Isn't She Lovely (7 page)

“I could eat,” she says. “But don’t even
think
about taking me to one of those uppity multi-course, tiny-plate monstrosities.”

I roll my eyes. “No prob. I’ll just cancel all the dozens of reservations I made in hopes that my film partner would want to go to an elaborate ten-course meal at four in the afternoon.”

“You’re very sarcastic.”

“Me?” I ask. “Honey, your sense of humor is drier than astronaut food.”

Her eyes drop to the table, and too late I realize that I’ve been holding her wrist for
waaaay
too long. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that her skin is really soft, and that she smells kind of good. It still takes me a full ten seconds to finally remove my hand.

I’m annoyed to realize that my fingers feel hot, and the way she snatches her arm back makes me think I’m not the only one getting ridiculously worked up over a little chaste physical contact.

Ten minutes later, the two of us are walking across campus toward the Slaughtered Lamb, which is one of my favorite restaurants near the university. Plus it has a sort of kitschy, zombie-type vibe, so my mini-Morticia buddy will fit right in.

“Ugh, I hate New York in the summer,” Stephanie mutters, plucking at that tiny tank top. I start to suggest that she pluck just a
tiny
bit harder, to see if those straps can do their designated job, but then I remember that I got a near-boner from touching her arm. The last thing I need right now is to see her boobs.

Even if I am becoming embarrassingly obsessed with them.

I push the thought away.

“So why’d you stick around, then?” I ask, opening the door and ushering her into the pub.

“What?”

“Why not go home for the summer? Or is the class
that
cool?”

“I’m excited about the class.”

She says it with all of the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, and I give her a look. “Uh-huh. Excited enough to put up with this shitty-ass weather? Excited enough to be living on your cheating ex’s couch?”

Stephanie rolls her shoulders and pinches her lips together in the universal girl language for
I don’t wanna talk about it
.

The place is mostly empty this early, and we find a table in the corner where we can spread out all of her boring notes, should it come to that.

Except, oddly, I’m finding I don’t really care about the project at the moment. Maybe it’s just that misery loves company or something, because I find myself continuing our conversation.

“So where’s home?” I ask.

She buries her face in the menu, and for a second I think she’s not going to answer. Finally she says, “I’m from Rhode Island.”

Progress
. Although I don’t know why I care. “What’s that like in the summer? Better than here?”

Another beat of silence. “It’s been a few years.”

I bat the menu out of her hands so I can see her face. A little cavemanlike of me, perhaps, but it’s not like she’s facing hard menu choices. It’s nachos or chicken wings. “You haven’t been home in a few
years
?”

“I guess it’s not technically home. Not anymore.”

I’ve had more rewarding conversations with a doorknob, but I press on anyway. “So home would be …?”

She lets out a huff. “My dad lives in North Carolina now.”

“So … North Carolina’s your home.”

“No.”

“
Ah,
” I say. I let the word carry a good deal of meaning. As though I know what she means by it. And, strangely enough, I think I might. Maybe the whole home-is-not-actually-home thing is part of what’s made her so grumpy.

“What are you, a psych major now?” she snaps.

“Nope. Just seen all the classic teen movies. Parent-related angst is a given,” I say, standing to go fetch us a couple of beers and something to eat.

“Well, those are apparently the only movies you’ve seen!” she calls after me.

Since my back is to her, I don’t have to bother hiding my smile. Everything about Stephanie Kendrick should be a total boner killer, but I kind of like it.

Or when you need a reminder that perhaps somebody else’s life sucks worse than yours and you should stop feeling sorry for yourself
.

“What’s up, Price?” the bartender says as we do one of those elaborate handshakes that I
hope to God we’ll grow out of sooner rather than later. “Who’s your new girl?”

“Not my girl,” I say, pulling out my wallet and removing a few bills. “School partner.”

Steven’s eyes roam back to Stephanie and linger. “Not your type, but I’d hit it.”

My fingers tense briefly and I give him a stiff smile. I hate guys like this. “How about two Brooklyn lagers and some nachos?”

