Lipstick Apology (21 page)

I grabbed her arm and we followed Jolie into her studio.

Jolie fluttered around shaking her brushes on my cheeks and around my eyes, but I noticed that she wasn't applying much color.

When my eyes still looked virginally clean, I grabbed the brush from Jolie. “Hey! There's no eyeliner on this!”

Jolie looked at the brush, faking innocence. “Oops,” she said, and lightly dabbed the brush into a pot of mocha-colored powder.

“Are you purposefully trying to make me look young and innocent?”

Lindsey chuckled.

Jolie looked like she had just swallowed an ice cube. “Fine!” she said, dipping the brush back into the pot. “But don't even think about asking for red lips.”

Lindsey and I laughed.

Jolie darkened my eyes but left my lips a glossy nude. It was flattering and age appropriate, she said. By the time Jolie had finished with my makeup, my mouth was positively pain free.

Lindsey and I walked back into my room to grab my purse before I left.

“Look,” I said. “Watch.” I opened my mouth, then shut it. Open, shut, open, shut. I started to laugh.

Lindsey patted my shoulder. “Muscle relaxers kicked in, huh? Maybe you should have something to eat before you go.”

“Nah,” I said. “Owen said there was lots of candy and his maid put leftovers in the fridge or something.” I did a small dance around my room.

Lindsey gave me a suspicious look. “Are you sure you don't want a few crackers?”

I shook my head. With my expensive outfit, my hair and makeup done, and my restored jaw function, I felt a rush of excitement. I was ready.
Look out, Owen, here I come.

Owen answered the door in baggy jeans and a crew neck black shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. He was barefoot and his hair was still wet, like he had just gotten out of the shower. The hint of water shimmered in his short blond hair, setting off the yellow flecks in his bright, green eyes.

I followed him into the living room and sat on the couch.

“Want something to drink?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He headed for the kitchen.

“So when will the kids be coming by?” I asked, looking around the room. It was very airy and modern—even more so than Jolie's place. But then there was a huge portrait of a soldier over the mantel against the far wall that looked like it had to have been in the family for centuries. It didn't seem to fit with the sleek furniture with metal detailing and enormous flat-screen TV on the other end of the room.

“Huh?” Owen called from the kitchen, where I heard the sound of a refrigerator closing.

“The um, trick-or-treaters?”

“Oh, they're around,” he said, coming back into the room. “You missed the mad rush at around five o'clock.” He smiled, and I felt light-headed just looking at him. “I'm sure we'll still get some stragglers, though.” He set the drinks down on coasters on the shiny black coffee table and touched my chin.

“Oh.” I picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels anxiously. If he was nervous at all, he hid it well, talking animatedly, occasionally touching my arms or nudging my leg playfully with his.

We fell into a rhythm of conversation that was much easier than on our Statue of Liberty date. We each ate a few mini Snickers bars and started talking about food: Owen had never, in his entire life, cooked a meal. His family's cook prepared pretty much all the food they ate in their home. His favorites were Belgian waffles and strawberries for breakfast. He recently discovered Japonais in Union Square. I told him Jolie never cooked either. My favorite meal was my mom's lasagna. I was tired of takeout and craved anything homemade or not from a carton.

We talked about travel: Owen had skied in Switzerland, backpacked through Europe, and cruised the Greek islands. I told him I went to Disney World when I was seven, but aside from the occasional Florida trip, my family spent most of our vacations on the Jersey shore. When I segued into a monologue about which place served the best saltwater taffy on the board-walk, I noticed that the living room was getting a little wobbly. No, actually it was spinning.

In retrospect, I should have realized something was up. I mean, who puts ice cubes in a regular glass of orange juice? And it had tasted slightly medicinal, leaving a lasting burn at the back of my throat. After my third refill, my jaw was not only feeling relaxed, it was downright numb. In fact, I couldn't exactly feel my tongue.

“Would you 'scuse me for one sec?” I slurred, attempting to stand.

