Father Knows Best (24 page)

“So,” he started. “A birthday sleepover for the pregnant girl?” His tone sounded more mystified than pisstified.

A positive sign. I think.

I sighed. “Let’s stop in the park and I’ll tell you all about it. Do you have time?”

His brow furrowed. “I have all the time in the world, but I thought you had an errand to do for your dad.”

“Oh.” I flipped my hand, feeling all busted and stuff. “Actually, that was sort of…a lie.”

He studied me with pity, then shook his head. “You really should stop with the lying stuff, Lila.”

“But it was a harmless lie. A lie with purpose!” I spread my arms. “I just wanted time alone with you to explain what’s up.”

He nodded, lips pressed together. I still couldn’t read him, and that freaked me out.

I stared at him.

He stared at me. “Is this when the explanation part happens? I’m just trying to get the timeline down.”

“Come on.” I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the gazebo. We settled on top of the empty picnic table beneath it, our feet resting side by side on the seat bench. The shade felt comfortably cool on my overheated skin, helping me relax. I wound my fingers together in a decent rendition of a Celtic knot and blew out a sigh. “So, the thing is, in a moment of…I don’t know…weakness, idiocy, you name it, I invited Jennifer for a sleepover. With Meryl and me. Friday.”

“I gathered that part,” he said, in a wry tone.

“Right.” I stared at the ground. Why was it always so difficult to get to the heart of a discussion like this? I plunged back in. “Does it wig you out?” He didn’t answer for so long, I glanced over. “Does it?”

“No.”

“Seriously, Dylan.”

“I am being serious. It’s not that. I’m glad you and Jennifer aren’t doing the whole mutual hate thing anymore. That scratchy girl-fight stuff always makes me uncomfortable.”

“She started it.”

“I know.” He hesitated.

I thought about further arguing the fact that I had never once engaged in a scratch fight with the chick, but decided that was a tangent not worth pursuing. “But?”

He reached over and wrangled one of my hands out of its knot so he could hold it. “I guess I’m just curious why didn’t you tell me.”

“Oh.” That. I shoulda known.

“Meryl told Ismet.”

“Yes, but Ismet never dated Jennifer.” The hand-holding thing eased my worry a bit. He even massaged my knuckles. But still.

“Weak argument. Come up with something better.”

I twisted my lips, thinking. “Just because, I don’t know.”

He scoffed. “Even weaker. Geez, Moreno, I used that argument in third grade.”

I forced out a frustrated breath. “Okay. Because it seems bizarre and dangerous, even to me, that I’m willingly hosting your ex-girlfriend-slash-my former archenemy at my house. On a variety of levels. So I figured it would be even more bizarre to you.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

I chewed on the question. Brain malady? It was the kind of excuse the old, immature Lila would’ve jumped on, but I knew it wasn’t true. I thought about Jennifer at the coffee shop, and that pang of sympathy returned. “A few reasons, I guess. I’ve gotten to know her a little better since she’s been hanging with Meryl, for one thing. I’ve decided maybe she’s not from hell. Maybe only purgatory.”

He stretched the corners of his mouth down and weighed it. “A step up, I guess.”

“Plus, her parents are jackasses.”

“True.”

“And so are her friends. Ex-friends, make that.”

“Isn’t Miffany still dating your brother?” he asked.

“Yes. Hork.” I feigned the finger-down-the-throat action. “But they won’t be around Friday or it would never work.”

He nodded, pursing his lips. I could tell things weren’t completely settled between us yet, despite my—if I do say myself—excellent display of raw honesty.

I looked into his eyes beseechingly. “Listen. The invitation itself was spur of the moment, Dyl. I don’t know. It just blurted out. She’s turning eighteen and, like, no one was going to celebrate with her because she’s knocked—I mean, pregnant. That seems so harsh.”

“Okay. I get that.”

Startled, I asked, “You do?”

He nodded again, then spoke in his version of a snark tone, which, incidentally, wouldn’t even warrant an associate membership in the Snark and Sarcasm Society. Props for trying though. “I know I’ve been hiding it behind a total jerkoff demeanor, but I’m actually a pretty reasonable guy.”

“I never thought you were a jerkoff—which is a gross word, by the way.” Or is it wordS, as in plural? Meryl would probably say it was two words, hyphenated, but I had no plans to ask her the proper spelling and / or usage of jerkoff.

“Sorry.”

I rolled his apology off one shoulder. “I’m glad you understand because I’m not even sure I understand,” I muttered, refocusing on my feet. “I mean, I still don’t know if I want to be friends with the chick.”

“Cut yourself some slack. And her. It was a nice, selfless gesture and it’s one measly night. She’s not so bad when she’s not with her pack.”

“She’s packless at the moment. Pack-free. Unpacked—well, forget that one.”

“Niiice,” Dylan said, sardonically.

“My point—”

“And you do have one—”

“—is that she’s a lone wolf. A lone pregnant wolf, and if Disney made the movie, her parents would’ve been killed by hunters within the first two minutes of screen time. I always hated that about Disney animal movies.”

“Me, too.”

“Hence the invite.”

He leaned over and kissed my temple. “It’s cool, Lila. Really. The invitation’s not even the issue.”

I blinked toward him. “Then what is?”

He shrugged. “I’m hurt that you felt you couldn’t tell me about it.”

My heart shot into my throat as panic set in. “Not telling you didn’t mean anything. Honest. I’m ooged out, that’s all.” And frankly, I didn’t want to have another fight with him. About anything. Ever.

