Escaping Perfect (3 page)

“No!” I blurted, which made his eyes widen. “I mean . . . I'm sorry. No, I'm . . . I'm fine.”

Though, if his expression was any indication, I looked anything
but
fine. I flipped my hood up again, ducking my head. “Is Daria's Salon still . . . here somewhere?”

“Sure.” His brow furrowed as he pointed. “Just across Peach Street and five doors down.”

Relief rushed through me.

“Thank you,” I said, suddenly remembering my manners.

He nodded, and I speed-walked away on weakened knees, crossing Peach without even bothering to check for cars. I did, however, notice the huge, colorful message spray-painted on the brick wall on the far side of Peach—the outer wall of a shop called the Book Nook. Scrawled against a purple background in bright pink and yellow letters were the words
IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU'D BE HOME NOW.

I felt like the wall was speaking directly to me. I
was
home. I was. I just had to make sure I didn't get caught.

Daria had changed her formerly purple awning to a
bright aqua one, but otherwise everything looked the same—the white iron benches outside, the curved front windows, the big pink shears painted on the door. Would it be better if she was working right now, or if she wasn't? I realized it was semi-insane, walking into the business establishment of the one person in town who might recognize me, but I needed to see her. Seeing her would make me feel closer to Gigi, and right now, I needed Gigi more than anything.

If she recognized me, I'd just have to beg her not to send me home. Since she was Gigi's best friend and all, I had a feeling that doing my parents a favor wouldn't be high on her priority list.

I was a few steps away from the salon when I heard a shout; then someone bolted out of an alleyway. I didn't even have time to react before his shoulder slammed right into my side.

“Hey! Watch where you're—”

He stopped midsentence, holding on to my arm with one hand and the handle of a black guitar case with the other. His blond hair stuck straight out on both sides like he'd just woken up, and his square jaw was dotted with light stubble. The snap-front brown-and-white cowboy shirt he was wearing was tucked in on one side only, and the top button on his jeans was undone. His blue eyes
caught mine, and for a split second neither of us breathed.

“Hey,” he said, his original accusation forgotten. “Look at you.”

It was odd, as greetings went, but then he flashed a smile and my heart turned to goo. This guy was trouble. With a smile like that, he couldn't not be trouble. Unfortunately, my heart didn't care. And neither did my skin, from the way it was tingling. When he released my shoulder, I could still feel his grip, like his fingers had burned my skin.

He glanced over his shoulder, up the alleyway, then at me. Right. My turn to speak.

“I'm . . . I—”

“Oh, hey. You dropped this.” He stooped to pick up my faded gray Red Sox cap. The plastic clasp had been fastened around my bag strap but must have come undone. “Boston, huh? You're a long way from home.”

My cheeks warmed. The twang. What was it about the twang that made my pulse flutter? Also, I'd forgotten I had that hat. I should probably get rid of it, since it tied me to Boston and I had to pretend to be from . . . somewhere else.

“Hey, asshole! You forgot this!”

A beefy man leaned out of a third-floor window into the alley and tossed a well-worn black cowboy hat down to us like a Frisbee. The cowboy clutching my baseball cap
made a grab for it, but it landed at my feet. I picked it up.

“Thanks, Petey!” the cowboy shouted.

“Stay the hell away from my girlfriend!” Petey replied.

Then said girlfriend leaned out the window, a flowered robe hanging half off her shoulder, her black hair a tangled mess.

“Will do!” the guy said, lifting my cap like a wave.

I must have seemed shocked, because he looked sheepishly at the toes of his cowboy boots. “Long story,” he said. “So . . . trade?”

He held out my baseball cap. I pretended to ponder it, but then made the exchange. He palmed the hat and placed it on his head, adjusting the position.

“Here. Allow me.”

Before I could react, he'd nudged the hood off my hair with a gentle touch, grabbed my hat from my hands, and tugged it down over my forehead. Then he whistled.

“Girl, that is some head of hair,” he said, backing away toward a classic white convertible parked at the curb. “What­ever you do, don't ever change that hair.”

He placed the guitar on the passenger seat, then touched the brim of his hat with a nod. “Nice to meet you, Red Sox.”

“You, too, home-wrecker,” I replied, finally finding my voice, the effort of which made me blush—hard.

His grin widened; then he swung himself into the driver's seat and took off. Halfway down the block, his radio blared on, blasting country music loud enough to entertain the entire town.

Damn.

Who. The hell. Was that?

