“This sucks.” Jason pushes away from the table, taking his roll. “I need my own place.”
As soon as Jason is out of earshot, Mr. Watson mumbles, “Now there’s a notion.”
Emily turns to her mother. “Mom, no one goes to that incredibly sucktastic dance. Everyone just goes to the game. Things have changed since you went to high school.”
“See there, Vera, it’s how they roll nowadays,” her dad says, and I swear it’s all Emily and I can do not to lose it. Emily’s parents bought a book called Decode Your Teen! when Grant was in high school, and are oblivious to the fact that adolescent lingo changes daily.
Hours later, we lie in Emily’s bed, stuffed with raspberry cobbler and fresh whipped cream.
“So what’s the deal with Abercrombie boy?”
Emily sits up and hits me in the face with her pillow, and I squeal. “Your brother is a bad influence!”
“My brother is a tool.” She stuffs the pillow back behind her head.
“So, what’s the deal with Derek, then?”
She throws an arm across her face. “It’s hopeless.”
“Hopeless how?” I turn on my side, watching her.
“We’re complete opposites. He’s super prep boy. He wears khaki chinos. He’s never even heard of most of my favorite bands, and I’ve spent years making fun of his. I have purple stripes in my hair. Piercings in places I had to have parental permission to get. My favorite nail polish is called Vampire State Building. All of his friends think I’m a freak.”
“Did he tell you that?” I ask, and she turns on her side to face me.
“He didn’t have to tell me. I can see it on their stupid faces.”
I sweep her purple-accented hair out of her eyes. “Who cares what they think?”
“Oh come on, all that ‘If they’re your real friends, they’ll accept whoever you love’ is a load of crap. I can’t expect a guy to stand up to that kind of pressure. And I like me the way I am. I don’t want to change!”
“Has he asked you to change?”
“No,” she says, sounding almost disappointed.
“So how much do you like this guy?”
“Oh my God. So much.” She turns into me and buries her face under my chin, her voice desolate, as though she’s confessing to murder instead of attraction.
“Sounds like a bungee-jumping sorta moment.”
She nods her head.
“Emma?” My name is muffled by the comforter. “I think I already fell.”
“I guess all you can do is wait to see if the cord holds.”
Funny how I can in no way apply this wisdom to myself, no matter how sensible it sounds when I say it to Emily.
Chapter 31
REID
I have every intention of taking a break from hookups while I’m pursuing Emma, but this party is full of hot girls who are flying so high they don’t know which end is up. The invitation to ditch my temporary abstinence plan is powerful. Plus, Emma and I aren’t actually together yet. She’s taking her own sweet time about that, though I think we’re getting there. I came home to LA this weekend certain I could be patient… but every moment that goes by is draining that resolve.
The exclusivity factor of this little gathering is high. I’ve recognized several film colleagues and a couple of John’s friends—trust fund babies who live for rubbing elbows (and other body parts) with movie stars and music idols. Highly unlikely that anything will turn up on the Internet. Non-celebrities who get invited to these events understand that outing any of us puts them on the other side of that door in the future. That’s why you seldom see photos of famous people misbehaving in private settings. Figuring out who narced amongst a restricted set of people is far too easy.
I’m both buzzed and high, lounging in a chair and watching the curls of smoke rise from half a dozen joints. John has his tongue down the throat of an aspiring runway model as they paw each other in the space cleared for people pretending to dance. Really they’re all just committing foreplay in front of anyone watching. John really digs models. The foreign ones, especially. This one looks and sounds, I don’t know, Swedish? I’m not the best judge at this point.
Tonight, I’m a voyeur. I can reign this in and wait.
And then some girl a few feet from John is dancing with another girl and the two of them are taking each other’s clothes off. Slowly. Once they have my attention, they’re both flicking glances my way at regular intervals, to make sure I’m still watching. No problem there—I’m riveted.
Damn. I’m not getting through the next half an hour without tossing my short-lived celibacy out the window, let alone the rest of the night, and I know it.
***
John’s model is in the shower. He’s too soft. My two were sent home in a taxi while it was still dark out. Now, he and I are sprawled on the sofa in our usual Sunday morning state: hungover. “What are we doing tonight, man?” John blows a few rings of smoke from the cigarette between his fingers, like a cartoon smokestack from a train. One of those people who smokes irregularly, he’s curiously gifted with the stuff he can do with a cigarette, especially considering how infrequently he picks one up. He’s made an art of it. “Do you want to go out?”
I watch the smoke rings dissipate, lay my head back against the cushion. The shower goes off. “I don’t know. Sure. Nothing high-profile, though.”
The bathroom door snaps open. “John?” His name in her mouth sounds more like Jonah—two syllables.