He brushed my hair behind my ear. “But we’re a couple, Ly. Tight.”

I leaned against him. “I know.”

“So why can’t you talk to me about oog stuff?”

“I can!” I widened my eyes. “I mean, don’t I always? You’ve been a witness to my neuroses more than anyone in the world besides my family or Meryl and Caressa.”

He smirked. “Okay, you have me on that one.”

I lifted our joined hands up and kissed the back of his. “I guess it’s just because the whole situation is…beyond strange. For one, she’s your ex-girlfriend—”

“Ancient history.”

“I know. But it still feels wiggy.”

He didn’t respond.

I squinched my nose. “I give. Not telling you was dumb and I admit it. I know all about your relationship with Jennifer, how it was. I should’ve told you right away and been confident that you’d be the coolest boyfriend ever about the whole stupid thing.” I paused. “I made a mistake. Probably the first of many. Do you accept my humble apology?”

“Depends.” He tilted his chin down and eyed me. “Do you promise to be more open with me?”

“Yes,” I said in a rush. “I swear. I’ll tell you everything I’m feeling or thinking every single moment for the rest of my life.” I swallowed. “Like, for example, I really want to kiss you right now.”

That was when we started making out.

Really, you don’t need details about that aspect of our big talk, okay? Use your imagination.

When we finally broke apart, our breathing seemed heavier, parts of me felt throbby and off-kilter, and I loved it. Hey, I’m only human. Dylan ran his hand through the side of my hair, and he seemed equally off-kilter. I didn’t detect any throb activity on his behalf, but I just assumed it was there.

“So…” He touched the edge of my nose. “On the rare occasion that she actually eats, Jennifer likes German chocolate cake. Just a tip, in case that was part of the planned birthday festivities.”

A cake.
Oops
. I hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, she eats now. Trust me. Like for two or three.” Hadn’t he seen her expanding girth recently? I smiled. “You’re the best boyfriend ever, did you know that?”

“Duh,” he deadpanned.

I laughed. “Modest, too.”

“You’re not half bad yourself, Lila Jane Moreno,” he said in that deep but soft tone of voice that always made me turn into one of those stupid girls I silently mocked, all sighs and eyelashes batting and googly. Lame.

Proof positive of my transformation into the aforementioned stupid girl, I sighed. Couldn’t help it. I decided to turn the conversation to something that would render me less mockworthy. “So”—I smacked my palm on his thigh—“about the Monopoly tournament.”

His eyebrows lifted. “What about it?”

“I know you said couple-couple, but I think it should be girls versus guys.” I jostled my shoulder against his. “I want the opportunity to royally kick your testosterone-fueled asses, and believe me, we will.”

He grinned. “You’re on, but you’re also dreaming. Prepare to die in the poor house, woman.”

And then, with everything settled between us, we made out some more.

I have to admit, those hideously over-the-top waffle cone thingies Dylan seemed so fond of taste pretty good on his lips.

T-minus forty-eight hours until the infamous birthday sleepover, and I still hadn’t come up with a single decent gift idea for ol’ Jennifer.

Stretch mark ointment?

First day of school maternity smock?

A gift certificate to Humongous-Bras-R-Us?

They all sucked. I was pondering this very issue as I tossed a green salad to go with Dad’s world-famous chicken enchiladas Wednesday evening while Chloe set the table.

Hang on.

Can you even grasp how huge it is that it no longer seems whack to me when Chloe joins us for dinner? It’s usually when Dylan has evening training sessions for the WPHS ski team, by the way, which is practically every night now that school is creeping up on us. It’s not like she abandons him at their house to eat Pop-Tarts in front of the TV while we dine on my dad’s meals, not that Dylan would mind. (Guys.) But still. The point is, he’s never excluded, he just seems to have ski team training around dinnertime. And the super-secret truth is, I’m okay with it, what with that whole stepbrother-stepsister-boyfriend-girlfriend freakishness always lurking around the corner.

The scents of chicken and chile and melted cheese permeated the room. My dad let me pick the dinner music, so Bob Marley wailed softly in the background, making me wish—and not for the first time—that I was a Caribbean beach-dwelling Rastafarian. (Don’t ask—it’s just one of those inexplicable childhood fantasies that clung.)

In short order, we sat down to the dinner I’d been looking forward to all day, and yet—I don’t know—call me paranoid, but it seemed like Dad and Chloe were hiding something. Don’t get me wrong—serving dishes were passed, water was poured, clink, clink of the silverware and whatnot, all that normal stuff. But I am my father’s daughter when it comes to trusting the gut feeling.

Evidence: they both had smirky smiles on their faces that they were obviously trying (and failing) to hide, and the conversation hovered on the surfacey level. It was all way too chipper, too, like all the important things were left unsaid.

It started to give me the creeps. It reminded me too much of the day Meryl and Caressa broke the news that Jennifer was preg—

My hand spasmed, and I flicked a forkful of enchilada onto the table.

Oh no! Was Chloe pregnant?!

I shoved the thought away and stared down at my plate taking deep breaths. Dad’s chicken enchiladas, I told myself, in an effort to get back in the groove. My favorite meal.

It didn’t work.

The stress level was destroying my ability to groove with the food. That’s just wrong. I set down my fork with a clank that I hope conveyed my annoyance. “Okay. I can’t take this tension for the whole meal.”