Smart Girl (11 page)

The entire way to Liam’s house, I curse myself in both of the languages I know. I’d almost convinced myself that he was a douche lord, and I’d for sure convinced myself that I was going to get over him swiftly and with the strength and dignity of a young Princess Diana. Then the second he’d sent me a text saying he wished he could relive yesterday, I was so giddy with relief that I’d immediately offered to help him recreate it in detail.

I must pop my knuckles fifty times on the short trip to his house, and my face catches on fire remembering the messages we sent back and forth. Turns out, while I’m
way
awkward at it in real life, I’m kind of dangerously good at flirting via text message. All the way up PCH, I give myself a stern talking-to on all the reasons I should turn right around and go home, but I keep driving.

When I pull into his driveway, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror. I’d told myself I didn’t care what he thought of me after yesterday and refused to change out of my lounge clothes. But I’m also honest enough to admit that I reapplied lip gloss three times, and my hair was already good from my earlier OCD session with a blow-dryer. I actually look kind of pretty. I scowl at my reflection. What am I doing? How have I gone through every emotion possible and still find myself wishing I had a little mascara?

I slam my fist into the steering wheel hard enough to sting. I refuse to let him get away with this. He’s going to hear about every single terrible thing I’ve thought over the last ten hours, whether he likes it or not. My UGG boot catches on the door of the car in my attempt to flounce out of it dramatically, but I right myself and avoid eating pavement. By the time I head up his walkway, I’m composed and fully ready to tell him off.

Before I can reach out to knock, the door flies open, revealing Liam in workout clothes with hair still wet from a shower. He’s clean and shiny, and even from here he smells like fresh laundry. I could handle all of that, though; it’s his smile that I’m not equipped to deal with. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him look, and he’s looking that way because I’m in front of him.

When he pulls me through the door and into his arms, it feels so good and so right and so wonderful that I let him kiss me. Then I’m kissing him back, demanding and angry and relieved all at once. He lifts me up and carries me down the hallway to his bedroom, and the important words, the angry words, the
right
words I meant to say fall forgotten to the floor along with my sweater.

Hours later I lie on my stomach in a tangle of sheets while Liam traces the artwork on my rib cage with his fingertips. His bedroom is a study in white. White sheets, white duvet, white walls. In fact, the only color at all comes from the hardwood floors and the view beyond the windows. It’s dark outside now, but come morning the room lights up with the vibrancy of the sun reflecting off the Pacific.

The memory of the view in the early morning sunshine reminds me what it was I meant to say earlier. I prop myself up on an elbow and push wild hair out of my face.

“This morning sucked.”

His hand stops its slow progression up my side, and he looks up at me in confusion.

“How so?”

“You took off before I woke up. You left a note on the nightstand.” I sit up and pull the sheets along with me, though modesty is sort of ridiculous given the last twenty-four hours. “A car service, Liam, really? It’s something the evil ex-boyfriend does in one of those books with cheesy covers where, like, diamonds are spilling out of a wine glass—what is that even an allegory for?” I remember my point. “Either way, it sucked.”

He sits up too, and I’m momentarily distracted by his abs, because . . . seriously. He runs a hand through his hair quickly, and it falls back around his face in disarray.

“I had an early meeting today. I told you that last night.”

I make sure he can see me when I roll my eyes.

“Nobody in Los Angeles has a meeting before eight a.m. And even if you did, who peaces out before saying good-bye? And leaves a driver waiting?”

“You needed a way home. I was trying to be thoughtful.”

I raise my eyebrows as high as they’ll go.

“You were
trying
to get rid of me.”

He considers me for a long moment before looking away at the darkened windows. “Maybe.”

The truth might have hurt my feelings if not for the quiet way he admits it. I clutch the sheets tighter around me.

“It made me feel like any of the rest of them.”

He doesn’t insult me by pretending not to know who I mean. He looks back at me both wary and annoyed. I’m positive I’m only seconds away from a lecture on how I knew the deal coming in and how he never signed up for a scenario where my feelings were a factor at all. My stomach churns, and I try to prepare myself for whatever haughty thing a man with his experience says to a woman with mine. His head drops, and he stares down at the sheets.

“What do you want me to say, Miko?”

I didn’t expect that.

Of all the things I thought he’d say, that question wasn’t even close. I guess that’s why I answer with total honesty, even if my voice seems quiet with the admission.

