Wrong About the Guy (5 page)

“Yeah, it's pretty nice.”

I glanced over my shoulder and he was watching me, but his gaze quickly shifted away. “I know what you're thinking,” I said.

“I doubt it.”

“You're gloating because you were right—this is just as good as Tahiti would have been. Maybe even better.” I flung my hand around. “I mean, this is perfect. You can't get better than perfect, can you?”

“I didn't deliberately not choose Tahiti because you wanted it, you know. This was the best choice for a lot of reasons.”

“Still, you were right and I was wrong. I admit it. Now let us never speak of it again. Want to go down to the beach?”

“Yeah.” As we walked along the curving path, he said, “You never finished telling me about Michael's son. Do you know him?”

“He's my future husband.”

“Really? What crime did he commit to deserve a sentence like that?”

“Don't be mean. We're like the same exact age and his father and Luke are best friends. And—” I stopped. If I'd been with one of my girlfriends, I might have also said something about how Aaron had grown from a reasonably cute tween when I first met him to one of the best-looking guys in the world. I'd seen him briefly a few months ago when he was visiting his father and he kind of took my breath away. He had gotten tall and broad-shouldered and his hair was this bronze color and wavy, and he had these light blue eyes and this perfect jaw. . . .

“And . . . ?” George prompted.

I shrugged. “And so he's destined to be my husband. I'm just not sure
which
husband. I don't want him to be my first, because obviously that one's not going to last—”

“Obviously.”

“And I want my
last
husband to be much younger than I am so he can take care of me when I'm dying. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe number three?”

“Would that put him in the middle? Or still toward the beginning?”

“I'm hurt,” I said. “How many husbands do you
think I'm planning to have? I'm not that kind of girl.”

“Obviously,” he said.

I nudged his elbow with mine. “Come on. Let's go down to the water.”

When we reached the sand, I kicked off my flip-flops and said, “You'd better take your loafers off, too, unless you like gritty shoes.”

He removed his shoes and socks, then cuffed his pants. “How stupid do I look?” he asked as he straightened up.

“You don't want to know.”

“‘Don't worry, George, you look fine. Not stupid at all
.
'”

“My mama didn't raise no liars.”

“Just . . . come on.” We left our shoes and he led the way down to the edge of the water. We stood there in the semidarkness, hearing the waves better than we could see them. The water looked black at this hour. Black with white frills that caught the moonlight. The few couples I could see were spread out along the beach, as far from one another as they could be, greedy for privacy.

“Why is the ocean so wonderful?” I asked after we'd gazed in contented silence for a while.

“I don't know,” George said. “People can't survive without water, so maybe we're biologically programmed to want to be near it.”

“You just managed to suck all the poetry right out of this.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay. Doesn't this make you want to
do
something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know.” I circled my hands in the air, frustrated by my inability to put the feeling into words. “There's something about how beautiful it is—and how the waves look—and the sound, too . . . and it's like we should go out and build castles or fight evil or just run around in circles screaming. Don't you feel that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It's so big and we're so small. It makes you want to be bigger. To matter.”

“Right.” I turned and we started walking along the shore. “The sand's freezing. My feet are getting numb.”

“You want to go back inside?”

“Soon. Not yet.” I glanced sideways at him. “So what could we do that would matter? Build hospitals? Slay evil dictators? Write the great American novel?”

“We could write the great American novel about an evil dictator while sitting in a hospital,” he said. “But what we'll really do is walk away and forget that feeling within about five minutes and end up like the rest of the world, working any job we can get and leading lives of quiet desperation.”

“You're a cynic.”

“No—a realist.”

I glanced up at the resort and saw a couple strolling toward the ocean, holding hands. “Isn't that Mom and Luke?”

“I think so,” George said, and we headed toward them. There were a few other couples trailing them, acting all casual and indifferent but clearly sneaking glimpses at the famous TV star. At least they were all keeping a respectful distance.

“What are you two doing down here?” Mom asked as we came together.

“I had to get out of that room,” I said. “Jacob threw a fit—he was screaming and throwing his food. I ran into George in the lobby and we thought we'd see what the beach was like.”

