Good for You (14 page)

Chapter 29

REID

“Your parents are nice,” I say as she settles into the back seat next to me, pul ing the seatbelt across her chest and fastening it with a snap. “Not that I expected anything else.” She smirks. “Yes, I come from a long line of nice people.” Her fingertips drift absently over the smooth leather of the car seat. “Those with a sarcastic edge, like me for example, are expected to marry someone super-agreeable, so our descendants don’t become total y unlikable.”

My first thought is that this removes me from the running immediately and without question. The hel ? I don’t want to marry Dori. I don’t want to marry anyone.
Ever
. I can’t imagine why I’m bothered to be eliminated from the running for something I don’t want.

“That’s too bad.”

Her hand stil s on the edge of the seat. “Oh?” I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ve switched to autopilot. “I think you’d be bored to death with someone too agreeable.”

“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a

“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a brow, as though I’ve just cal ed
her
boring.

I shrug. “It’s fine, in moderation. But in a relationship, a little fire is a good thing.”
What the hell is wrong with me?

“Like you would know,” she says, and then slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

“Touché,” I laugh.

Through her hands, she says, “I’m sorry. That was a hateful thing to say.” But she’s trying not to laugh at the same time.

Insulting my capacity to maintain a relationship, hateful?

Please. That’s probably the least insulting slur she’s thrown at me. “Not unwarranted, though,” I say, stil smiling.

Her hair is down, drifting over her shoulders—no practical ponytail tonight. The highlights and lowlights I noticed when she walked up behind her dad must be natural, because I can’t imagine her bothering to add them.

Speaking of practical—her little black dress and the classic-not-trendy heels.

I’ve never actual y
seen
her upper arms before, since the sleeves of her t-shirts hang to her elbows. Her delts and biceps are curved and defined, strong but stil feminine.

The classic square neckline exposes the lines of her col arbone and the flutter of a pulse at the base of her throat, but isn’t low enough to show any cleavage. The waist nips in just under her ribcage, somewhat fitted. I’m familiar with her legs, of course, though her work shorts actual y show more of them. Not that this says much.

“This is the best I could do.” She breaks into my reverie, gesturing to her dress. “I hope we aren’t going anywhere too fancy.” Her hands twist in her lap, and I realize I’ve been staring at her. No one in the history of my dating life has dressed so sensibly and riveted my attention so entirely while doing so.

“First, we look pretty damned coordinated.” I indicate my gray slacks and black shirt. “Second, I’m used to seeing you in construction boots and a noble t-shirt de jour, most of which are pointedly anti-everything-I-stand-for. Your little black dress is a charming substitute.” She sucks her lip into her mouth and I strive to ignore that token of her uncharacteristic anxiety and the memory it evokes. “I think you’l like where we’re going. No worries, okay?” She nods, the corners of her mouth turning up, just barely, in a tiny indication of trust.

The restaurant is hole-in-the-wal and below street level, situated just off of a standard strip mal . It’s mom-and-pop Italian, unfrequented by celebrities, so no one is ever expecting to see one. Even if I’m recognized, I can almost hear the
No, that can’t be him
thought that fol ows. I’ve never brought a date here, because it’s my secret and I don’t want it spoiled.

The driver drops us at the door, and two minutes later we’re shown to a booth in the corner. This is the best part—

the booths around the perimeter are enclosed in their own wooden cubicles. The paneled wal s separating each booth extend to the low ceiling and have hinged doors that can be pul ed shut, concealing the interior from other patrons.

Inside, the ancient paneling is coated in graffiti, sharpied or carved into the wood:
M+L always & forever, Katie loves
Antonio, Stephanie & Lauren BFFs 4ever!

Dori sits across from me, her gaze drifting over every detail. A trio of flickering low-wattage “candle” bulbs inside a beveled-glass hanging lamp casts a soft glow over us both. The waiter steps up to the table with a basket of bread and two glasses of water. He extends the wine list and I take it, asking Dori, “Do you have a preference?” I’m not surprised when she answers, “Oh, I’m fine with water,” but it does make me wonder if she ever drinks at al .

The very proper eighteen-year-old daughter of a pastor. I’m guessing
no
.