“I want you to admit that I’m different . . . than the rest of them.”

“That’s an immature thing to ask.”

I raise my chin. “I don’t care.”

He chews on it for a moment.

“I’ve never had anyone back here a second time.”

What am I supposed to do with that? Does that mean I’m special? Does that mean this is the first of many sleepovers or merely that I was lucky enough to get a round two?

“What am I to you?”

I can tell the question annoys him. I doubt it’s what a worldly and mature woman would ask after less than a day.

He runs another troubled hand through his hair.

“A friend?”

Wait, what?

“Is this what you do with your
friends
?” I sound utterly scandalized, which must strike him as funny, because he laughs.

He gives me the full weight of that lazy, sexy grin, and I’m powerless not to respond to it. It feels like kryptonite.

“I don’t have women friends.” He reaches a fingertip out and traces it along my arm. Heat licks at the trail that finger leaves behind. “Though you are making me seriously reconsider what I’ve been missing out on.”

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I need to focus. I need some clear definition of what to expect here.

“What do you want from me?”

He crawls closer across the sheets like a lazy cat and kisses my left shoulder.

“Right now?” he whispers.

All ability to speak is lost when his lips hit my skin. I nod.

“I want to make you breakfast.”

It startles a giggle out of me, since it’s so obviously not where my thoughts were headed. “But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Call it a late dinner.” He leans back to look at me earnestly. “Or call it the late, late breakfast I should have made you this morning.”

I bite my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

“You’re getting better at that.” Liam taps my mouth gently with his fingertip.

I’m getting better at a lot of things. Like right now I’m getting better at stopping myself from blurting out all of the things I love about him. I’m getting better at not asking more questions or demanding more answers. I’m getting better at agreeing to things like breakfast in the middle of the night and pretending I’m not worried about what all this will mean in the morning. So when all I want to do is get some reassurance from him about where this is going, I keep my mouth closed instead and let him pull me down the hallway to the kitchen.

Chapter
EIGHT

The next morning when I wake up, Liam is still there, though none of his playfulness from the day before is. He kisses me good-bye in the early morning chill and tells me he’ll see me later. I am too mature and worldly to ask if that means later in the biblical sense or later as in he’ll just see me around. I cover up my questions with a casual response.

“Well, of course I’ll see you later; we’re coming over to your parents’ house for dessert, remember?”

He nods quickly. “Of course, I’ll see you then.”

I nod, and he smiles. We both just stand there not doing anything more clever than breathing. Ugh! Why does it feel so awkward now when it didn’t feel at all that way last night, even in a much more compromising position? I consider asking him if he knows the answer to that question, but I’m positive that’s not the mature thing to do.

Instead I spend the whole way back to my house debating it. I consider all options and angles until I want to punch myself in the face for having turned into a woman who obsesses over a man’s next move in two days flat. My parents are coming into town this afternoon from San Francisco, I haven’t figured out which Thanksgiving side dish I want to attempt to make today, and Florence and the Machine released a new song last week that I still haven’t memorized yet! See! There are plenty of things to focus on besides whatever it is Liam does next. I nod at this sound wisdom and turn left onto my street.

Tosh lives in Santa Monica, but his house is inland, unlike Liam’s place, where you can walk outside to his back patio and directly onto the sand. My brother bought his place a couple of years ago, because it was brand new, totally luxurious, and every single part of it had the most modern amenity on the market today. It’s two stories, a study in the color white, and half the walls are made of glass, which creates a gorgeous backdrop for the perfect landscaping out front. All those glass windows mean that the house reflects the sunlight like a diamond during the day and is lit up warm and inviting at night. It also means I have a clear line of sight to my mother sitting at the dining room table as she watches me pull my car into the driveway.

Damn and blast!

What are they doing here? Weren’t they supposed to come in later than this? The only way she can be drinking coffee in her pajamas at this time of day is if they decided to come early and got here last night. I glance quickly at the clock, willing it to be much later than it is. But no, half past seven is way too early to be driving home from somewhere.

Well, this should be fun.

I trudge up the walkway and right into the dining room. May as well get it over with. Katherine Jin is a shorty like me, but her personality is at least six feet tall. She’s still in her pajamas, a navy flannel pair I got her last Christmas, and her shoulder-length wavy auburn hair is messy from a night of sleep. I stand at the entrance to the room, pulling on the hem of my sweater and wishing at least my hair was down instead of pulled up in a bun. I could use some sort of security blanket right now.