“Jacob had a tantrum?” Even in the dim light, I could see Mom's brow furrow. “He's been having so many lately.”

“It's just because he was on a plane all day,” Luke said with an easy shrug. “After a six-hour flight, I'm ready to throw things, too.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. “And most kids scream on airplanes. It's sort of amazing he didn't.”

Mom didn't respond to that.

By the time I got back to the room, Jacob was asleep and Grandma was watching TV with the volume down
low—some reality show about a bunch of swollen-lipped women who were drinking wine and yelling at one another.

I curled up on the other bed—Jacob was in a rollaway crib—and texted Heather. I wanted to tell her that Aaron Marquand was coming to live in LA.

He's the cute one, right?
she texted back.
With the blue eyes?
She hadn't ever met him, but I'd shown her photos.

Yep. AKA my future husband.

Squeal.

T
he breeze was blowing strands of hair against my sticky-glossy lips. I had to keep reaching up and pulling them away with my free hand. I wished I'd put my hair up. Or not worn lip gloss.

Jacob's hand was sweaty in mine as Luke made a toast to Mom. I glanced down at my little brother, who was wearing a soft dark-green top over white pants. His thick, wavy hair was neatly brushed for once—it was on the long side because he hated having it cut and would scream when anyone tried, but at least it looked cute that way. He also didn't like having it brushed, but I'd won that battle this morning by bribing him: an M&M for each pass of the brush
and
he got to watch TV the whole time.

He was pretty adorable all dressed up. Kid-model cute. He held my hand tightly and stared up at the slowly rotating fake-palm-leaf fan above us.

We were in a room with floor-to-ceiling glass doors facing the ocean, all of them open for the party. We could hear the waves and feel the breeze, but we had a wooden floor under our feet and three walls to keep the event private. For added security, George had also asked the hotel not to use Luke's real name, so the event schedule down in the lobby read “Anniversary of John and Jane Smith.” I took a photo and texted it to Heather with a jaunty
Maybe we're related
.

“I am so brilliant,” I crowed to Jonathan after the toast was done, and waiters had started passing around drinks and hors d'oeuvres. “Don't you think this was a brilliant idea? Don't Luke and Mom look happy?” Mom's face had lit up when Luke said that the last five years had been the happiest of his life, and their kiss at the end of his toast had looked pretty passionate from where I was standing.

“It's great,” Jonathan said, and squeezed my shoulders.

“It's really pretty here,” his fiancée added. Izzy had straight dark eyebrows and straight dark hair. She always seemed very serious and intense to me, but it's possible I was reading too much into the eyebrows.

They moved on to talk to Luke's business manager. I helped myself to a glass of champagne and raised it to Luke, who had caught my eye from across the room. He blew me a kiss. I had definitely lucked out in the
stepfather department. And not because Luke had become so rich and famous. Because he was Luke.

My grandmother beckoned to me. She'd had her hair blown out by a professional that morning, and it looked sleek and shiny, instead of frizzy and bumpy like it usually did. Between that and the neatly tailored blue silk dress Mom had bought for her, she looked great. “Are you sure you should—” she began, but then she saw something that distracted her. “Is that a piece of cheese? Why would she give that to him? He eats way too much dairy.” She ran toward Mom and Jacob.

George came up to me. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey. Were you waiting until my grandmother left to come talk to me?”

“She's a lovely woman. I respect her enormously.”

“Try waking up with her in your room.”

“Words cannot express to what extent I'd rather not.”

“You get drunk enough, anything could happen.”

“I'm fairly certain not that.”

“That's the same suit jacket you were wearing last night,” I pointed out, looking him up and down. “It looks better with the matching pants. And a shirt that doesn't clash.” The funny thing was, he looked younger in the suit than he did in his usual jeans and oxford shirts, like a teenager borrowing his dad's clothes for a prom. I forgot sometimes that he was only a couple
of years older than I was; he felt a lot older because he was done with college already, and because he was so Georgeish.

“There's sand in the pockets from last night,” he said. “I can't figure out how it got there.”

