Good for You (11 page)

Chapter 22

REID

The camaraderie lasted al morning. We ate lunch separately— she sat with Roberta, and I sat with Frank, Darlene and Gabriel e —but I don’t think that’s what changed her mood. She was on the phone again after lunch, and though she was standing too far away for me to hear anything specific, her tone was on edge. She’s been bitchy since she hung up.

She’s instal ing brackets in the closets, and I’m adding the shelves and bolting them in. Since we’re working on the same closets at the same time, we’re almost on top of each other. The third time she criticizes something I’m not doing perfectly and then takes over and does it herself, I can’t take any more of this shit.

“Look, just because you had a grisly breakup yesterday doesn’t mean you can take it out on
me
today. I wasn’t responsible for it.”

She glares at me. “What. Are. You. Talking about.”

“The phone cal yesterday? The crying?”

Her mouth drops open and snaps closed. “Were you
listening
to me?”

We’re standing inside a closet having this conversation, and the harsh resonance of our voices ricochets around and through us, unable to ful y escape the confines of the space. “You were outside, in public, talking on your phone.

It’s not like I fucking
wiretapped
you.” Her jaw sets. “First, you shouldn’t have been listening to what was clearly a private conversation. And second, there was nothing to
break up
. We just agreed to never actual y start… whatever we might… flippin’
flapjacks
. It’s none of your darned business.”

Once I start laughing I can’t stop. “Flipping
what
?” Where the hel does she get these things?

“If you were capable of doing
any
of this without assistance, it would be a joy to leave you to it,” she says, glaring.

“Oh, please. This isn’t rocket science. It’s screwing a bunch of boards to a wal . Big fucking deal.” Side note: I love how much it bothers her when I say
fuck
. She winces every time, like she’s being jabbed with a needle.

“You don’t even know how to use the studfinder to find the studs first.”

“Pardon me?”

She sighs exaggeratedly and fixes me with a stare. “You have to locate the studs first—”

“
Studfinder?
”

“You use it to find the framework? Inside the wal ?” Her sarcastic pitch is hitting a boiling point inside
me
, because frankly it’s a little too reminiscent of Dad, which I can’t handle from more than one person in my life. “The skeleton to which we attach stuff that needs to be anchored—like, I don’t know,
shelves
?”

I stopped listening before she resumed talking. “You finish in here,” I say. “I’l do Gabriel e’s closet.” In answer, she hands me a smal gadget containing a miniature leveler and a red arrow-looking thing. This must be the wondrous studfinder. I have zero idea what to do with it, so I slip it into my pocket as I leave the room.

*** *** ***

Dori

“I’m an idiot,” he says.

“No argument,” I say.

He’s instal ed the hanging rod and an entire row of shelves without finding the anchoring studs first. The weight of the brackets alone probably seemed fine, but when the shelves were added, the weight began pul ing the brackets out from the wal , screws and al . If Gabriel e adds so much as a pair of boots to a shelf or a couple of hangers to the rod, the whole mess is coming down.

Without speaking, we begin to angle the shelves to remove them from their unstable brackets. The boards scrape the wal s on both sides, wringing simultaneous exclamations—
fucking hell
from him and
gosh almighty
from me—which makes him laugh. “It’s not funny,” I mutter.

And then I glance at him and he grins and for no reason it
is
funny and we’re both laughing.

Once the boards are removed, we survey the damage.

Once the boards are removed, we survey the damage.

He sighs deeply, arms crossed over his chest. “Man. That looks like shit.”

I can’t dispute his opinion, but something about his defensive pose and his dejected inflection reminds me of five-year-old Jonathan from my VBS class. Slumping against one of the ruined wal s, I calculate that the repair and repainting wil add a couple of hours to finishing out the closets. I was hoping to leave at three, which is not going to happen.

“What now?”

I straighten from the wal . “Now, we repair the damage…

and reinstal the shelving.”

He pul s his phone from his pocket, checks the time. “I assume you have a painstakingly calculated timetable…

and the closets have to be done today.”

“Yep.” I grab a couple of the boards and haul them from the closet, and he fol ows with the brackets and the dril .

“Which means you’l have to stay later.”

I answer with a smal shrug and a nod.

“I guess I’l stay later too, then.”

This is unprecedented. “Oh?”

“Wel , it’s my fault we have to redo the whole closet, so yeah.” Hitting a speed dial number, he watches me carry the remaining boards from inside the closet and lean them careful y against the pink wal . “Hey George, can you reschedule that interview? And also let the driver know to be here at five instead of three today.”

Avoiding his eyes, I listen as he and his manager rearrange his after-hours agenda. Before now, I hadn’t rearrange his after-hours agenda. Before now, I hadn’t considered that Reid had anything else to do between filming movies, aside from goofing off.