Slowly I turned toward Daria's place, my adrenaline from earlier totally sapped. I reached back and ran a hand down my hair, feeling its familiar softness under my fingertips. What were the chances of bumping into a guy who said he loved my hair two seconds before I was about to cut it? Was it a sign that I shouldn't?

A chorus of shouts erupted from above the alleyway—Petey and his girl getting into it, I supposed. Just like that I flashed back to reality. I didn't even know the guy's name, and obviously he was a shameless player with a flirt addiction. This was my life I was trying to start here. I had to stay focused.

I strode across the street and shoved my way inside Daria's. The acrid scent of bleach mixed with nose-itching aerosol hairspray hit me square in the senses.

Daria Case looked up from the roots she was checking. She'd put on about ten pounds, but otherwise the folds of her face, the particular salt-and-pepper of her hair, and the gold
bracelets on her arms were exactly as I remembered them. Suddenly I felt like Gigi was about to walk in from the back room, and I almost laughed and cried at the same time.

“Hi there!” Daria said brightly. “What can I do for you today, sweet pea?”

I smiled. “Sweet pea” had been my grandmother's nickname for me. I took Daria's use of it as a sign. There was no recognition behind her eyes, so I knew I was truly safe. I tugged my cap off, shaking my hair out over my shoulders.

“Cut it all off, please,” I said. “And dye it. Blond.”

Chapter Three

“I'd love the help, believe me.
But I'm not really supposed to make decisions without checking with my dad first.”

Wow. That sounded familiar.

The girl behind the counter at the Little Tree Diner—Fiona, if her name tag was to be trusted—looked like she'd just been through finals. Twice. Her stringy blond hair fell out of what might once have been a neat bun but now looked more like something dug out of a bath drain. She had purple splotches under her eyes, her skin was dry, and her gaze darted around the busy room like she was waiting for it to explode.

“Well . . . is your dad coming in soon?” I asked.

“Not until tonight.”

“Miss?” someone shouted. “Miss! I need more butter!”

“Miss? This burger is undercooked.”

“I ordered chicken parm, not chicken piccata.”

“Fiona? A little help over here?” a busboy asked.

Fiona's small shoulders slumped. “Can you start right now?”

“You're serious?” I asked.

“I mean, I can't guarantee you'll get a full-time position, but we're understaffed today . . . clearly,” she replied, wiping her hands on her black waist-apron. “Jason, can you please get the butter and fix those mixed-up orders while I talk to . . .”

She looked at me for a name.

“Lia,” I said. “Lia Washington.”

It sounded perfectly natural rolling off my tongue. I'm sure my proud smile confused her.

“Nice to meet you, Lia. I'm Fiona Taylor,” she replied.

Jason scurried off to do as she'd asked, and Fiona started bussing.

“I've got one girl who called in sick, one who helpfully texted an hour ago to tell me she landed a contract in Nashville and isn't coming back, and my dumbass brother is forty-five minutes late,” she explained. “I'll pay you out of my own wages if I have to.”

She looked up at me and her skin went blotchy. “Sorry. I don't usually swear.”

Had she sworn? I hadn't noticed. I was too busy hoping my butt off that this would turn into a real job somehow. “Oh, it's okay. Don't worry about it.”

“Can you wait tables?” she asked. “Do you have any experience?”

“Yes!” I said. “I waited tables at my school back . . . at school.”

Terrified that I'd almost blurted out a biographical detail, I looked away and reached up to tuck my hair behind my ear. Except my hair wasn't there anymore. This Lia Washington person—her background, her look, her life—was going to take some getting used to. I caught my reflection in the foggy mirrored wall behind the counter. My hair was all but shaved in the back and around my ears. Daria had kept it slightly longer on top, so that a few stray curls fell over my forehead, but those curls were now blond. I looked nothing like myself. But damn. It turned out I had some serious cheekbones. At least that's what Daria had told me.

I'd also stepped into Daria's bathroom and popped out my contacts, replacing them with my rectangular tortoiseshell glasses. The more disguise, the better. I felt like
I looked older—more sophisticated—this way. I wondered what that cowboy from the alley would think if he saw me now. Not that it mattered. Was that really how you wanted to meet someone? When he was busy crawling out some other girl's window? I shouldn't have been thinking about romance anyway. I had enough on my plate. Like securing a job and a home and making my new identity stick.

“You sure? 'Cause we get pretty busy around here,” Fiona said, walking along behind the counter with the bussing bin, tossing used plates and cups in at random. “You gotta be quick on your feet.”