“Lax immigration laws? You haven't said anything about how
I
look.” I spun around so the ballerina skirt on my dusty-pink dress rose up slightly and then settled back down into place. “Nice, right?”

“You know what your problem is?” he said. “Low self-esteem.”

“A compliment wouldn't kill you.”

“I could never flatter you as well as you flatter yourself.”

I folded my arms over my chest with a humph. “I take back all the nice things I said about your suit.”

“What nice things? All you said was it didn't look as bad today as it did last night. Not that I remember asking for your opinion.”

“Does anyone help you pick out your clothing? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment. I'm sure that shocks you. What about you?”

“I have lots of girlfriends.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Oh, you mean like a girlfriend with a penis?” It's
possible the champagne was getting to me. “Nope. Never had one.”

“Seriously?” His surprise seemed genuine. “I would have assumed you went through a dozen a year. Aren't you Miss Popularity?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I would never date in high school. It would be way too embarrassing to look back on.”

“Don't you think that depends on who you went out with?”

“There isn't a guy in my grade who I haven't seen asleep in class with his mouth open and drooling. Ugh.”

“I hate to break it to you, but guys fall asleep in college, too. A lot.”

“I'll skip all my morning classes so I won't have to see them.”

Before he could respond, Jonathan and Izzy appeared at my elbow. Jonathan said, “Georgie, the manager thought I was you and wanted to know when they should serve dinner. Can you go talk to her?”

“Georgie?” I repeated with delight.

George moaned. “I can't believe you just gave her
more
ammunition to use against me.”

“I would never!” I said. “I'm not like that. Georgiekins.”

“I'm going to go talk to the manager,” he said,
stepping back. “And then I'm throwing myself in the ocean. Tell Mom and Dad I loved them, Jonny.”

“
Jonny's
not embarrassing,” I called after him as he walked away. “Not like
Georgie
.”

“Poor Georgie,” Izzy said seriously. “He's so sensitive.”

I
spent the next two days digging my toes in the sand while I read and dozed in the sun. They went by way too quickly; I blinked and we were packing.

I was hoping the mellow vacation vibe would stick around, but it was business as usual with George when he showed up for tutoring on Wednesday. “You're going to take an entire practice SAT today,” he announced briskly as soon as he walked in the door. “We only have a week before school starts and we won't be able to get as much done then. I want to pinpoint whatever you're still struggling with so we can focus on it.”

“I'm not struggling with any of it,” I said, following him into the kitchen.

“Prove it. Take the test.”

“That takes hours!”

“Where else do you have to be?”

“I have a life, you know.”

“Want me to text your mother and ask her what she thinks?”

“It is so uncool to constantly be threatening to tell my mother on me. You know that, right?” I dropped into a chair. It had turned really hot, brutally hot, the kind of hot LA only gets in late August and early September. The air-conditioning was blasting throughout the house, but I was wearing my shortest shorts and a tank top because I could
see
how hot it was through the window.

“I'd hate to have you think I'm not cool,” he said stonily.

“Yeah, that ship has sailed. . . . Can I at least have Heather come do it with me so it's more fun?”

“If it will cut down on the whining. I can print up two copies.”

I texted Heather and told her to come over but didn't tell her why, because I didn't want her to say no and I knew she hated taking tests.

She wrote back:
Okay. My mom says we should pay for my half of the tutoring tho

Tell her you make me work harder and we should be paying you to come

That's ridiculous

We'll talk about it later

I didn't want her money. George was
my
tutor and she only came as my invited guest, and that's how I
wanted it. I liked being the one in control.

Once he had finished printing up the tests, and we were just waiting for Heather to arrive, George started firing vocabulary words at me. “Define
euphemism
.”

“Polite word for something that isn't polite. For instance, instead of saying that someone puked, I would say that they ‘prayed to the porcelain god' or something like that.”

“
Avuncular
.”

“Behaving like an uncle to someone. Michael is very avuncular toward me. But when I marry his son, he'll be more
paternal
. Do you want some tea?” I stood up.