The typical schedule everyone keeps is 8 a.m. to 3 p.m., and I’m used to him leaving with the rest of the transient volunteers. Those of us making up the regular crew come in earlier sometimes, and hang around a bit later sometimes, finishing up projects or readying things for the next day while the house grows gradual y quieter, the sounds of an entire crew of workers fading to nothing.

Since we have to repaint the closet in Gabriel e’s room, her shelves are the last thing to be done. When Reid volunteers to instal them alone (again) while I finish up the linen closet shelving, I take a breath and ignore the threatening sense of déjà vu. Instead, I simply hand him the dril and the studfinder (his lips twist, and I know he’s repressing a wise crack) after showing him how to use it.

While finishing out the linen closet, I stifle the desire to check on him at least a dozen times. Final y, I head back to Gabriel e’s room, bracing myself for whatever catastrophe awaits.

Reid’s back is to me as he attaches the last shelf, the hard muscles of his shoulders and arms flexed and defined through his white t-shirt as he presses the dril , driving the screw through the bracket and into the wal . When finished, he leaves the dril on the shelf and steps back, every line of his body radiating pride, unaware that I’m watching. He’s not wearing the safety goggles (he never does unless I make him put them on), but I won’t chide him for it.

“It looks good,” I say, and he moves to the side as I step

“It looks good,” I say, and he moves to the side as I step in next to him. I tug on the shelves, testing them. They don’t budge. I could probably climb on them if I had to. They’re more than secure enough to hold Gabriel e’s shoes and storage boxes.

Relaxing against the doorjamb of the closet, folding his arms loosely over his chest, he glances towards the bedroom door. “It’s real y quiet in the house now. So weird.” I nod. “Everyone’s gone except Roberta and Gene, and they’re doing paperwork in the office.” His body fil s the closet doorway, and he’l have to move for me to exit.

Which is an odd thought to have, and makes me very aware of the enclosed space. “Being in here is sort of like burrowing into a piece of bubblegum,” I say nervously, glancing at the closet’s pink wal s.

He doesn’t answer, staring at me like he’s analyzing a complex riddle. Uncrossing his arms, he hooks one hand in his front pocket while the other lifts, his fingers catching a strand of hair too short to stretch to the elastic pul ing the rest of my hair back. He slides it behind my ear, grazing the tip with his finger, and suddenly there’s no sound but the pounding of my heart. This is where I should put my hands up between us like I did before. This is where I should say
excuse me
and get out of here.

His hand drops to his side and he stares down at me, making no movement towards me or away. I suck my lower lip into my mouth, a nervous habit leftover from childhood, and his gaze drops there, sticks. A minute passes before he braces a hand on the wal just over my shoulder and leans closer, his eyes flashing to mine. “Tel me what to do next, because I’m not sure what you want.” His voice has gone rusty and low, like he hasn’t used it in weeks.

I know what he’s asking, despite the words threading across this scene:
this is not happening
. I shake my head, barely moving. Thoughts tumble through my mind, blurred, flashing in and out, opposites: kiss me, don’t touch me, come closer, move away.

“Al I’m asking,” his knuckles brush along my jaw, “is that you tel me, Dori, what… you... want.”

When he straightens and begins to back away, I almost protest, biting my lip to keep from doing so. This movement betrays me, though, because again, he stares at my mouth a long moment before his gaze shifts to my eyes.

“Or maybe, just tel me if I do something you don’t want,” he says quietly. And then his palms are skimming down my arms, and his mouth is on mine and he’s kissing me, sliding his arms around me and pul ing me up against his chest, hands pressing my lower back. Gently, his lips play over mine, teasing and testing and it feels so incredible, but somewhere in my mind is the tiniest nagging disappointment that he’s kissing me like Nick did, the few times he’d kissed me—
safely
—the last thing I expect from Reid.

Chapter 23

REID

The last thing I expect is for her to open her mouth, almost imperceptibly, so subtly that if I wasn’t paying attention I might miss it. I’m al about paying attention. Even stil , her response is such a shock that I almost pause, but instinctively I know that if I give her a fraction of a second to think, this is over.

Careful y, I run the tip of my tongue across her lower lip and she gasps, opening wider, receptive. Permission to enter granted, and God knows she doesn’t have to indicate
that
twice. Sweeping my tongue across hers, I pul her in tight and hard when she responds perfectly and in kind. I suck her lower lip into my mouth and she mimics this the moment I release it, adding the slightest graze of her teeth.

Her hands are on my back, kneading and stroking while I’m doing the same to her. And then she makes this sound—a cross between a sigh and a moan, like a soft, subtle, wordless
yes
, and it’s al I can do not to come undone.