“Whoa,” Owen said, steadying me back on my feet. “Want some help?”

I flashed him a big, loopy grin. “I'm great. Thanksh.”

I staggered down the hall into the powder room. As I sat on the toilet, the room started to spin again. I reached out for the wall and accidentally knocked a photo frame off the counter. The glass shattered on the ground.
Crap!
I gently picked up the glass shards, throwing them in the trash, then shoved the picture and frame into my purse. I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Georgia.

“Hey, what's up?” she asked.

“Little problem.”

She waited. I explained about the mystery orange juice drinks and the spinning room.

“Oh my God. He's trying to intoxicate you! He wants to take advantage of you! I knew this would happen. Okay, the room is spinning, but how do you feel? Are you light-headed?”

“Yessh.”

“Oh, jeez. This is bad. I bet he slipped you a ruffie.”

“He did not shlip me a ruffie! You watch too much TV! It's just the mushcle relaxer I took. You're not shupposed to mix it with alcohol . . .”

“THE WHAT?!!!”

“Dr. Reeves gave me a mushcle relaxer for my jaw. Lindshey made me take it.”

“OH MY GOD. Oprah did an entire episode on housewives addicted to pain pills. You can't just go popping pills, then downing a whole liquor cabinet; it's a recipe for disaster. We need to call the hospital. We need to get you into detox.”

“Shhhut up!” I garbled. “It wash one pill. ONE. I'm not a closhet addict. And I wahsn't planning on drinking any alcohol.”

“Owen pressured you, didn't he? You gave in to the peer pressure,” Georgia insisted.

“I DIDN'T KNOW THERE WASH ANY ALCOHOL IN THE DRINK!!”

“Relax. You need to eat. Something to soak up the alcohol. Like bread.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Maybe you should call Jolie . . .”

“NO! We're having a good time. I'll be fine. You're right, I jusht need to eat.” I hung up. When I stumbled out of the bathroom, Owen was setting a couple of plates at the table in the opposite corner of the living room, nearest to the kitchen.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starved,” I said slowly, trying not to slur. I planted myself in a chair.

Owen pulled out a dish from the oven. He removed the foil. “Tanya made Turkish lamb chops. And I think this is a cauliflower puree.”

I didn't know who Tanya was, but I didn't care. I dove in, praying the sustenance would return my equilibrium. And it did. At least momentarily.

The dishes were still on the table and I'd only had a couple bites of the minty, tender meat when Owen got up and walked over to me. He pulled me up out of the chair, leaned me against the kitchen doorway, and kissed me. Hard and eager. His mouth was firm and aggressive, and my mouth cooperated with such ease, I felt relaxed and confident.
I might be the best kisser he's ever kissed,
I thought with bravado.

He steered me backward, out of the kitchen, into the living room. Then he leaned me down on the couch. The decline sent my stomach into orbit, but I decided it was butterflies, nothing to worry about. I kept kissing him. His hands roamed around my waist, inching up to my chest. There was an undeniable swishing sound.
Crap. Why? Why did I let Andi convince me to purchase a water bra? The manufacturers of this contraption, while quite clever at creating cleavage, obviously failed to recall the groping that can occur with teenage romp sessions.
Owen's hands roamed. Swish.
Please, Big Guy, please don't let my water bra pop. Please, I'll feed the hungry, clothe the naked . . .

There was another swishing sound, but this time it wasn't my bra. A tidal wave stirred deep in my stomach, and the walls started to spin again.

I thrust Owen off of me. He went crashing to the floor, just missing the coffee table.

Hoisting myself up off the couch, I clapped my hand to my mouth and barely,
barely
made it to the bathroom. And that's the last thing I remembered.

By the time I was coherent again, I was tucked into my bed, a water glass and a bottle of Advil on my nightstand.

I heard Owen's voice out in the living room. He was thanking Trent for picking me up.

“Shoot,” Trent said. “No big deal. I was thirty before I could handle my liquor. So I was on Em's speed dial? Man, it's good to be important.”