I hand the list back to the waiter. “Nothing tonight.” I can go without for one evening.

“Very good, sir,” he replies, offering menus and rattling off the specials before asking if we’d like the doors shut while we decide.

“Sure,” I say. “And no rush.” He swings the doors shut and we’re treated to additional graffiti—more declarations of love forever, plus a few artistic doodles and an Oscar Wilde quote. “What do you think? You look apprehensive.

Do you want the doors left open?”

She smiles, and relief washes over me. “No, leave them closed. It’s cozy. I had no idea this place was here. How did you find it?”

“My parents and I used to come often, when I was young.” The owners remember my parents by name, and ask me about them whenever they’re here. Their son runs the place now, so luckily that coincidence is rare.

“You don’t ever go out with them now? Do they stil live in LA?” Dori asks, as though she’s reading my mind. Damn.

“They do. But my father is a workaholic and my mother’s an alcoholic, so we don’t real y do the family outings anymore.” I take a deep breath after this disclosure, incredulous to have just divulged that level of familial defect.

Her eyes don’t leave mine, her brow creased, compassion al over her face. This is the sort of expression that usual y infuriates me—and yes, I know who I’m actual y furious
with
, but that fact doesn’t stop me from lashing out at whatever unfortunate person sits there, daring to think they know how I feel. “I’m so sorry,” she says. For some reason, I believe her.

“Yeah, it sucks.” I have to redirect this conversation,
now
.

“I take it you and your very nice parents stil do family dinners, etcetera.”

She nods. “We’re pretty nerdy.” Leaning up, she gets a mischievous look in her eyes and stage-whispers, “We even have Scrabble night. You almost nailed that one, when you listed the stuff I do with my evenings. Except it’s on Fridays, not Tuesdays.”

Oh, God. “Wow. I’m such an asshole.”

“Hmm,” she says noncommittal y. “I have a confession.” Her expression is unwavering, and I instinctively brace myself. “I didn’t expect you to work so hard over the past month. Or to be so unpretentious and respectful. With, you know, everyone but me.”

I laugh. “I was respectful to you! Sort of.” The memory of coaxing her mouth open with my tongue almost knocks the amused expression from my face, and I fight to keep it there. “But I wasn’t, at first. I was a complete dick, and I’m sorry about that. I pegged you as sanctimonious and self-righteous, and I was wrong.”

She’s stil smirking—a good sign. “Wel . I
am
a little sanctimonious.”

I smirk back. “No. You assumed that I’m self-centered.

Used to getting my way. Dismissive of personal responsibility. And you were right—I am al of those things.” Her expression transforms from humor to something pensive and serious. “If that’s not who you want to be, al you have to do is choose not to be those things.”

“That simple, huh? Al ‘
Be the change you want to see in
the world
’?” I feel an undeserved sense of pride when she seems pleased.

“I think people assume Gandhi wanted everyone to adopt his quest for world peace, and they use that quote with that assumption in mind, rather than the doable urging it was.” Her dark eyes are animated. “Few of us can actual y change the world. We can only change ourselves.

But if enough people took that to heart, the world
would
change.”

A tap sounds on one of the doors, and the waiter leans in, asking, “Are we ready to order?”

Dori opens her menu, contrite. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even looked yet.”

“Give us a few more minutes,” I say, and he disappears with a nod.

As Dori reads over the menu I memorized years ago, I pretend to do the same, my mind humming. She believes I have the potential to be someone I’ve never been.

Someone I’ve never wanted to be, or thought possible to be.

That’s not exactly true. I
have
wanted it. Last spring, I thought I could be a different guy if I was with Emma. And then she told me she didn’t want someone who needed
her
in order to be a better guy. She wanted someone who was better by himself, with or without her.

For the first time, I see her point.

I’ve known for a very long time that I can’t change anyone else. But I’ve always looked at self-transformation as means-to-an-end, so any change I made was temporary.

I’m afraid of becoming my workaholic father, but the only thing I’m ever serious about is work. I’m afraid of becoming my alcoholic mother, but the type of drinking I did the night I crashed into the Diego house wasn’t an isolated incident.