“You’re up early,” I say lamely.

“I had to put the turkey in at an ungodly hour.” She looks me up and down. “We usually do that together.”

I have no idea how to respond, and staring regretfully at the floor isn’t offering up any answers. How did I forget that she’d be here early to do that? How did I forget that I usually do it with her? Is it possible to forget such a regular part of you life just because you have someone to make out with?

I briefly remember the way Liam’s hair hung down around me like a veil while he kissed his way down my neck. Yes, it is totally possible to forget getting a turkey in the oven when that’s your alternative. Gods, when he’s looking at me I don’t even think I can
spell
turkey.

She breaks the silence by waving me over impatiently.

“Well, first of all give me a hug, Koko. I haven’t seen you in two months, and I miss you.”

I walk quickly to her outstretched arms and get pulled into a warm embrace. She smells like vanilla and coffee, a scent that is uniquely my mother. She runs her hand up and down my back a few times and then reaches up to smooth the crown of my hair.

“Were you volunteering at a convalescent home and agreed to work the night shift so the nurses could have the evening off?” she asks hopefully.

I smile against her shoulder.

“No.”

“Did you go to a late-night yoga class and then fall asleep during child’s pose, and they just left you there on the floor because they could tell you were exhausted?”

“You know I hate yoga.”

“Did you go to one of those all-night raves that only just got out an hour ago?”

I pull out of her arms and give her a sad smile.

“Would you prefer that I had?”

She’s already nodding before I finish the sentence.

“Yes, I think I would prefer it actually.” She sighs. “Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

I sit down at the dining room table as she disappears into the kitchen. While she’s gone I trace the pattern of the wood grain with my index finger to keep my hands busy. A cup of coffee appears next to them, and she sits down across from me with her own mug.

“Did Tosh tell you?”

He might not have liked where I’d been the last two nights, but I’d told him just the same. My brother always knew where I was. He worried if he didn’t know, and as long as he didn’t try to lecture me, he always remained inside the circle of knowledge.

She makes a tutting sound.

“You know he’d never tell me something like that.” She takes a sip of coffee. I wonder how many cups she’s had already and how long she’s been waiting at the table for me. “He told me you were at a slumber party.”

It’s a little juvenile of him, sure. But it’s not a lie. It’s also not outside the realm of possibilities. I’ve passed out at Landon and Max’s place more times than I can count, and once we did convince Max to have a real-life slumber party with pajamas and party games. Well, when I say
party games
, I mean that we drank and watched
The Bachelorette
, but that’s neither here nor there.

“So maybe I was at—”

“Landon and Brody left for Texas yesterday, and Max is working around the clock to fill all her Thanksgiving orders. You told me that last week, remember?”

Well, this is what you get for having a close personal relationship with your mother. Ugh! Why can’t I have a properly dysfunctional family like everyone else? At least then she wouldn’t know so much about my life and my friends, wouldn’t see through me when I walk in the door in last night’s clothes. I feel sick to my stomach.

“It’s the boy you like, right? That’s where you were last night.”

Only a mother would refer to a grown man as
the boy you like
. I nod down at my coffee cup.

Her voice is careful.

“Does this mean that you’re dating now?”

I never told her his name, but I’ve mentioned him enough over the last six months for her to understand that I have feelings for someone and am hoping to make him mine. Being honest is so much harder because she has that backstory. I shake my head.

Her brow furrows ominously.

“What does that mean?”

I try on worldly and mature for my mom to see if it works on her too.

“We’re just hanging out.” I sip my coffee as casually as possible, but it’s hot and I burn my tongue. I cover it up with a pained squeal while I choke—you know, like all worldly and mature women do. “It’s just a casual thing.” I finish when my tongue stops throbbing.

She shakes her head slightly in disbelief.

“This isn’t going to work.”

I feel indignant and rush to defend myself.

“This is 2015, Mother, and I’m twenty-six years old! I know it’s not a choice you would make, but if you try and lay some Catholic guilt on me, I’m going to scream. It doesn’t make sense to you, but it’s my life and it’s working just fine.”