“No, thanks.
Fatuous.
”

I put a tea pod into the coffee maker and hit the start button. “I'm not sure I can define it, but I'm pretty sure you're an example of it.”

“Wrong,” he said. “It doesn't mean wildly handsome.”

“Oh, well played, Georgie! You win that round.”

Soon after that, Heather buzzed in at the gate. “I have good news and bad news,” I told her as we walked along the hallway toward the kitchen. “The good news is we're going shopping later.”

“And the bad news is that I can't afford to buy anything.”

“Yes, you can. I'm treating.”

“Then the bad news is that it's so hot, my car will
melt before we leave.” She was dressed for the brutal heat in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a gauzy tee.

“Not that either.”

“Then what's the bad news?”

We entered the kitchen and I gestured toward George, who was sitting there in his usual jeans and oxford shirt—dressed for a completely different climate. “First we have to take a practice SAT.”

“Oh no,” she said, backing away. “You didn't tell me we were going to do that. That's not fair.”

“Come on.” I took her hand and pulled her toward the table. “It'll be fun. We'll do it together.”

“No, you won't,” George said. “I'm putting you in separate rooms. You need to take this seriously or there's no point.”

“You go ahead,” Heather said. “I'll wait. I can watch something or talk to George.”

“George doesn't want to talk to you,” I said.

“I beg your pardon!” he said. “I'd be happy to talk to Heather.”

“Thank you,” she said to him. “I'd be happy to talk to you, too.”

“You have to take this test so George can help you raise your scores.” I turned to him. “I've got it all planned out: Heather and I are both going to get in early to Elton College. We'll be done with all the college stuff before the holidays, and then we'll be
together for the next four years.”

“We
hope
we'll get in,” Heather said. “I mean, I'm sure you will, but I'm not so sure about me. Elton College is hard to get into and I haven't been the best student.”

“That's why we're going to apply early. They like people who apply early, especially people who are quirky and interesting, and who's more quirky and interesting than us?”

The dimple on Heather's right cheek appeared. “No one.”

“Plus George is going to make sure we do well on the SATs. Now get into the dining room and take that test.” I took her by the shoulders and steered her across the kitchen and through the archway that separated it from the dining room.

“Why do
I
have to be in here?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Because I need to be in the kitchen. My tea's in there.” I came back in and sat down, folded my hands, and looked up at George like an obedient pupil. “We're ready to take your test, Mr. Nussbaum, sir.”

He handed me the packet and told me to get to work.

On Friday, I was coming down the stairs in the morning and spotted George heading out the front door

“What are you doing?” I called out.

He turned around and greeted me in his usual measured way—he never seemed particularly excited to see me, but he was always pleasant enough. “Your mom asked me to get her laptop fixed.” He showed me the computer sleeve in his hand. “I'm running to the Genius Bar. Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

“What about?”

“Heather's not here, right?”

I looked to my left and to my right, then patted the pockets of my jean shorts. “Doesn't seem to be. Why?”

“I just wanted to say that maybe you shouldn't be pushing her to apply early to Elton.”

I leaned against the banister. “Why not?”

“After scoring that test you guys took, I'm worried she doesn't have much of a shot there.”

I shrugged. “Neither of us was taking it very seriously.”

“You still managed to do incredibly well.” He shifted the computer from one hand to the other. “Elton would be a big reach for her, I think.”

“You're not a college counselor,” I said. “You don't really know.”

“Right,” he said. “And you're not one either. So tell her to talk to hers. And be aware that she'll do whatever you say, even if you're totally wrong.”

I scowled at him. “First of all, I've researched Elton
a lot, and they like people who are creative, which Heather totally is.” She wrote a lot of fan fiction, mostly about characters from her favorite TV shows. That was creative, right? “They're going to want her. And secondly, you're wrong—she doesn't do whatever I say. That's ridiculous.”

“I've seen you order her around. She worships you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which seems to be what you like best about the relationship.”

“That's so not true! Not to mention rude.”

“Uh-huh.” He was really starting to annoy me, standing there with his stupid pants and long-sleeved shirt on the hottest day of the year, large almost colorless eyes blinking at me as he accused me of being a bad friend.