Only hitting a damned
house
was isolated. Al the other times, when I managed to get myself home without destroying property or kil ing anyone on the way—that was luck.

“How’s the ziti here?” Dori asks, glancing up from her menu.

“Hmm? The ziti? It’s good.” I resolve to contemplate this shit later. I only have a couple of hours with this girl, and I don’t want to waste them soul-searching or self-flagel ating.

Plenty of time for that after she leaves town.

Plenty of time for that after she leaves town.

***

We pul up to the curb and she glances at her house, then back at me. The porch lamp is on, shedding a spotlight over the front door, pooling on the concrete space in front of it and spil ing over the cracked steps, the il umination tapering off once it hits the edge of faded lawn.

This is the sort of pivotal scene I’ve filmed a dozen times

—a typical boy delivering a typical girl home just under the curfew wire. It general y plays out in one of two ways. Either the boy lets the girl out of the car with an
okay, see ya
, or he fol ows her to the door and tries to kiss her goodnight—

the success or failure of which depends on the script.

Dori’s dark eyes are impossible to read in the dim interior of the car, but her hands, clasped in her lap, are not.

As this thought crosses my mind, she loosens them, offering one to me. “Thank you for dinner. It was fun and…

enlightening?” She laughs amiably and I take her smal hand in mine. The moment we touch, her laugh evaporates.

“Everything around you is enlightening,” I say cryptical y, not even sure what the hel I mean beyond the fact that knowing her has revealed parts of myself to me that I didn’t know existed. If that isn’t enlightening, I don’t know what is.

Clearing her throat, she squeezes my hand once before slipping hers from my grasp. She turns toward the door, fingers on the handle. “Wel .” She looks over her shoulder with a wry smile and I’m frozen in place. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed tonight, and it feels like it’s lasted half an hour.

“Goodbye, Reid. Be good.” Before she can open her door, the driver is there, opening it for her. “Oh!” she says, laughing again. “I think it would take me a
long
time to get used to this.”

Her laugh snaps me out of my stupor, and while she’s exiting her side, I’m exiting mine, coming around to meet her on the sidewalk. “It wouldn’t take as long as you might think,” I say, extending the crook of my elbow. She swal ows visibly, looping her hand through my arm, her fingers cool against my forearm.

We walk towards the door, and I pul her to a slow stop just outside the edge of il umination. She al ows me to tug her closer, regarding me silently. Even in her heels, she’s a head shorter than me. “When you tel me to be good, it makes me want to be good,” I say, hearing the undisguised desire in my voice. I run my fingers through the hair at her temples, taking her face between my palms, and she doesn’t move. “It also makes me want to be very, very bad.” And then I kiss her.

*** *** ***

Dori

When he kisses me, I forget everything—where I am, where we’ve been, and what we’ve said. I forget the fact that I’l never see him again unless I buy a ticket or rent a movie to do so. As I climb the stairs moments later, that truth spil s out from my subconscious in a rush—
I will never see him
again
. It’s al I can do to remove the key from my bag with shaking fingers, unlock the door and drift through, turning to watch from the darkened entryway as the car pul s away and is gone.

and is gone.

My head is stil swimming, my face burning at the edges where he touched me with his warm hands as his mouth moved over mine. This time, there was no negotiation, and he wasted no effort with restraint or testing my boundaries.

Pul ing my body up against his, one arm encircled me as he leaned down. He kissed me gently but deeply, drawing a response that was al hunger and instinct. My hands clutched his shirt, holding on for dear life until he stopped and opened his eyes, his forehead against mine, his breaths echoing mine—ragged and wanting more.

“Goodbye, Dori,” he whispered, and my own farewel hung in my throat as his lips grazed my cheek, and then he was walking to the car, never looking back.

I fear that I’l compare this kiss with every other kiss I wil receive for the rest of my life, an unattainable standard by which to measure future faceless men. Maybe I’m being melodramatic, and the memory of this kiss wil begin to fade tomorrow, or next week, or someday. But tonight, I’m on fire, walking quietly up the staircase to my room, as though my lips are the conductors of every possible significant feeling, and every neurological receptor in my body is flooded with heat.