Some of my hair has escaped the bun in an attempt to defend me as well. She reaches out to tuck a piece back behind my ear, completely ignoring my tirade. The sad look on her face tears my heart out. She reaches for my hand and grabs it tightly.

“You don’t understand. What you’re doing wouldn’t be my choice, but I recognize that you’re allowed to make your own. I mean that it’s not going to work because you’re not capable of this kind of relationship—”

“You don’t know what I’m—”

“Yes, I do. You’ve got more heart than anyone I know. If you’ve been interested in him for so long, it means he’s got a piece of yours whether he wants it or not. It’s not going to work, because you won’t be capable of casually”—she clears her throat—“
hanging out.
If that’s all he’s interested in, you’re going to be hurt by this eventually. You don’t know how to love halfway.”

Her hazel eyes are filled with worry, but they stare me down with a bit of demand.

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Tosh announces with far too much enthusiasm. He’s already dressed for the day, and I wonder how long he’s been hiding in the hallway listening to our conversation. Based on the look on his face, I’m assuming he’s heard enough and totally agrees with my mother. He’s going to rescue me all the same. It’s a sibling code of honor.

“I thought we’d take them to breakfast, since we’re going to be cooking most of the day. What do you think, Koko?”

I
think
I want to hug him for creating a distraction. I
think
I want to curl up in a ball and cry over my mother’s obvious disapproval. I
think
my gut is churning with all the emotions I’ve experienced in the last couple of days. I
think
breakfast is a much better option than doing any of those things. When I answer it’s with just as much false enthusiasm as Tosh used.

“How about doughnuts?”

When we roll up to the Ashtons’ home later that afternoon, the holiday is already in full swing. I say
roll
because among the four of us, we polished off enough of my mom’s food to warrant some embarrassment on our parts. The idea of consuming anything else should make me want to heave, but I can always find room for one of Max’s desserts. I’m looking forward to it almost as much as I’m looking forward to seeing how Vivian’s florist has designed the party.

I’ve never been to Thanksgiving at their house before, but I know from Landon that Viv always throws a huge dinner party complete with chefs and servers and centerpieces the size of a one-year-old child. For once it’s fun to be the one invited to something like this instead of the one producing it for a client.

When we ring the bell, it’s Charlie who opens the door in slacks and a blue sweater that matches his eyes. He greets my parents with the enthusiasm usually reserved for long-lost cousins. It’s always interesting to watch someone meet your family for the first time, to wonder what they’ll think now that they can fit more pieces of your puzzle together. I wonder what he sees, looking at my parents now. My mother is chic, but in the understated way of Audrey Hepburn. My dad isn’t as tall as our host, but he has his own impeccable sense of style, and the salt and pepper in his hair makes him look distinguished. He shakes Charlie’s hand and offers up a beautifully wrapped bottle.

“Miko tells me you’re a wine connoisseur. Since we’re not too far from Napa, we took the liberty of picking out something exceptional for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Charlie says, though it doesn’t sound very convincing. He starts to untie the twine, eyes alight with possibilities of small boutique wineries or a vintage Meritage blend. “Though it’s certainly appreciated. I love finding out what other people . . .”

His voice trails off as the paper falls away to reveal the bottle of Charles Shaw we picked up especially for this day. Anyone who’s ever shopped at Trader Joe’s knows that bottle costs exactly $1.99.

“We splurged and got the 2016,” Mom says cheekily.

Charlie starts laughing. Not chuckles, but deep, real laughter of surprise over the bottle of Two-Buck Chuck. He smiles and looks at me.

“Well, now I know where she gets it.”

Everyone laughs, and after a few more jokes about the wine, we head in the direction of the party. We don’t make it more than a handful of feet before my dad stops walking completely. The entryway is muted in tones of white and beige; the only color at all comes from the large painting on the wall that’s lit from at least three different directions by lights installed for just that purpose. Dad stands in the center of the room and stares at the Pollock with the rapture of a pilgrim returning to the Holy Land. I exchange a grin with Tosh. I purposely didn’t tell my art-professor father about Charlie’s art collection, because I thought it’d be way more fun to see him experience it with surprise. I was right.

Charlie admires it along with him. “I fell in love with his work the first time I saw the Guggenheim collection. I chased after this piece for fifteen years before I was able to snag it at auction.”

“It’s fantastic,” Dad says with reverence.

“They have at least one of his there at Stanford, right?”