I gestured toward the door. “Aren't you going to be late for your genius?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding tired. “I am. Good-bye. We can talk more about this on Sunday.”

“I'm canceling Sunday,” I said even though I hadn't thought about it before now. “I have other plans.”

“Your mother said I should come.”

“Well, she's wrong.” I turned my back on him and went into the kitchen. Why should I let him tutor me when he had just proven that he didn't know anything about anything?

I was kind of lying when I said I had plans, except that it turned out I really
did
have plans, I just hadn't known about them. That night, Luke informed the rest of the family that he'd invited the Marquands over for a barbecue on Sunday, which was the day before Labor Day and two days before the start of school. Aaron was flying in on Saturday, so he'd be coming with them.

I spent a long time getting ready for that barbecue. I washed my hair that morning and scrunched it under a diffuser so it was just about as curly as it could get—which was pretty ridiculously curly—and used some gel that made the copper highlights catch the light. Since it was still super hot and we were planning on swimming, I put on my favorite dark-red bikini and covered that with a floaty, transparent printed dress.

As I was leaving my room, I heard Jacob calling out from his and checked on him. He was just waking from a nap. Mom had recently moved him from his crib to a small bed that looked like a race car, but he never got out of it by himself, just sat up and cried until someone rescued him, like he'd always done in the crib.

“Hey, baby dude,” I said, and picked him up. His diaper felt heavy through his shorts. He wasn't anywhere close to being toilet trained yet—since he didn't talk or seem to understand all that much, it was hard to
explain the whole potty concept to him. “Have a nice nap?”

He rubbed his forehead against my bare shoulder and I nuzzled his sweat-damp hair. I liked him best like this, right after a nap, when he was all drowsy and cuddly.

“We're going to have a barbecue,” I told him. “Hot dogs. I know you like hot dogs. And Daddy will be home all day. Fun, right?”

He didn't react, just rested against me, breathing lightly.

“We have guests coming over. You remember Michael? And Crystal? And little baby Mia?” I was never sure what he understood and what he didn't. Sometimes it seemed like your words meant nothing to him and then all of a sudden he'd go and grab something you were just talking about and bring it to you. “Let's find you something special to wear.” I pulled a shirt out of his drawer.

Instantly he started arching back in my arms—so violently that I almost dropped him—and shaking his head and making a low moaning sound that I knew would turn to screaming in a second if I wasn't careful.

“Sorry,” I said, dumping him back on the bed. I quickly crammed the shirt into the dresser. “It had buttons. I know. Forget that. See? All gone now.”

Jacob had a button phobia. And of course he couldn't tell us why.

I changed his diaper and helped him into blue board shorts and a soft white T-shirt—clothing he approved of—and carried him downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen, getting instructions from Carlos, our part-time chef, who had come in early to make a bunch of salads and marinate the meat. “If you dress the lettuce salad too soon, it will get soggy,” he was telling her when we walked in. “But you want the dressing to tenderize the kale salad for at least half an hour. In fact, I think I'll put it on right now—it won't hurt and you might forget.”

“Yes, do that,” Mom said cheerfully. “I'll definitely forget.” She was wearing a navy blue maxi sundress and a pair of amazing sparkling sandals. I eyed those sandals covetously and decided I would borrow them soon.

I put Jacob down and he ran over to Mom and hugged her legs.

“Hey, baby,” she said, absently patting his head while she glanced around the kitchen. “Where are the hot dog buns?”

“In the bag on the table. Whole wheat.” Carlos was bald, but
shaved
bald, and his eyes were younger than his mouth and chin. He was somewhere between forty and sixty, but I had no idea where. He came twice a week and cooked lots of dishes, which he left in the refrigerator so we could heat them up whenever we wanted a meal; he also prepared food for special events
like this. “I wanted to get sea bass for the fish but I didn't like the way theirs looked, so I got cod instead. I made a romesco to go with it. All Luke has to do is grill it and then put the sauce on. But tell him not to overdo it. Fish should always be slightly undercooked. Now, let's talk about the corn.”

“As fascinating as this is . . .” I said, and left them to it.