I can’t say if this is the best kiss ever. I’ve kissed a
lot
of girls. But I can say that I don’t remember another girl or another kiss in this moment. I can’t remember my own name in this moment. And I don’t want to stop kissing her.

Ever. And then my hands shift under her shirt at her waist, fingers brushing over the soft, warm skin of her lower back, and she tears her mouth from mine.
Shit
. Too far, too fast.

The warning hits my brain too late.

“Stop, stop,” she says, gasping. Her eyes are glazed over and I can’t hear anything beyond our mingled, panting breaths and her muted words. “Oh my gosh.” I’m waiting for her to shove me away but her eyes are closed now and she’s stil holding onto me so I’m not moving. I want to kiss her again and I’m exerting every ounce of self-control to stand here, unmoving, and watch her come back to earth. Shit, she is going to be so pissed in about three seconds.

Make that one second.

Her hands fal from my sides abruptly, like she’s just realized where they were. I loosen my hold on her gradual y, as though I can keep her from remembering where my hands were and what they were doing if I move slowly enough. I shouldn’t have put my hands under her shirt. I had no intention of going anywhere with that, I just wanted my hands on her skin, a tactile connection, like grounding wires, while our mouths fed the current between us.

Now her eyes are wide open and she’s staring at me, but I can’t read her expression. This is something new, something more than alarm or anger or exasperation. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t dare ask. She’s shutting down, like shades lowering, and then she’s ducking under my arm and I can’t do anything but lean against the wal , pound it once,
hard
, with my fist. “
Fuck
.” She whirls around. “Why do you have to use that word?” Ah, the almighty F-word. “It’s just a word, Dori.”

“Wel , I don’t want to hear it.”

I turn to face her, the judgment in her tone, which I can’t even begin to reconcile with the girl who was just kissing me like she was drowning in me. Like she
wanted
to. “So when I say
fuck
, it real y bothers you.” I’m not even saying it
at
her, but I swear to God, she flinches before she nods.

“Why? It’s just a word.”

Refusing to meet my eyes, she bites her lower lip (which only makes me want to kiss her again) while I stand here watching her, equal y silent. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible. “Because it takes something sacred and makes it into something ugly and insignificant. That’s what bothers me.”

“So you consider fu—sex as something
sacred
?” I can’t wrap my head around this. “Sex isn’t sacred—not under usual circumstances and probably not ever, between mental y balanced people. It’s just a physical need, like eating or breathing.”

She looks up at me, her eyes bright, though she’s not crying, thank God. “I understand that it’s physical, something we’re biological y driven to.” (Now
there’s
an unanticipated and annoyingly hot viewpoint for her to have.)

“But when people love each other, it’s different. It’s like—

like eating for pleasure, not just gorging yourself on whatever c-crap comes along.”

She can’t even say ‘crap’ without stumbling over it, and her argument is absurd.
Eating for pleasure
—Jesus, I could make al kinds of comebacks to that. She turns and runs from the room, the front door opening and closing quietly behind her a moment later. Because of course she isn’t going to make a scene leaving the house.

*** *** ***

Dori

I’m driving home shaking. I’m angry, yes. At myself. But I’m not shaking from anger. I’m shaking from something else altogether.

Something

that

somehow,

inexplicably,

generates a similar physical response. And yet not.

Reid thinks he knows who I am, because he’s made the same assumptions everyone else makes about me. That I’m a proper, straitlaced
good girl
. That I always have been.

But you know what they say about assumptions.

I met Colin Dyer during my first week of high school.

His family attended our sister church—the one with the architectural y impressive sanctuary located in a better neighborhood, with parishioners to whom
giving back
only ever means opening a wal et. Our church is their charity project, their contributions providing enough additional funds to pay for building repairs and help support our neighborhood programs.

Colin’s mother was my school counselor, and I was her office aide during fourth period. Getting an aide job as a freshman was unheard of, unless you had connections, and freshman was unheard of, unless you had connections, and thanks to Dad, I did. Being selected as Dr. Dyer’s aide was a highly coveted privilege. She was easygoing, and her office was quiet and comfortable. Her aides had firsthand knowledge of which students were troubled or
in
trouble, so not just anyone could work the front desk. She needed someone trustworthy and caring. I was both.

I worked the class period after lunch. By the end of that first week, I’d covertly inspected the family photos in her office while making copies or clearing her fax machine of junk faxes, so when Colin stopped by, I recognized him immediately. A senior and on the swim team, he was tal and slim, but muscular. His dark hair was cut very short, making his hazel, almond-shaped eyes even more striking in his olive-toned face. He walked and swam with equal grace, and possessed a confidence I craved and admired.

