Good for You (13 page)

Chapter 26

REID

I’m not surprised that Dori’s strategy is to act like nothing happened between us yesterday. Avoidance is a clever method for getting past any type of emotional eruption.

John and I would never have sustained a friendship this long without turning the occasional blind eye to each other’s assholian outbursts. Dori responded to that kiss with uninhibited abandon, after which the logical part of her brain began screaming for a do-over back to the moment she could have kept it from occurring at al .

That
is not going to happen.

She wants to pretend I never kissed her. I want a repeat performance. Those goals stand on starkly opposite ends of the spectrum. The first step to pul ing her to my way of thinking is to meet in the middle. I just have to figure out where the hel the middle is.

The Habitat project is winding to a close. The house is almost finished, and no one is immune to the building anticipation of that completion, which won’t occur until after Dori has departed for Ecuador and I’ve served out my sentence. I have to admit, I sort of want to see it done, see sentence. I have to admit, I sort of want to see it done, see them get the keys. Gabriel e’s parents have been working some hours here and there, so I’ve seen them around, though we haven’t crossed paths while working—I’m sure Roberta made sure of that. So I’m kind of stunned when Mrs. Diego appears next to me before lunch, as I’m emptying a bag of mulch into the shrub and flower borders across the backyard.

“Mr. Alexander,” she says, her accent thick,
meester
alisander
.

Since no one was injured when my car plowed through the front of their house, and since the house was a rental and therefore not their property, it wasn’t necessary for the Diegos to be present at court. Regardless, I recognize her immediately from the news reports that surrounded my accident. She’s petite, more so than she looked on TV, standing next to her husband as they were interviewed by multiple news stations, gesturing to the gaping hole in the house behind them and praising God and a shitload of saints that none of their children were injured.

Her rounded face is weathered, lined more heavily than Mom’s, though I suspect she’s years younger than my mother. This is a woman who’s worked hard al of her adult life, and probably long before that. Her caramel eyes are warm and spirited, though.

I nod, tossing the empty mulch bag with the others. “Mrs.

Diego.”

She glances over the flower beds, the pile of mulch I’ve yet to spread around the new plants. “You are doing a good job. Thank you for helping to build our new home.” For a split second, I’m struck with a sense of self-satisfaction I have no right to feel. But I’m legal y obligated to be here, which of course she knows, so I’m not certain how to respond. “You’re welcome,” is al I can think to say.

She inclines her head, accepting this trivial reply, al owing the two of us to pretend that I’m another philanthropic, Dori-like person, volunteering my hands and muscles to assist in providing a house for a deserving family.

***

Lowering myself to the concrete ledge where Dori balances her lunch on her lap and unscrews the lid on a bottle of water, I say quietly, “So about that kiss…” Inhaling sharply, she turns to me, eyes wide, hands frozen midair with the bottle in one hand and the cap in the other.

So much for meeting in the middle.

I wait while she glances around the yard to make sure we can’t be overheard. “That was a momentary lapse of…

o f
reason
,” she hisses. I smile and she glances around again. If anyone is paying attention, the look on her face would convince them we were plotting a break-in at Fort Knox. Luckily, Dori and I sitting next to each other talking isn’t news, and the back of my head is blocking any head-on paparazzi shots of her expression before she pul s it under control.

“Last time I checked, kissing wasn’t found on the
reason
scale,” I say.

Her lips compress into a hard line, which is a damned shame. I try not to stare at them. Or think about how they felt when I kissed her, which makes me
want
to stare at them. I concentrate on the faint dusting of freckles across her cheekbones and nose instead, but strangely this only magnifies my craving to kiss her.

“Look.” Her jaw clenches. “That shouldn’t have happened. We need to pretend that never happened.” I can’t help grinning. “You mean
you
need to pretend it never happened.” My gaze slips to her lips, back to her eyes. “I, however, want to try it again."

“Wel , I
don’t
.” The words are snapped off like she’s flicking them at me. She’s got the aloof demeanor down pat

—eyes narrowed and chin elevated, but the quick pulse beating visibly at the base of her throat gives her away.

