Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(11)

“Don’t start that BS again,” she says with a withering glance. “I meant it when I said I didn’t like the charming pretty-boy version.”

But she comes and sits by me anyway, and once again I feel that annoying hit of awareness.

I meet her eyes. “What if that’s who I am? The charming pretty-boy version, I mean?”

“Well, then God help your future Stepford wife, because you two will bore the crap out of each other long before your first anniversary. But it’s not my problem. It’s not like I’m auditioning for the role of BFF. Just keep your schmoozing to a minimum when we have to meet for the film project, and hopefully I won’t have to scare you away with my dead bird collection.”

We’re back to where we started now on that first day, exchanging clichéd insults, and I kind of like it. Not as much as I liked her pressed against me, but her company’s the most enjoyable I’ve had in weeks.

“You never answered how you ended up here,” I say, staring down at her pale profile.

She stares straight ahead, fiddling again with her earrings. “I’m tagging along with a friend. Jordan Crawford. She’s one of you people.”

“One of us?”

“You know. Pretty. Popular. Perfect.”

“You’re pretty,” I hear myself say.

She turns her head then, blue eyes so bored they could freeze my balls off. “What did I just say about the charming thing? Turn it off.”

“Why do you do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“What, you’re wondering why I don’t swoon?” she asks, lifting a leg to tuck a heel under her on the wall and turning to face me slightly. “You’re not my type.”

“Is it the lack of tattoos?” I deadpan. “Do you want me to show you my penis piercing?”

“It’s the lack of substance,” she snaps.

I recoil a little bit at the accusation. I don’t know why her opinion even matters. She’s a friendless outcast, and I could have this entire party eating out of my hand if I wanted. I don’t care what she thinks of me. Or at least I shouldn’t.

But her blatant dismissal of me hits a raw spot. Does she think I’m not aware that I’m a little too glib sometimes? This girl doesn’t know me. She can’t possibly understand that the charm comes on without me intending it to, even when inside I feel anything but charming.

Does she really think I don’t look at my life—at the cushy apartment I don’t pay for, the classes that come a little easier than they should, the CEO position that’s just waiting for me—and feel exactly what she’s accusing me of?

Substance free.

It burns a little, because she’s right.

Sometimes I think I’m nothing but a decent-looking package for other people to fill up with their garbage. From my parents, who spoon-feed me my future in exchange for a nice allowance, to my friends, who demand a ringleader.

And then there was Olivia, who never put any overt pressure on me—never asked me to be anything other than what I put forward. But we both knew that what I put forward sure as hell better meld with the image of our families. That meant learning how to schmooze your father’s clients before you could ride a bike. It meant Saturdays spent on the golf course with family friends when all you wanted to do was play video games. It meant escorting your perfect girlfriend to her debutante ball. And it meant figuring out a way to get good grades, regardless of whether you actually learned anything.

Hell, even when I rebelled I did it the right way. Even when I put my foot down and refused to do my usual summer internship at the company, I didn’t do so by putting on coveralls and working at an auto repair shop in Queens.

No, my form of rebellion was a f*cking film class with an Academy Award–winning screenwriter who went to college with my daddy.

Stephanie Kendrick is right.

I have no substance.

And even worse, I don’t know the first place to start in actually acquiring any.

Something soft touches my arm, and I realize that it’s Goth. Her slim fingers are on my bare forearm, her black nail polish against my tan skin is hot, and despite the fact that she’s pissed me off, I want to know what her fingers would feel like against the rest of my skin.

I shake her hand off, and she lets me, but her blue eyes never leave my face.

“Sorry,” she says simply.

“For what?”

“For saying you were substance free.”

“Yeah, I can tell from your tone you’re really torn up about it. Zombies have more inflection.”

She tilts her head a little as though I’m a puzzle. “Would it be better if I fluttered my eyelashes? Maybe added a couple of adverbs? I’m soooooo sorry, Ethan, you absolutely must forgive me.”

I laugh a little in spite of myself, because she sounds exactly like every other girl I know, but coming from her scowling face and black-rimmed eyes, it’s all wrong.

“I don’t know that I like you,” I say, surprised to see that my hand has gone out to tug a piece of her hair.

She looks a little startled at the gesture, but her eyes seem to soften slightly and she gives me a tentative smile. “I’m shocked. I thought for sure you were going to ask me to be your tennis doubles partner.”

“Price, you out there?”