“Wel , hel o,” he said, his brows raised slightly, his gaze warm and focused. “You’re new.”

I frowned slightly, confused. It was only the first week of school, so anyone in my position would technical y be new.

“I haven’t seen you around at school before, so you’re either a new transfer… or a freshman. Or, in upperclass-speak, fresh meat.” He smiled, his teeth perfect and white, smal dimples denting adorably at the sides of his mouth. I felt my face heat. I had no idea how to respond, and though I knew I should be offended, I wasn’t.

“Colin,” his mother said, coming in with a stack of folders and a bag from Wendy’s, the aroma of French fries fil ing the office. “You’l need to pick up those goggles yourself. I couldn’t make it by today. I had to stop by the orthodontist to get Tara’s new retainer.” Tara was Colin’s seventh grade sister.

“Didn’t you just get her a new retainer?”

She smirked. “Yes. That one lasted a month before she

‘misplaced’ it.” She walked into her office to prepare for the afternoon’s onslaught of distressed teenagers and/or their parents, her voice trailing off. “If only they put little strings on those things like they have for bifocals and children’s mittens…”

He laughed, and I tingled, head to toe. I’d never felt so attracted to a boy before. As he turned back to me, I turned away to switch on the oscil ating fan behind my desk.

“So, fresh meat, what’s your name?”

My face warmed again. “Dori.”

“I’l be seeing you, then, Dori.” He quirked an eyebrow and was out the door.

I watched him in the hal ways between classes—senior and junior girls constantly orbiting him like planets caught in his gravitational pul , freshman and sophomore girls sighing as he walked by, other guys high-fiving him or throwing out plans for the weekend as they passed. He was extroverted, popular. I was al but invisible.

Whenever he noticed me, he’d smile broadly. “Hey, fresh meat,” he’d say, anyone within earshot tittering. I was embarrassed and thril ed. Once or twice a week, he’d show up in the counseling office to talk to his mother, but he always stayed after, leaning a hip on my desk and talking to me in teasing tones.

One day, he walked in carrying a dark pink rose. Dr.

Dyer was in a staff meeting, and I was alone. “Hey, Dori.” His eyes roamed over me. “You look hot today.” I stared at the desk, never sure how serious his compliments were. He smiled, moved closer, held the rose to my ear. “Yep, I was right. The exact same shade.”

He squatted down next to my chair, which he’d never done. “I have something to ask you.” Viewing him from this new perspective, I stared at his long, dark eyelashes and his ful lips. He drew the rose down the side of my face, the petals soft against my cheek, and I felt a stirring to my core.

“Do you have a date for homecoming?”

I shook my head slowly, disbelieving. It made no sense for someone as popular as Colin to notice me, let alone ask me out.

“Would you like to go with me?” His gaze locked on mine as he slowly dragged the rose across my lips, the fragrance of it sweet and overpowering. I nodded, and he smiled. He pul ed his phone from his pocket, pushed a few buttons, handed it to me. “Put your number in. I’l cal you tonight and we’l talk logistics.” As I tapped my number, he glanced towards the door and back to me. “Can I have a kiss, to seal the deal?”

I nodded again, and then his lips were on mine, briefly.

He took his phone, laid the rose on my desk, and walked into the hal , whistling. I’d been asked to homecoming, had accepted the invitation, and his kiss, never speaking a word.

That was my first kiss with Colin. My first kiss with anyone.

Four months later, it was Valentine’s Day. His parents had driven to San Francisco for an extended romantic weekend, and his little sister was staying overnight at a friend’s house. He took me to dinner, and then we rented a movie. We had the house to ourselves. As we made out on the sofa, he whispered that he loved me. When he took my hand and pul ed me to his room and into his bed, I fol owed.

We snuck home to his empty house during lunch breaks and got a hotel room on my fifteenth birthday, where we made love in the shower, on the worn loveseat, and on the floor, laughing at the rug burns we sustained on our knees and backsides from the coarse carpet. I woke up in his arms, hoping Mom hadn’t cal ed the friend with whom I was supposedly spending the night, but certain I’d not trade that waking moment for anything, no matter the consequences.

When spring break came around and he took off for San Diego with friends, I didn’t protest; I wasn’t one of those clingy girlfriends. When he came back home Sunday night

—his eighteenth birthday—and didn’t cal or return my texts, I was concerned. When he didn’t show at lunch or stop by the office on Monday, I didn’t understand. Not until I saw him in the hal way just before last period, his arm slung around the waist of a senior girl. Not until his eyes passed over and then returned to me.

“Hey, fresh meat,” he said, and kept walking.

That was when I knew it was over.