“I think you do.”

“Dori?” Our heads snap up simultaneously, guiltily, as though we’ve been discovered making out in the middle of lunch. Roberta stands over us, her gaze shifting back and forth between us.

Dori scrambles up. “Yes?” I want to grab her hand, tel her to take a breath and chil , but that would probably have the opposite effect. I can’t hear what Roberta asks, and Dori doesn’t look back as they move towards the back door. I’m nonexistent, or forgotten.

But no. I know where to look to see if she’s affected. Her ears don’t lie, even if the rest of her is trying its damnedest to.

*** *** ***

Dori

“Are you al right?” Roberta peers at me through her owl glasses once we’re inside, but her question doesn’t make me uneasy because I’m so relieved to escape Reid’s assertion. I wish I could say it was utterly false, but it isn’t:
I
think you do
. My chest goes tight with the accuracy of it.

“Sure. What do you mean?” My objective is to sound casual, which works right up until
mean
comes out as more of a squeak than a word. I clear my throat and repeat, “Uh, what do you mean?”

A mosquito buzzes in front of her face and she swats at it while I try to compose myself. “Nothing—” she swats again. “It just seemed—” swatting with both hands “—like the two of you were having a disagreement.” The mosquito buzzes towards me and I clap my hands together, catching it dead center and then running my palms down my denim shorts.
Eww, eww
,
eww
. “Is that why you cal ed me inside?” I hedge, turning to grab a disinfecting wipe and scrubbing my hands with it.

“Er, no.” She walks towards the bedroom serving as her office, tossing back, “I just wanted to double check which day next week is your last. Someone asked me yesterday and I said Tuesday, but it occurred to me that I’m not exactly sure.”

Could Reid have posed that inquiry? “Tuesday is the plan. I leave early Thursday morning, and I thought I should have a day to pack and make sure I’ve got everything in order.”

“Wel ,” she smiles, “Everyone wil certainly miss you.” Everyone?

At 2:45, I volunteer to go with Gene, who has to make a run to the garden center where we get trees and shrubs.

Reid wil be gone by the time we return. Not that this fact has anything to do with my offer to tag along.

Coward
, my body says.

One day down, three to go
, my brain says.

Chapter 27

REID

“So you’re out of here after Tuesday, right?” Dori straightens from rows of plantation blind parts spread across the recently carpeted floor of the living room

—slats, cords, hardware and tools separated and organized. “Correct,” she answers, hesitant. She takes her latte from my hand with both of hers, one over the top, one under the bottom, making sure we don’t touch, heedless of what she’s revealing. If she was unaffected when I touch her, she wouldn’t need to avoid the physical contact. I stuff my free hand in my pocket, because that wayward little strand of hair hangs over one of her dark eyes, taunting me with what I did the last time it fel there.

I decided after her disappearing act yesterday afternoon that I might as wel pul out the big guns, because God knows I’ve got nothing to lose. Four days from now wil be the last I see of her; I can’t imagine our paths ever intersecting again. “Since you’l be busy then with packing and last-minute stuff, let me take you to dinner tonight instead. To thank you for being such a patient overseer.” Dori is one of the smartest girls I’ve ever met, so I know she’l see through the fact that I’m acting as if we’ve already got a date for next week and I’m just repositioning it to be more convenient. She’s not going to fal for it, but I’m not sure if she’l cal me on it.

She hides behind her hand momentarily, closing her eyes to draw that too-short strand of hair off of her face and tuck it behind her ear. She takes a soft breath before speaking. “I can’t go to dinner with you.” Ah—the simple, no-explanation approach.

Nope. She’s not getting off that easily.

“Why not?”

“My VBS kids have a rehearsal tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

She fidgets with her cup lid. “The program is tomorrow night.”

I take a sip of coffee, stal ing. These are legitimate excuses. Does she expect me to continue asking? I never ask twice, let alone three times.

“Sunday night?”

“Church.”

