Lipstick Apology (25 page)

Trent elbowed Jolie.

“Okay,” Jolie purred. “I have to go now.”

Trent grabbed Jolie by the elbow and steered her back toward the door.

“Stop pushing me!” Jolie scowled.

“You're just mad because Rico Suave didn't give you
his
number,” Trent said.

Jolie looked contemplative, thinking about Trent's comments. “Stop calling him Rico Suave! He's the highest-paid actor in Mexico!” Jolie said, looking back across the room at the handsome man.

“What, is he on a soap opera?! Wait! I recognize him, he's on that
Rhapsody in Rio
!” Trent started waving his hands around in imitation.
“Oh, Maria, I love you so!”

Jolie rolled her eyes. “Get an atlas, brainiac. That's not Mexico.”

“
Maria! Maria! Don't leave me
!” Trent danced around as we headed toward the elevator.

Jolie swatted Trent. “He's the
foundation
of Mexican cinema!”

Trent and I exploded in giggles as the doors opened in the lobby and we shuffled onto the street.

“Leave me alone,” Jolie said, hailing another cab. But I could see she was grinning. As we headed home, the three of us sat in silence, listening to the static talk radio, and I realized we never did get to eat any Thanksgiving turkey.

THE BURNT TURKEY
was still sitting in the roasting pan on the kitchen counter Friday morning, and casserole dishes cluttered the sink. Jolie scrubbed the dishes with a sponge in her hand, singing along with the radio. She turned and saw me.

“What's cooking, good looking?” She was awfully perky, especially after her disastrous attempt at cooking a Thanksgiving meal.

“Hey,” I said, taking a towel and beginning to dry the dishes in the strainer. “Are you going shopping today?” It was, after all, Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year.

She smiled to herself, slowing down her scrubbing, as if daydreaming. I noticed she already was dressed, with makeup on. She turned to me, a serious look on her face now. “Did you want to go shopping? Because I sort of made plans, but I can cancel them—”

“No, no,” I interrupted. “Don't cancel anything. I was just curious.”

She relaxed her shoulders and the hint of a smile returned.

“In fact,” I said. “I wanted to ask if I could go over to Owen's later.”

“Owen's?” She contemplated. She nodded, but I don't really think she was paying attention. She seemed far off, dreaming of the sexy Mexican actor. I prayed that his handsome mug would continue to distract her so she wouldn't recall the events of my last rendezvous at Owen's house.

We finished the last of the pots and dishes in silence, each of us caught up in the anticipation of what the day would bring.

Four hours later, Jolie was sitting at the table, reading a magazine, her cell phone resting at her side, and I was channel surfing. Jolie picked up the cordless phone and scrolled through the caller ID. I wanted to tell her the phone hadn't rung all morning, but I was pretty sure she knew that.

An hour later, when the phone finally rang, we both sprang from our seats, Jolie beating me to the cordless.

“Hello?” she answered, plastering on a smile, as if we had a video phone. “Oh, sure,” she said, her smile fading slightly. She walked over and handed the phone to me. She gave me a thumbs-up and I knew it was Owen. I found myself plastering on a smile too.

“Hi,” I said, aiming for casual, not,
I've been sitting here breathlessly waiting for your call.

“Happy day after Thanksgiving,” Owen said. “I'm on the LIE right now in a butt-load of traffic.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“No, but I'm looking forward to some fun,” he said, and I could visualize his flirtatious grin. “At this rate, I'll be home around three. Give me time to shower, whatever. Can you be here at four?”

Oh, please don't make me wait until four p.m.!
“No problem,” I said, and we hung up.

When I returned the phone to the kitchen, Jolie was examining her smeared reflection on the side of the toaster. She looked like she could use a distraction, so I asked her, “Want to help me find something to wear?”

“Absolutely.”

As we fingered through the clothes in my closet, Jolie said, “I'm tired of useless makeup-ing.”

“Huh?”