“You want chicken on the nachos?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say. I still haven’t figured out if Stephanie’s a vegetarian, and I don’t want to risk a lecture about animal cruelty along with another lecture about Clark Gable and those two Hepburn chicks.

“I’ll bring the food over,” Steven says, pushing two beers across the bar at me. His eyes are still locked on Stephanie.

“Yeah, I bet you will,” I mutter, heading back to Stephanie, who’s gone and brought out her godforsaken notebook again.

I try to listen as she explains something about the three-act structure of a screenplay, I really do. But while I had my back turned, she apparently put something shiny on her lips that makes them look suspiciously … appealing.

Knock it off, Price
. She probably has
Kill them all
tattooed on her ass or something.

I’m actually half relieved when Steven comes over with the nachos, but the relief is short-lived, because the rock-star-wannabe bartender totally has his ass in my face as he gets all up in Stephanie’s business.

“Hey, darlin’, I haven’t seen you around here much,” he says.

“Really?” she asks, eyes wide. “That’s weird. You haven’t seen me in here with my sorority sisters? I normally
love
the frat-boy scene.”

“You’re in a sorority?” Steven asks, Stephanie’s brand of humor sailing right over his greasy head. “You know, there’s another place around the corner … a little less crowded. I’m off on Thursday night, if you and your girls wanna …”

She makes a little sound of dismay. “Ugh, this is totally awkward, but I’m actually kind of with someone.”

“You are?”

Steven and I ask it at the exact same time, except I didn’t mean to, so instead I stuff a huge wad of nachos in my face and hope Stephanie didn’t notice I chimed in.

“Yeah,” she’s saying, “it’s kind of a new thing, but I feel really good about it, so …”

Steven flexes his inked-up arms ever so not-subtly. “He doesn’t have to know.”

She takes a sip of beer, licking some of the foam off her lips, and now they’re shiny
and
beer-flavored and I’m inexplicably hot as hell.

“Actually, he
would
know,” Stephanie says, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper.
“Seeing as he’s sitting right here.”

I probably could have played it off if I wasn’t eating the nachos five chips at a time in an effort to keep from looking interested in this girl’s love life.

But as it is, I am stuffing my face, and her casual declaration catches me by surprise. A little chip breaks off awkwardly and lodges itself somewhere in the back of my throat. I down half the beer before the tickling sensation subsides.

They’re both staring at me, Steven in surprised irritation and Stephanie in serene innocence.

I narrow my eyes slightly at her.
You. Will. Pay
.

She shrugs.

It’s either play along or deal with Steven hitting on her. Since the second option sucks, I find myself giving him a tepid smile. “Sorry, man,” I say. “The lady’s taken.”

He hitches his thumb toward the bar. “But you said she wasn’t your girl.”

Stephanie’s palms slam down on the table as she half rises out of her chair, giving me a look of death.

“I knew it,” she hisses. “You’re
ashamed
of me, Ethan Price. Because I don’t wear pearls and can’t afford Chanel, and can’t ride dressage.…”

I involuntarily lean back in my chair trying to escape the scorned non-girlfriend on steroids.

And what the fuck is dressage?

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” She’s still going. “I
knew
those lavender bath bubbles weren’t for your ‘special relaxation time.’ You’ve been screwing someone else!”

“Dude,” Steven says quietly. “Lavender bath bubbles?”

I look up at him in desperation, and we’re suddenly on the same side. “You want her?”

“Hell, no, dude. But you better talk her down before she scares off the other customers.”

Steven gets back behind the bar in double time, and Stephanie slowly lowers herself back into the chair.

I stare at her in wonder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m starting to get why your ex is an ex. You’re a nightmare.”

She gives me a cheeky smile. “I know, right? Acting’s never been my passion, but it’s always been fun.”

I shake my head and shove the nachos in her direction. “Whatever. Just leave me out of your little charade next time. I thought you were going to cut my balls off.”

She’s gone perfectly still, her eyes fixed on me without really seeing me.

“Are you having another episode?” I whisper, leaning forward.

“A charade,” she says, getting a crazed look in her eyes. “That’s brilliant.”