Strike three. I can’t help it—I start laughing and she purses her lips and frowns stonily. I tap my chin. “Let me guess. Monday night your friends are seeing you off, and Tuesday, your family has something planned.” She scrapes the cup lid, not meeting my amused gaze.

Which is just as wel , because I’m feeling as frustrated as I am amused, and I’m not sure how wel my blasé guise is holding up. “Wednesday,” she says, glancing up. “The family thing is on Wednesday.”

Some teasing comment is at the tip of my tongue, but that’s not what emerges. “So you’re free Tuesday.” She sucks a little air through parted lips. Probably expecting the teasing comment. “Theoretical y.”

“Is that a yes?”

Her chest is rising and fal ing shal owly, because she’s al owed me to work her right into a corner and we both know it. She’s going to bolt anyway. I see it in her eyes as her brain casts around for a way out of it.

“Dori,” my voice is low, calming, “it’s just dinner, and then you’re off to your life and I’m soon off to mine. Unless you want me to believe that teaching me to paint wal s and instal shelves was oh-so-easy on you.” I smile my most disarming, innocuous smile. “I’ve been a splinter in your pinky for three weeks. C’mon. Make me pay for it.” I want to touch her, my fingers curling inside the pocket of my jeans, but I don’t dare.

When she nods, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to pump a fist in the air and say
hell yeah
. “Okay,” she says, eyeing me. “Just dinner.”

“Dinner. Tuesday. Good.” I pul my phone from my pocket and get her number and address before she changes her mind, and then I tap the lid of my cup against hers before I go outside. “Later, boss.”

*** *** ***

Dori

What. Have. I. Done.

Chapter 28

REID

In the interest of giving Dori less opportunity to back out on tonight, I’ve kept my distance for the past few days. I ate lunch with Frank on Friday and Gabriel e yesterday, while continuing the morning latte delivery, timed for when Dori was occupied with something or someone that distracted her from speaking to me alone.

Now it’s Tuesday morning, and it’s clear she’s confused.

This is a perfect execution of my usual game plan: a shifting pattern of advance and retreat, sidestepping any resistance until I get what I want. That’s the problem, though

—I stil don’t know what I want beyond a repeat of that kiss, and I seriously doubt any more than that would be possible.

Maybe Tadd was right, and the mere chal enge of her is the thing that’s messing with my head. There’s something uncontaminated about her, and I don’t even mean sexual y or whatever. I mean the way she
is
, at her core. Like when you wake up and the world has been blanketed by snow overnight, and not a single footstep or tire track has spoiled the untouched perfection of it.

Do I want to be that bastard kid who clomps al over the Do I want to be that bastard kid who clomps al over the yard, just because?

When I arrive, I find Dori easily by her familiar very-patient voice as she demonstrates to Gabriel e how to apply stenciled patterns to her pink wal . “Once you have the stencil secure, dab this domed brush into the paint, and then onto the wal . But make sure you don’t get too much, or it’l drip.”

“Like this?” Gabriel e asks, and Dori nods, watching her.

“Perfect.”

I haven’t spoken or made a sound, but Dori turns slowly, as though I whispered her name. A smal crease appears between her brows as she watches me cross the room.

Gabriel e turns then, too, skipping up to meet me halfway and bouncing as she pul s up in front of me, hands clasped.

“Oooh, is the one with whipped cream for me?”

“Of course. Maybe al that sugar wil make you sweeter.” She rol s her eyes and giggles, forever unoffended by anything I say to her.

Dori seems so reserved in contrast, and I smile down at her as she murmurs her thanks and takes her cup. She forgets to avoid the slide of my fingers against hers… or she chooses not to avoid it. “You’re welcome,” I say in return.

I’m halfway down the hal when I hear Dori say my name.

As I turn, I’m scrambling for a rational argument for why she can’t cancel on me.

“Are we stil —?” she begins, stopping mid-sentence when I face her.