“Pretty busy” was an understatement. We were standing smack-dab in the middle of the lunch rush, and every booth, table, and stool in the small L-shaped restaurant was taken. There were kids on their lunch break from school, a pack of guys probably from the nearby college taking up two eight-tops near the back, and some business lunches, too. Not that I was surprised. If the scent of the burgers and the thickness of the shakes were any indication, this place deserved its popularity.

“I can do it, I swear,” I said as I kept pace with her across the counter.

One of the more random and controversial policies at the Worthington School was that each semester every
student had to hold down a different campus job. The kids of the very wealthy and very connected would take on blue-collar tasks like sweeping the gym and cutting the lawns and, yes, waiting tables at the school café. Parents were always up in arms about it, and a lot of students complained, but I secretly liked it. It was nice to get out of my single room and be around other people, to be active. And waiting tables had been my favorite. Aside from my few casual friends, I barely ever interacted with my fellow students unless they were paying me to do their work—about the only thing I'd ever done wrong until yesterday. At the café I'd had a couple of actual conversations about things unrelated to school. Music, movies, books, life. It was like Mardi Gras. As if I'd ever experienced Mardi Gras.

“All right, then. You can stash your stuff in the back, wash your hands, and grab an apron. I'll give you a four-hour trial, and if you pass, you can meet my dad, Hal. He's the owner.”

“Cool. Thank you for the opportunity.”

I barely kept a straight face. It was all I could do to stop myself from turning a cartwheel in the middle of the diner. Fiona's bin was overflowing by now, and at the end of the counter were three half-full glasses of soda.

“Here. I'll get those,” I offered, giddy. I was employed!
I wasn't going to go broke! I could buy clothes! Maybe I'd even get my ears pierced so I could wear dangling earrings and my neck wouldn't feel so naked without my hair brushing against it. Pierced ears. My mom would die.

I pressed the three glasses between my fingers, holding them the way I'd done a million times at the café and, yes, showing off a bit. When I turned around to head for the kitchen, the front door opened, and a guy with dark hair wearing some kind of sports uniform caked in sweat came flying through.

“Sorry, I'm late, Fi!” he said with a grin, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “But we won!”

“I'm so happy,” Fiona said flatly. “Now go wash up before I murder you.”

He laughed, a carefree, booming sound that resounded inside my chest, and then he looked me up and down. This guy was undeniably handsome in a compact, muscular, boyish sort of way. He was maybe two inches shorter than me, but the sheer energy coming off of him made him feel a foot taller.

“How's it going? Duncan Taylor. I'm Fiona's cooler twin.”

He stretched a hand out to me, but mine were currently full. Still, I made some sort of move. I don't know if it was a nod or a curtsy or somewhere in between, but my backpack
slid heavily off my shoulder and yanked down on my elbow, sending me sideways. I let out a curse as all three glasses slid from my grasp. One hit the floor and smashed into a million pieces, showering the legs of the patrons at a nearby table. The other two fell into the lap of a girl who screeched so sharply I was shocked she didn't shatter even more glass.

The diner went silent. The girl, who was Asian and about my age, with perfectly olive skin and long black hair that skimmed her tiny butt, looked up at me, her chest heaving. She plucked the two glasses out of her lap with her fingertips and deposited them on her table. The soda had puddled in the folds of her white sundress along with a few ice cubes. A constellation of brown spots decorated her chest. Her almost black eyes were homicidal.

Duncan spluttered a laugh.

“What the
hell
?” the girl spat.

Her three friends, who had gone unscathed, seemed frozen in terror.

“I'm so sorry!” I blurted. “My backpack fell . . . and I . . . I'm so—”

“Do you even work here?” she shouted, her arms out at her sides, palms up, as if waiting for someone to come towel her off. “Duncan!” she cried accusingly.

“Sorry. Sorry, Shelby.” He reached over the counter to
grab a towel for her, struggling to keep from cracking up all over again.

I looked hesitantly over my shoulder at Fiona, expecting her to throw me out like a stray dog off the street. Four seconds into my four-hour trial and I was done.

But instead Fiona pressed her lips together and lifted her chin at Shelby. It took some obvious effort, like me talking back to my mother had, and I felt oddly proud of her, considering we'd just met.

“Yes. She does.” Her eyes fixed on me. “Lia, would you please run to the back and get a mop and dustpan? And you can change into a Little Tree souvenir T-shirt, too. They're on the shelf in the staff room. We all wear 'em.”

Swallowing hard, I grabbed my backpack and ran, shooting Fiona a grateful glance.

