress up once in a while. Why don't you go change?”

Gray and I are both wearing shorts and T-shirts, the usual code of dress for a weekend at the lake house.

“The only thing I brought was a sundress in case we went to the yacht club,” I say.

“Whose Porsche is that?” Gray asks, dropping our bags by the door.

“Oh, why don't you ask your famous sister? She's full of secrets. Allison, go wash your face and put on some lipstick, then come out to the deck and say hello.”

Gray and I exchange wary looks, but I pick up our bags and head toward the stairs to our bedrooms. As I pass the guest room on the bottom floor, I notice a leather Louis Vuitton bag sitting right inside the door.

My room is at the top right of the stairs, but I pass it and drop Gray's bag in his room first. Ahead is the master bedroom. The door is open and straight back are the French doors leading to the balcony. I can see the lake and white sailboats dotting the blue water through the glass panes. My room is in the front of the house and has two large windows—one overlooking the drive and the other the strip of woods between our place and the Iversons'. A half-mile down is my aunt and uncle's place. Maybe I'll walk down later and see if my cousin Cassie is around. Back in my room, I set my bag on one of the twin beds, both covered with pretty pink-and-white spreads.

I always slept in the one on the left and my friends—Rory usually—slept in the one on the right. The bathroom I share with Gray is across the hall, so I head there next. I don't put on lipstick, but I do wash my face and drink another glass of water. When I step out of the bathroom, Nicolo is standing in the hallway.

“Oh, my God!”

He grabs my shoulders. “It is okay. Do not be frightened.”

“What are you doing here?” I shake his hands off me. “Get out!”

“I am here for work.”

I gape at him. “That's your Louis Vuitton bag downstairs?” Piece of advice: No matter how freaked out you are, never miss a chance to say Vuitton.

“Yes. I wished to speak to you before you saw your parents.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why? What have you done with them?”

“Nothing.” He spreads his arms. “As you see, I am harmless. Might we go into your bedroom and speak?”

“You're not that harmless. Right here is fine.”

He sighs. “Very well. Again, I am sorry I frightened you.”

I nod, waiting for him to go on.

“When you signed the contract, you agreed to all access. I wanted to get to know your family, maybe take a little footage.”

“No cameras here, Nicolo. After what we did to that poor family's house Wednesday, I don't know if I even want to be part of this show anymore. But I do know that I don't want to see you. Just take your Louis Vuitton bag”—see, lots of opportunities to get that in—“and go play reality TV with some other family. Leave me alone.”

“Allison—” He reaches out and touches my shoulder, but I shrug him off. “Very well. I will leave if that is what you wish, but the consequences may not be to your liking.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You signed a contract that stipulated all access. Are you reneging on the terms of that legally binding document?”

I glare at him, feeling like a cat on her way to the vet for shots. No escape. “You don't care about footage. You're just trying to weasel your way into my life.”

“That is not true.”

“Fine. Then send a camera crew, but you and your Louis Vuitton bag can go.”

“Allison”—he reaches for my shoulder again, but I give him a warning glare—“please, allow me to apologize for what happened at the fashion show. I am so very, very sorry. It will not happen again.”

“You're right about that. Get out.”

I watch him closely. His face is so sincere—eyes puppy-dog–pleading, brows crumpled, mouth turned down at the corners. That soft, sensual mouth—damnit!

“Allison.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and this time
when I remove it, he manages to keep hold of my hand. “Can you forgive me? You were just so beautiful, so sexy, I was overwhelmed.”

Okay, now this is a load of bullshit, but it's nice bullshit. I mean, it's not every day a girl's told she was impossible to resist. But it's going to take a hell of a lot more than words to win me over.

“If you pull any crap like the other night—”

“Allison!” My mother rushes up the stairs, probably picking her moment after eavesdropping from the first floor. She's balancing a tray of deviled eggs in one hand and holding her hat securely with the other. “What is wrong with you? The prince is our guest, and”—she lowers her voice—“he came to see Y-O-U!”

I cross my arms. “Perfect.” I forgot how my mother can be. When she gets emotional—nervous, excited—she reverts back to when Gray and I were kids and she would spell all the words she wanted to keep us from understanding.

Nicolo smiles, all charm. “Thank you again for your graciousness in allowing this intrusion on your holiday, Mrs. Holloway. I have just been telling your daughter that if she does not want me here—”

“Of course she wants you here!” my mother protests loudly. “Allison is tired from the drive. Please, call me Mitsy, and come back out on the deck. Lunch is almost ready. Allison, why haven't you changed yet?”

I roll my eyes and follow Nicolo and Mitsy downstairs. Nicolo's taken the tray of eggs from her, and she's looking up at him as if he's her prince in shining armor.

“Allison, you didn't tell me Prince Parma was so handsome. Of course, you didn't tell me he was royalty, either.” She glares at me, but Nicolo just smiles.

“Please, it is a courtesy title, nothing else,” he says as we near the sliding glass doors.

Through the glass, I see that the weather is truly gorgeous today. The sky is as blue as the lake, no clouds speckle the sky, and a pleasant breeze teases the spires of the blue spruces and the leaves of the maple trees.

I follow my mother through the patio door and onto the deck. On the left is my dad's grill, smoking with what smells deliciously like hamburgers. To the right, with the best view of the lake through the trees, are three chairs. Grayson's already in one, and my mother motions to Nicolo to take his choice of the others. Gray glares at me, looking like he'd rather sit with Saddam Hussein than Nicolo.

Dad's trying to affix a large American flag to the center rail of the deck. He's already got Illinois and Wisconsin state flags up and flying.

“Allison's here!” my mother announces.

My dad doesn't turn from the recalcitrant flag, but calls, “Hi, darlin'.”

I leave Nicolo and wander over to my dad. “Hi, Daddy. Sorry about the unexpected guest.”

“No problem. Your mother practically asked the guy to move in. This is exciting stuff for her.”