“Yeah. Of course.” The tone of my voice says I’d maybe

“Yeah. Of course.” The tone of my voice says I’d maybe forgotten the whole thing, when in actuality I’m relieved and switching gears. “Seven okay?” I step closer, look down into her upturned face. The day outside is overcast, darkening the hal way, so I can barely distinguish her pupils from the deep brown of her irises. She glances at the cup in her hand, and I note the thickness of her lashes, long and straight as they feather across the tops of her cheeks, framing her eyes as she looks back up at me.

“Seven’s good. How… should I dress?”

I consider her experience with church and school functions, the strict views of proper and inappropriate, dressing up or dressing down. With the exceptions of filming and my recent court appearance, I wear whatever I want, because I just don’t give a shit. Respect should be reserved for the person, not the outfit.

For my last photo shoot, they put me on a float in a chlorinated pool wearing a Gucci suit, reclining, one pant leg dangling into the water. The suit, worth thousands, was thoroughly ruined by the half-an-hour soak in pool chemicals. Contrast this with the fact that I regularly walk into jacket-and-tie-only restaurants wearing jeans and a tshirt. No one ever says anything other than
Right this way,
Mr. Alexander
. I suspect this is one aspect of celebrity Dori would appreciate.

“Dress however you want,” I tel her. “Just be comfortable.”

*** *** ***

Dori

Dress however I want? What does that
mean
?

I’ve never been too caught up in fashion beyond fol owing whatever social constraints were in place—a modest dress or skirt at church, modest jeans and t-shirts for school.
Modest
is the adjective most likely to describe any piece of clothing I own, unless
blah
can be used as an adjective. Not that I want to wear anything provocative to go to dinner with Reid. But I don’t particularly want to look like a street person, either. Photographers fol ow him everywhere. I shouldn’t care, but I do, a little. So on Sunday night, when I surveyed the garments hanging in my closet and stuffed into the armoire I inherited from my grandmother, I felt genuine fear. If I knew his phone number, I’d have texted him right then and canceled.

Now he’s tel ing me to dress comfortably—however I want. And I seriously have no idea what he means by that.

What was I thinking, agreeing to this? When I told Deb, she sighed heavily. “Be careful, baby girl. Forget comfortable—

wear something with a padlock. And leave the key at home.”

I laughed half-heartedly. No one could see through me like Deb, even from hundreds of miles away. “Yeah. I know.” I could cal Aimee and Kayla, but they would hyperventilate at the thought of Reid Alexander taking me to dinner. They would also insist on performing an emergency head-to-toe makeover, and that is
not
happening. This is not a date. This is just dinner.

Just. Dinner.

***

I’m staring into my closet again, and predictably, nothing has magical y appeared since I looked two nights ago. I’m obsessing and I know it. I tel myself to choose something already and put it on. He doesn’t care what I wear.

I yank a dress off of a hanger and pul it over my head, and then search through unlabeled shoe boxes for the heeled sandals I wore to graduation. I usual y wear flats with dresses, because if I’m wearing a dress, there’s a 99%

chance I’m at church, and if I’m at church, I’m helping with anything from nursery duty to passing out Sunday service bul etins. Plus heels aren’t the most comfortable footwear ever invented. After my interminable graduation ceremony, I whined to Mom that enduring a few hours in those things gave me newfound sympathy for those unfortunate Chinese girls with the bound feet. She laughed, said, “Welcome to womanhood,” and gave me a foot massage. I haven’t worn them since, which means they’re stil new and are going to pinch the fudge out of my toes.

I move to the mirror and check my reflection.

Unsurprisingly, the plain black sleeveless sheath hasn’t turned me into a hottie, even with the strappy black heels.

The most praise I could give myself is that this is an improvement over my usual grungy construction worker look. I hope.

I stuff my cel , lip gloss, and my license into the tiny designer knockoff wal et-on-a-strap that Aimee and Kayla brought me from their trip to New York last summer. I usual y carry an enormous canvas bag that holds everything from ibuprofen to a smal pack of crayons, and if necessary, a change of clothes. Dad cal s it my Mary Poppins satchel and amuses himself by asking me if I happen to have a hat rack handy. A guy at school once told people I kept a sleeping bag in there, which is idiotic and I can’t fathom why anyone believed him, but a few people actual y did.