Small chuckle from Owen. Owen said goodbye and the front door slammed.

Trent's face peered into my room. “You okay, sweetie?”

I groaned. I didn't know which hurt worse: my jaw, my head, or my ego.“Maybe we don't need to tell Jolie?” I suggested.

“Sorry, sugar.” Trent grimaced. “She knows. She was a little freaked out. She's on her way home now.” He made a big frown. “She left the big boss's party already. So, honestly, the best thing you can do now is pray.”

I pulled the pillow over my eyes.

“But more importantly,” Trent continued. “Tell me, did Owen hold your hair while you puked?”

“WHAT EXACTLY WERE YOU DOING, EMILY?”
Jolie's voice was shrill and my head was pounding. “When I allowed you to go over to Owen's house, against my better judgment, I might add, it was because I
trusted
you.”

Pound. Pound. I reached for the water bottle on the coffee table and swished water around in my cotton-dry mouth.

“I certainly didn't expect that you would get liquored up and half naked . . .”

“I wasn't half naked! My clothes were covered in puke, so Owen gave me a sweatshirt.” At least that's what I thought—my memory was a tad hazy. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I spoke. Why did my teeth feel like they were wearing fuzzy slippers? Pound. Pound.

“Well, that's just lovely, Emily. And why exactly did you puke, huh? Just how much alcohol did you consume? What was it you were planning to do once you felt all loose and happy? Forget it.” She shook her head violently. “I don't even want to know.”

“Look.” I clenched my forehead with one hand, my jaw with the other. “I wasn't intending to get drunk. You KNOW I don't drink. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I didn't even know there was alcohol in the drink. Owen offered me a drink before dinner and that was it. I thought it was just orange juice.”

“You're sixteen! Not thirty. You don't have cocktails before a meal!”

I held my head. I wasn't even about to explain the muscle relaxers.

Jolie took two long breaths. “Okay.” Her voice was calmer. “Don't you think it was a little
irresponsible
to let yourself get into that position with that kind of guy?”

“What do you mean,
that kind of guy
? I thought you liked Owen.”

“Yeah, I like Owen. Trust me, I've liked a lot of Owens.” Her mouth was set into a straight, thin line.

“What's
that
supposed to mean? So you agree with Trent? You think Owen's a player? That he's USING me? That he couldn't actually LIKE me?”

Jolie exhaled deeply. “That's not what I'm saying.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “A boy who looks like that and acts like that, he's used to getting what he wants. And at sixteen, there's pretty much just one thing that he wants. I know your mom didn't raise you to be the kind of girl who gets drunk and swaps clothes with the local hottie.”

So, she was going to play the dead mother card. Lay on the guilt. Well, it worked. My eyes welled.

Jolie's face softened. She ran her fingers through her hair again. “Look, I know you're a responsible person and this was not in character, but my God, Emily, use your head. Think about what you're doing and who you're doing it with. Sometimes it's just better to stay away from the golden boys and find the nice, shy kid in the corner. He's the one that will treat you right.”

“I don't see you dating any shy geeks. So maybe I learned from a good teacher,” I said with bite.

Jolie looked away, defeat written on her face. “Emily, I don't want you to live like I live. Sure, it's got a lot of fun, but it has a lot of heartache, too. Live like your mother—true love and stability.”

“Yeah, right!” I yelled.

Jolie looked back at me, confused.

I got up and raced for my bedroom with my brain knocking against my skull in rhythm with my footsteps. I ran back into the living room with the incriminating letter in my hand. “I know what you did—hiding this from me! I know what
she
did with that ‘D' guy!”

Jolie looked frantic. “What? What do you have?” She reached for the letter and scanned it. “Where did you get this?”

“Oh, play dumb!” I yelled. “I found it where you hid it! In your bathroom cabinet!”

Jolie sat down on the couch, her face flushing red. “The envelope,” she mumbled. She turned toward me and tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away fast, knocking the remote off the coffee table.