“What about me?” I heard the girl wail as I rounded the counter toward the kitchen door.

“Well, Shelby,” Fiona said, sounding tired, “I suggest you go home and get yourself changed. But don't forget to pay at the register on your way out.”

*  *  *

My four-hour trial turned into an eight-hour shift. At ten p.m., when Fiona and Duncan's father finally arrived, bringing a new team of waitresses with him, the three of us
were sitting at the end of the counter slumped over sweating glasses of sweet tea.

“So, Lia, where're you from?” Duncan asked.

“Florida,” I replied automatically. It was, after all, where Lia Washington had been born. Sort of.

“So . . . this place is open till midnight every night?” I asked, changing the subject.

At the moment there were only three tables with patrons, and they all had their food. I knew that I should get up and make sure they had everything they needed, but I'd barely slept in the last day, and every muscle in my body ached. Plus it was slowly settling in that I'd taken a job when I had no clue how much it paid, that I had no place to sleep tonight, and that the only thing I'd eaten since that awful granola bar was a half a burger I'd scarfed during my fifteen-minute dinner break.

“Yep,” Fiona said. She brought her tea to her lips but couldn't seem to catch the straw, chasing it around with her mouth popping like a guppy's. She finally gave up, put the glass down again, and placed her cheek on her arm. “And as the new girl, you're probably going to get the worst shifts, I'm sorry to tell you.”

“Isn't my sister a big ol' ray of sunshine?” Duncan joked, patting her on the back.

“'S okay,” I said with a yawn. “I can handle it.”

Keeping busy would also probably be a good thing. It would prevent me from constantly wondering what the hell I was doing and whether I was completely selfish and insane, which was what had happened every time I'd stopped to breathe this afternoon.

“So, you're Lia Washington!” Hal Taylor burst out of the kitchen with so much energy my tired brain almost whimpered. He was thin and wiry, with defined arms and what looked like a naked-lady tattoo half peeking out from beneath his T-shirt sleeve. He was bald everywhere but around his ears, where a perfect ring of short white hair circled from one side of his head to the other. His blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he was tan. Very tan. “Tell me why I should hire you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Fiona beat me to it. “Because she saved me today, Dad. Honestly. Please, hire her now before she has a chance to think better of it and run.”

Hal laughed, his head jerking back, and crossed his arms over his chest. He had the same room-filling laugh as Duncan. “Think better of it? Who wouldn't want to work here?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe the three people who didn't bother to show up today?” Duncan joked.

“Nature of the business, son! People come and people go,” Hal replied, squeezing Duncan's shoulder. “We pool tips here,” he said to me. “That cool with you?”

“Definitely.” My mouth went dry as I tried to figure out how to broach the subject of my lack of ID.

“And if you don't mind, I'll pay ya in cash. At least for now,” Hal continued. “I don't usually put the new kids on the books unless I know for sure they're staying on for at least six months. Can you guarantee that?”

I stared, dumbly, unable to believe my luck. He had just given me an out. “Um . . . no. Not exactly.”

“She's a drifter,” Duncan joked, winking at me as he popped a sugar cube from the bowl into his mouth. “An outlaw.”

I smiled. He got up and sauntered around the end of the counter to join his dad on the other side.

“Good. It's all settled, then.” Hal turned and slapped his hand down on the Formica as he looked at Fiona. “Get her on the schedule. She can have that good-for-nothing Jennifer's shifts.”

Fiona slid off her stool. “Oh, please. You loved Jennifer.”

“I did, and when she becomes a big star, I'm gonna say ‘I knew her when,'” Hal said without missing a beat as he organized the glassware behind the counter.

“Who's Jennifer?” I asked.

“The one who's down in Nashville,” Fiona replied. She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, in what I guessed was a northwesterly direction.

“Jenny's in Nashville?” Duncan asked, his eyebrows raised.

Fiona nodded. “She got a gig singing backup for Patty Parkman.”

“No way!” I said. “Good for her.”

The door behind me opened, and Fiona's posture instantly straightened.

“Good for who, what?”

My heart twirled inside my chest. I knew that voice. Slowly I turned around, and there he was, my home-wrecker cowboy. He'd changed into a blue plaid button-down over distressed jeans, and this time the shirt was tucked behind a serious silver belt buckle. His blond hair was clean and pushed back from his face, accentuating the ridiculous cheekbones, square jaw, and blue, blue eyes. He gave me a quick glance but didn't seem to recognize me at all. Meanwhile, I was sitting there practically gaping. I turned around again, mortified, my back to the door.