She pointed to a pair of jeans and sat on the bed. “You know, constant reapplication of lipstick with the delusional hope that the buzzer will ring and a gorgeous man will be waiting for you.”

“Mexican party guy never called?”

She exhaled loudly. “Maybe he lost my number. Or maybe he was drunk and doesn't remember talking to me. I don't know. He didn't seem drunk. Do you think he was drunk?”

“Um, I don't think so,” I said, feeling very twilight zone discussing with my pseudo-parent whether the hot Mexican actor from the party was or was not intoxicated. I wanted to gently point out that she clearly was abandoning her
look for the shy guy in the corner
theory. That in all likelihood she was setting herself up for a letdown from another player. But then I thought about my infatuation with Owen and that he certainly didn't fit the shy kid bill either.
Maybe it's in the genes,
I thought. Even Mom, with her shy guy husband, couldn't resist the charms of a golden boy.

Jolie pointed to a green cashmere scoop neck sweater. “Wear that,” she said.

“Really?” I asked. “Even though I wear green every day at school?”

“Hey, if it works, don't fight it.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“So,” Jolie said. “I trust there will be no incidents similar to your last visit with this guy.”

Shoot. Why didn't that Mexican guy call and keep her thoughts elsewhere?

“I told you that was not going to happen again,” I said firmly.

Jolie's expression looked serious, and I thought for sure I was about to get the lecture of a lifetime, but just as she opened her mouth, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID screen and brightened. “Hello?” she said sweetly as she walked out of my room.

 

THE DOORMAN SMILED AT ME
knowingly, and I wondered if he remembered me. I'm sure he knew Owen's parents weren't home yet. I felt a flush of embarrassment but then reminded myself that Owen and I were just planning a nice quiet afternoon of getting to know each other better. Remember Trent's mantra:
My body is a temple
. Georgia would be so proud. Nothing is wrong with some kissing. A little k issing, a little fumbling around, then maybe I'd suggest a round of Scrabble.

I knocked on Owen's door, and immediately it swung open. I barely had time to notice how amazing he looked in his black hoodie sweatshirt because in a flash he grabbed my jacket at the waist and pulled me into the foyer.

His hands were in my hair, steering my face up, then he was kissing me. He kicked the door closed with his foot and pressed me up against the wall. He opened the buttons of my jacket with lightning speed, not even looking. He was too busy kissing, kissing, kissing me.

Owen kissed with intent, and a bit of rough, excitement, and it made my tender jaw ache somewhat, just enough for me to pull back slightly. His lips moved away from my mouth and found my neck, where his little kisses sent sparks of electricity down my spine.

He's kissing my neck! I thought they only did that in movies and on Georgia's nutty soap. I certainly never saw my dad kiss my mom's neck.
My eyes popped open.
Now is definitely not the time to start thinkingabout Mom and Dad
.
Oh my God, I bet they're watching my every move—hovering in a ghost-like presence in this enormous forty-foot ceiling
. At least with the Big Guy, I could hope he was distracted, pondering the political crisis in the Middle East or weeping about world famine, but now I couldn't lift the idea that my parents' eyes were everywhere.

My eyes stayed open as Owen kissed my earlobe. I needed to think about something other than my parents' voyeuristic opportunities. I examined the foyer. It looked exactly as I remembered it, with a mahogany table supporting an enormous vase of colorful flowers towering up. I tried to force my eyes closed, but I was transfixed, staring at a pair of pulpy centers of two gerber daisies leaning toward my head. Huge yellow flower eyes staring down at me like the eyes of God. Or my mother.

I gently pushed Owen away. “Now, that's what I call a hello!” I said playfully.

Owen smiled, took my hand, and led me into the living room. He sat down in the middle of the couch. I sat down, leaving a little cooling-off space between us.

