She nods and leaves.
Ah, great. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Just what the hell happened last night? I’ve never drunk that much, enough to pass out and not remember.
“Arrrrggghhhh!”
I shove my hands against the sides of my head and hop into the shower. It’s all Dad’s fault. I shouldn’t even call him Dad anymore. Just Julian. He deserves that.
I’m going to sue the son of a bitch. He deserves that too. He’s going down. I should’ve opted for that last night, instead of getting shitfaced and propositioning Paige. Mira knows every nasty asshole attorney in the city. Surely she knows one who can fuck him over.
My new purpose in life energizes me. I throw on a blue polo shirt and shorts.
But a lot of my anger and energy deflate when I see Paige again in the lobby. Dad didn’t force the liquor down my throat. He didn’t make me act like a total jackass with her last night, and I feel like pond scum.
She’s tapping out something on her phone, her brows knitted together. Underneath the makeup, she is paler, and her mouth is stretched thin and flat.
The drive to the airport is awkward and silent. It’s ten times worse than our flight to Virginia.
And what’s even worse than that is…I don’t know how to fix the situation so I can breathe again.
Chapter Eight
Paige
Ryder leaves town on Monday to “go fishing,” which is his code for either getting laid or partying. Whichever it is, I’m sort of glad after that crazy proposal. I already have enough on my plate, mainly how I’m going to adjust to having a baby on my own…and how I’m going to tell my family.
Frankly, figuring out the first is easier than the second. In addition to disappointing Mom and Simon, it’ll prove that the whispers I heard while growing up were right—that I’m a troublemaker, bound to let people down no matter how things appear now because sooner or later I’m going to do something bad.
Getting pregnant out of wedlock definitely counts.
Ryder’s still not back by Friday COB. I don’t think he’s in trouble…if he were, he would’ve contacted me or his lawyers. However, he should be about partied out by now. The previous record is four days.
Sunday morning, I drive to a modest house in the suburbs. My stepsister, Bethany, and her husband, Oliver, bought it last year. The previous owner was in financial trouble, and the property was about to go into foreclosure. So they got a pretty decent deal, considering that this is L.A.
Since it’s the biggest of all our homes, Bethany and Oliver usually host our get-togethers. My roommate Renni and her twin brother are invited as well. All of us being transplants, we’ve bonded tightly over the years.
By the time I ring the doorbell, it’s ten thirty. Bethany answers in a pink apron streaked with flour. There’s some on her cheek as well. Her white t-shirt is comfy and old, and a pair of cropped blue-jeans ends at the middle of her calves. Bright, neon pink polish looks great on her narrow feet, which are currently bare.
A yellow number two pencil skewers the messy brown bun sitting on top of her head. Her smile wide and welcoming, she wraps me up in a hug. “Come on in.”
I return the hug. It feels so good to be around people who love me.
We walk in together. Renni and her twin brother Gary are hanging out in the living room.
They look nothing alike.
Renni is petite and pixie-like. Meanwhile Gary is a fitness model, and he has the height and ruggedly dark looks that made him popular among romance writers looking for a hottie to grace their covers. A Captain America t-shirt stretches over his lean, muscled body, and a pair of well-developed legs shows below frayed denim shorts.
Oliver comes out of the kitchen, holding a kitchen knife. He’s in his favorite green Hulk apron. Mom made it for him a couple of years ago for Christmas. He’s on the slight side, his shoulders narrow and limbs long and slim. Rimless glasses sit on his round, friendly face, and his dark hair sticks up like he’s been zapped by experiment-happy aliens.
“Impeccable timing! And Bethany didn’t even have to text you,” Oliver says.
I cringe. I’m often late. Not on purpose, but a lot of times Ryder has some last-minute thing.
“Brunch’s almost ready.” He gives me a quick hug, bending his torso away so that whatever’s on his apron doesn’t get on my clothes.
“How did your trip go?” Bethany says. “You’ve never been to his father’s house before, have you?”
“It was a special case,” I say.
“He shouldn’t make you work so hard. Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July…and now Saturdays too?” Bethany shakes her head as she places a pitcher of OJ on the table.
“He promised to let me off for Thanksgiving this year.”
“He’d better.”
“If he went to see his father, I’m sure there was a reason. I heard rumors that they don’t get along,” Gary says, giving me a sidelong glance.
I know they want some juicy gossip from me. Gary and Renni have been living in L.A. long enough to know that not everything you read is true. Even Bethany and Oliver lean a little closer.
But I pull back. I never discuss Ryder’s personal issues with anyone. People rarely value his privacy since he’s a celebrity, but I take it seriously.
I shrug with a bright smile. “Not every rumor you hear is true.” I’m not telling them about Ryder’s preposterous proposal to marry me, which I’m sure has something to do with his meeting with Julian. Ryder has never done anything that crazy before and it wasn’t like it was his first time out with Elliot.
Besides, he took it back, and I’m going to pretend it never happened.
Oliver nods knowingly. “You know how those ‘reporters’ are about celebrities.”
He starts setting the table. A platter of lox and a few bowls of cream cheese—plain and flavored—plus toasted bagels crowd the center. Our lives are busy, but we try to make time to have a meal together at least once a week. I missed a lot of our time together when Ryder was filming overseas in the past year because I had to travel so much, so I plan to make up for it.
“Make sure to save some room for Bethany’s pie,” Oliver says.
Renni groans. “You know I’m on a diet.”
“You can take a break for half an hour,” Gary says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Not that it’s going to take you that long to eat a slice.”
Bethany bakes incredible apple pie. It’s all the practice she’s had—she bakes when she’s worried or stressed about something. A lot of boys in Sweet Hope wept when she moved to L.A.
“If she can’t have it, I’ll have extra,” I declare. I’m a big girl, and I don’t let my weight control what I do. I know: really strange in L.A. But if other people can’t deal with the fact that I have a few extra curves, it’s their problem.
We all sit around the table and dig in. It takes a few minutes for me to notice, but Bethany and Oliver are trading excited glances. Their eyes shine as they look at us. Renni notices next, then finally Gary looks up. His eyes shift from one person to another, finally settling on Renni. “What?”
Oliver reaches over and takes Bethany’s hand. The gesture is so intimate and sweet that it brings sudden tears to my eyes. Bethany has everything, but somehow I can’t seem to have anything like what she has. The thought instantly shames me because it’s small of me to feel envious of anyone, much less my sister. If there’s someone who deserves happiness, it’s her. She’s such a sweetheart, always open and loving and generous.