Wrong About the Guy(40)

“Families,” I said to George as we walked away from them. “Am I right?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I have no idea what your point is, but I know you can’t be wrong.”

“It’s theoretically possible,” I said. “It’s just never happened.”





nineteen


We crept around the crowd, keeping to the edges of the room. I brushed my fingertips against the folds of silk lining the walls. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how long it must have taken to remove all of their paintings—they had a ton of art because Michael had once dated a very persuasive art curator—and cover the walls with all of this jewel-toned silk. Not to mention how much it must have cost.

“Oh, wait.” I halted. “Hold on a sec.” I crouched down and snaked my hand into my right boot.

“What are you doing?”

I stood up, now clutching my phone. “This is why slouchy boots were invented,” I said. “To hold cell phones.” I sent Mom a text asking if she needed my help with Jakie—and, if so, where I could find them—then glanced back up at George. “So were you enjoying your conversation with the server girl? You both seemed very into it. Sorry if we were interrupting something. Were we? Interrupting something?”

“Just a conversation,” he said. “Nothing important.”

“She was cute. You should totally get her number. Want me to get it for you? I could be very subtle about it.”

“Thank you, but I’m capable of managing my own social life.”


“Are you, though?” My phone buzzed and I glanced down at it. We’re fine. Enjoy yourself. “All’s well with Mom,” I said. I dropped the phone back into my boot. “Oh, look, there’s your brother and Izzy.”

“I found where the trays come out,” Jonathan crowed as we came up to them. Like George, he and Izzy had pretty minimal costumes. Theirs matched: cowboy hats, leather vests over white shirts, bandannas, jeans, and boots. “This is the best place to stand—the food’s hot and we get to try everything.”

“This is why I’m going to marry him,” Izzy told me. “He always figures this stuff out. I never go hungry at a party. Although I do go thirsty, because once he’s staked out a spot, he won’t let us leave it.”

“I’ll make a bar run,” George said. “What does everyone want?”

I asked for a Diet Coke, Izzy wanted wine, and Jonathan said he’d take a beer. I was happy to hang out with them, but Luke spotted me from across the room and beckoned, so he could introduce me to some guy in thick black glasses and a buzz cut—no costume—whose name I didn’t catch, but who asked me so many questions about school and my hopes for college that I felt like I was being given an oral exam.

The worst part was that someone else pulled Luke away, so I was stuck talking to the guy one-on-one, which made it hard to extricate myself. Fortunately Aaron suddenly appeared at my side.

“There you are!” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.” He slid his arm under mine. “You can’t monopolize her all night long, Samson,” he said, and my examiner held his hands up and said, “Wouldn’t dream of it—she’s all yours,” with an annoyingly insinuating smile.

“Samson?” I hissed as Aaron led me away. “Was that Samson Cardoza?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“He’s like my favorite movie director ever. Rats.” I glanced back regretfully. “I would have enjoyed that conversation so much more if I’d known who I was talking to!”

“You do realize that’s a ridiculous thing to say, right? You want to go back?”

“Nah, he was still pretty boring. Where are we going?”

He’d steered me out of the living room and back into the foyer, but now he stopped. “I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure I had you all to myself again. Sorry about abandoning you before, by the way.”

“It’s fine. Was something wrong?”

“Crystal just likes to be pissed off at me. Makes her feel all maternal. Apparently I wasn’t being a good host because I was spending so much time with you.”

“Well, now I feel guilty.”

“You should,” he said. “It’s all your fault. Fluttering those big brown eyes at me, making me forget that I’m supposed to be talking to old people who can’t keep their food in their mouths and spew it all over everyone who stands near them—”

“There’s no one like that here!” I said, laughing. “And I know this is a weird segue from that, but I’m hungry.”

“The dining room’s wall-to-wall food. Come on.”

The statement might not have been literally true, but it was pretty close, since their banquet-hall-sized table took up most of the room and was covered with platters of roasted meats, small biscuits, salads, and pasta. There were surprisingly few people in there—I didn’t know whether it was because most of the guests hadn’t discovered it or because no one in Hollywood eats real food.

Aaron found us a quiet spot in a little area off the dining room that was lined with glass-fronted cabinets filled with china. He dragged two chairs in and we sat together and ate, our plates on our laps, wiping our faces with the backs of our hands because we’d forgotten to get napkins.