I take another sip of beer. “Yeah, yeah, your little performance saved you from a date with a slimy bartender, I get it.”

“No, for the
project
,” she says, shoving away her glass and plate and reaching for her backpack.

I watch as her hand scrambles for several seconds before coming up with a pen. She’s writing at warp speed, not even glancing up at me, so I take the opportunity to eat more nachos. Smaller bites this time, in case she decides to tell the entire bar that she’s pregnant with my demon baby.

Finally she looks up with a beaming smile, and for a second she actually looks pretty instead of totally scary.

She holds up her notebook for me to read, and then her smile slips a little when I don’t respond.

“Help me out here,” I say, squinting at her messy scribbles.

She taps a black fingernail at the top of the page where she’s written
PYGMALION
in big block letters. “You see?”

I finish my beer and reach for hers. “Do I look like I see?”

Ah,
there’s
that familiar scowl. “Did your parents care
nothing
for the performing arts?” she asks.

“Goth, just tell me what you’re so manic about.”

She sets the notebook down and pulls the nachos toward her, scooping up more than her fair share of the guacamole. “So Pygmalion goes way back to ancient Greece—”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I mutter. “Give me the
short
version, I’m begging you.”

“There’s this guy, that’s Pygmalion. And he’s a sculptor who, for some reason I forget, isn’t real big on women at the moment—”

“Maybe because a woman loudly announced that he uses lavender bath bubbles.”

She snatches her beer back. “
Anyway
, so even though he’s off flesh-and-blood chicks for a while, he’s apparently open to creating a
statue
of a woman. And apparently he’s really good at what he does, because the statue is a total babe, and he falls in love with her. Then, blah blah, some goddess or other grants him a wish, and the statue comes to life.”

Stephanie takes two big sips of beer and gives me a wide smile as though to
?

I don’t.

“So tell me what an ancient dude falling in love with a rock has to do with our project,” I say.

She purses her lips in consideration. “Actually, I think it was ivory, not rock—”

“Stephanie. Some mercy?”

She takes a deep breath. “Right. So … the story of Pygmalion doesn’t stop there. It’s been used in poems and paintings for centuries, but the most notable version is a play written by George Bernard Shaw—”

“Is this
really
the short version?”

“—which becomes a movie. And then it becomes the inspiration for a bunch of other movies about men falling in love with women that they’ve created.”

I’m not gonna lie. Good student or not, I’m struggling to keep up with the girl. “Okay, so you’re telling me that there are multiple movies about men who build a female statue out of rock—
ivory
—and fall in love with it?”

She scribbles something else in her notebook. “No, that’s the beauty of film. There have been a bunch of reimaginings. The most classic is
My Fair Lady
, of course, but there’s also
Pretty Woman, She’s All That
… all movies in which the guy dresses the woman as someone she’s not in order to fulfill a bet or some sort of social obligation. You know. A charade.”

Finally the pieces kind of fit into place. “Okay, I’m with you so far. All we have to do is transcribe your little monologue there about how the Pygmalion story has permeated Hollywood, and then put our own fresh take on it?”

“Exactly.”

I catch Steven’s eye and gesture for two more beers. “All right, I’m in. What’s our spin on the story going to be?”

Stephanie stuffs a stack of nachos into her face and chews thoughtfully. “Well, it’s like this,
partner
. Seeing as I’ve done all of the thinking up until now, it’s about time you put that pretty, overgelled head to work. Our screenplay idea? That’s gonna be
your
contribution.”

Chapter Seven

Stephanie

“Steph, you sure you don’t want to watch the movie?”

I look up from the tiny kitchen table where I’ve been working on Ethan’s and my film project for the last hour. Not that I
want
to work on the project, or even need to, since it’s not due for a couple of months.

But the alternative is cuddling up on the couch with David and Leah while they watch some sort of indie-drama nonsense. I’m all for independent films, but I hate the ones that wear “indie” like a big middle finger to Hollywood. Small budgets are no excuse for producing garbage, and judging from the number of angsty montages in this one, it’s pure, lazy filmmaking crap.