He turned toward me with an expression I've seen on Georgia's face when she's about to nosedive into a piece of chocolate cake. While I was flattered to seem so . . . edible, I was also nervous at the direction this afternoon was taking. Everything was moving too quickly. Seventeen
said, Spend time getting to know your crush before making the decision to get physical.
The truth was, sometimes I felt like I didn't know Owen at all. I knew he was the captain of the swim team. He was an only child. He liked to travel. He liked waffles. That was definitely not enough. I pulled away, yanking my one leg up under the other.

“So,” I said. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

He seemed suspended at a forty-five-degree angle, aiming for my lips, momentarily confused. “Um, boring. Typical. Ya know, family stuff.” He straightened up. “And you?” he asked, not convincing me that he really wanted an answer.

I decided to answer anyway.

“Well, it was tough, I guess, being the first holiday without my parents.” A lump stuck in my throat for a minute. It was so easy to talk about my parents with Anthony, why did I feel so self-conscious bringing it up with Owen?

“Uh-huh,” he said with a small sigh.

“I didn't even eat turkey,” I said, my eyes getting a little moist.

“Turkey's overrated,” Owen said, leaning over and kissing me on the mouth. He kissed me more gently this time and suddenly, Thanksgiving was a distant memory. My body felt all chilled and on fire all at the same time. His hands slid onto my waist. The coldness of his hands startled me and I giggled like a schoolgirl.
Get a grip!

Slowly, his hands started to slide over my stomach.

I hesitated, then grabbed his hands. “Owen,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No.”

“Oh, come on, please?” He groaned like a puppy.

Temptation crept over me.
My body doesn't HAVE to be a temple . . .

His hands resumed their ascent.

I'm sure Owen wasn't accustomed to girls stopping him. Why would they? He's gorgeous! Who in their right mind would stop him? It wasn't that I wanted to stop him, necessarily, I needed to stop him. I wasn't exactly sure why. All I knew was that in the last several months, so much of me had been taken away: my parents, my home, my old life. How much more could I possibly give up without losing every fraction of the girl I was? But if I stopped him, would he lose interest in me and turn to the whole line of girls who certainly would not object to his rising hands?

“I'm sorry,” I said, flustered. “But I don't think my parents would like it.”

“We don't have to tell them,” he said, kissing my ear.

“Sorry,” I whispered again.

He dropped his head into the crook of my neck. He lay there for a second, like he was in pain, which actually, from what I read in
Seventeen
, might be true. Then he lifted himself back into a seated position on the couch.

Owen found the remote and flipped through the channels in silence. He pounded the remote buttons at lightning speed, not even stopping to see what program was on.
My God, he can't even commit to a channel—there's no way he's staying with me.

“Look,” I said. “
Seinfeld
is on.”

He didn't respond, but he left it on that channel and set the remote down on the coffee table. He didn't laugh at any of the funny parts.

The air felt tense. He adjusted and readjusted his position on the couch.

“Oh,” I said, reaching into my purse and retrieving the photo. “I kind of broke the frame in your bathroom the other night.” I handed him the replacement frame.

Owen looked at the picture. He rolled his eyes. “Every year my mom makes me do volunteer work.” He shook his head as if to say,
What a waste of time,
but I had studied that photo for hours and on his sunlit face was a genuine smile and unmistakable pride.

Owen's phone rang. He glanced at it, then flipped it open.

“E, wut up?” Owen said. “Yeah, yeah. She's here,” he said, turning away from me slightly and lowering his voice. “No, man. Not exactly.”

My face flamed. True, Owen could have been talking about anything, but I had the distinct feeling that I was the topic of his negative tone.

Suddenly, I knew why there were so many sad love songs. Being a girlfriend was hard.

“No way, really?” Owen's voice rose an octave. “Dude, that's perfect.”

Well, at least
someone
was making Owen happy.

“Right. Cool. Later.” He clicked the phone shut, then turned back toward me, smiling and visibly happier. “That was Ethan. His parents got in a fight and decided to take a makeup trip to some Biltmore place down in North Carolina.”

“Oh, I read that they have a huge gingerbread house display every Christmas!” I interrupted.