I haven’t told Mom and Dad what I’m doing tonight yet.

I’m not sure
why
I haven’t told them. I’m not afraid they’l forbid me from going—as far as they know, there are no irresponsible deeds in my past, so why would there be any in my future? Not that going to dinner with Reid is irresponsible. Odd, maybe. I look in the mirror one last time before I go downstairs. This is far from the partying outfit some starlet or society girl would wear out, but it’s equal y far from anything
I’d
typical y wear.

When my heels strike the worn wood floor at the foot of the stairs, Esther trots around the corner and stops feet from me, ears pricked up, head tilted. Great. My outfit confuses my
dog
. This doesn’t bode wel for my parents’

reaction.

I walk into the kitchen where they’re making dinner, and Dad pauses in his account of a parishioner whose eleven-year-old son was caught sel ing amphetamines at school.

“Not having dinner with us tonight, pumpkin?” he asks, probably noticing no more about my attire than the fact that I’m wearing shoes.

Mom isn’t as clueless. Her eyes go a little wide when she turns around. “Dori in a dress? And
heels
? What’s happened? Doug, quick, check the window. Are pigs flying by?” She laughs at her own joke and I rol my eyes at her.

“Seeing Nick tonight?” she asks slyly.

I purse my lips. I should have expected that assumption.

“Er, no, actual y. I’m just, uh, going to dinner with Reid.” They both blink, puzzled.

“Reid? As in Reid Alexander, the movie star?” Mom recovers first.

“That’s the one.” My voice is overly bright. I shrug. “He sort of wanted to apologize—wel , you know, as much as he ever apologizes—for being such a pain the past few weeks.”

Her left eyebrow crooks up. “Reid Alexander, the spoiled movie star, is taking you to dinner to apologize for acting like a spoiled movie star,” she reiterates.

I nod.

“And there’s no
other
reason he wants to take you on a date…”

“It’s not a date,” I say, too quickly, and her right eyebrow rises to the level of the left one, her eyes scanning me head to toe. “Mom, honestly, this outfit is so… so…”

“So unlike something my daughter, Dori, normal y wears?”

My cheeks warm, and I hope the light is low enough to mask it. Dad’s eyes dart between us. He’s trying to determine whether or not he should be alarmed.

“I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the spoiled movie star, that’s al .”

Mom looks at Dad pointedly and he clears his throat.

“Um, I don’t think your mother is questioning your motives, pumpkin, just
his
.”

Oh my
gosh
. “We aren’t exactly celebrity watchers, but you guys must know the type of girl Reid would be interested in
that way
—and I’m so
not
like that. It would be humiliating if I even
wanted
him to feel that way. Trust me, I
don’t
and he
doesn’t
. He’s just being…nice.” I struggle not to think of that kiss, certain it wil show on my face.

“Humph,” Mom says.

“I don’t know, Dori,” Dad says.

Their belief that I could be some sort of celebrity-tempting siren is almost humorous. But since I just twisted the truth claiming I’ve never wanted Reid to want me—even if that desire only existed for a few seconds—this line of questioning is anything but funny. “Trust me.”

“We do!” they chorus, just as the doorbel rings, Esther barks, and I jump, one-two-three.

“Okay, wel , I’m sure I won’t be very late.” As I head for the front door, Mom shoves Dad in my direction.

“I’l , er, get the door and meet the young man before you go. Just in case.”

I don’t ask what
just in case
means.

Esther is on ful alert, barking like someone is taking an ax to the door. “Esther,
quiet
.
Sit
,” Instantly silent, she sits.

“Good girl.” Esther obeys Dad and Deb every time, and Mom and me when she’s in the mood. She knows who she can manipulate to bend the rules a little. Like me and the no-dogs-on-the-sofa rule. Mom and the no-dogs-on-the-bed rule. Both of us and the no-people-food rule.

Dad opens the door with his best Dad Smile—the expression that says:
I’m smiling, but if you hurt my
daughter, I know a place where no one will ever think to
dig
. “Mr. Alexander, I presume.”