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Kendall
With the sun warming my back and the sparkling, chlorinated water of the swimming pool just a few feet away, I leaf through the pages of Cosmo, stopping on the article, “The Career Inside You—How to Find the Perfect Job for Your Personality.” Could it be that easy? Read a couple of pages and come to a realistic and more importantly, father-approved, occupation? (So far I’ve gotten zero response from the résumés I sent out.) I scan the bold type, searching for the magic words to help me discover what’s inside my head without breaking my dad’s heart. Not only am I following in his professional footsteps, I’m attending the same prestigious law school he did. More than one professor at the University of Chicago has my dad on speed dial. The dean knows stories about my father no one else does. And I’m already on the short list for Law School Musical, a group that puts on a law school parody every spring and was founded by a small group of students that included my father. It was video of my dad performing way back then that sparked my interest in theater. As a young child, I watched those annual performances over and over again, not exactly understanding the songs, but falling in love with the energy and spirit of the performers.
So it was no surprise, really, when I announced at six years old that I wanted to be an actress. TV, film, Broadway, I dreamed about doing all of it. When I was accepted to NYU, I knew I was that much closer to making my dreams a reality. Mason got accepted, too, into the film school, and aspired to be a director. We’d planned together, worked hard together, and were ready to take New York and our futures by storm. Together.
Until I ruined it.
That night changed my life forever. I gave up my dream of acting and stopped believing I could be anything I wanted to be. My so-called friends treated me like an outcast, talked about me behind my back, and looked at me with contempt. I’d wished so hard I could trade places with my boyfriend.
The magazine slips out of my hands at the thought. Wished, past tense. It took college, therapy, and an amazing friendship with Brit to help me like myself again. Turns out I’m not the only human being who’s made a horrible mistake, and knowing I wasn’t alone, that others got through the regret and shame and self-hatred, made living easier.
I reach over to grab the magazine then press up from my stomach so I’m sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair. A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my chest, sliding underneath my bikini top. This afternoon, I’ll resume my job search.
Dixie wanders into the backyard in nothing but miniscule black bikini bottoms, dark sunglasses, and a shimmering coat of sunscreen. She carries a large clear plastic tumbler full of some icy beverage and a notebook with a pen tucked into the spiral. A red-and-white striped beach towel I recognize from Aunt Sally’s stash drapes her neck. When she catches me looking, she says, “What’s a matter, princess? Never seen tits before?”
I ignore her, as I should have done all along. Silence is our friend.
She, Amber, and I have reached an unspoken truce built on the understanding that we keep to ourselves. We each have our own bedroom and bath, Dixie taking the downstairs guest room rather than her usual room where a Jack and Jill bathroom links to Amber’s. Meals have been hit or miss with our own preferences for eating times. Three cars at our disposal mean we can come and go as we please. Without my aunt here to keep us connected, we’ve found it fairly easy to avoid one another in the six-thousand square foot space and vast city less than a mile down the road.
This afternoon, however, the only two lounge chairs in the backyard force Dixie and me into close proximity. I was here first, I remind myself. She can lug the free chair to the other side of the pool or skip the effort and go back inside the house.
Retreat’s not Dixie’s style, though. She settles herself on her stomach in the other chair. “You’re the only freak I know who keeps her top on while lying out alone in the backyard.”
“I happen to like tan lines and preserving the appearance of my skin on certain areas of my body. Especially these babies,” I say, cupping my boobs. I’m at least a full cup size up on Dixie and don’t mind rubbing it in.
“Bet that’s the most action they’ve gotten since you landed in Cali.”
I drop my arms. “Don’t burn your nipples,” I answer sarcastically.
“I won’t, but I appreciate the concern.”
At the mention of concern, my mind races to Vaughn. I’ve been the responsible one for four years—the friend who made breakfast for her hungover college roommates, cleared her day to help a classmate study, and stayed up all night to talk when boys behaved badly. It’s my comfort zone, being the one to take an interest in others. Not that I didn’t always like to take care of my friends. I did. But when you screw up so spectacularly, it becomes even more important. I want to give back a thousandfold, knowing it still will never make me even for my sin.
But last weekend, for the first time in forever, I felt deserving of a guy’s interest. I’d melted under Vaughn’s gentle touch and hard body when he draped the necklace around my neck. Craved more. I was relieved when he had to leave to catch his flight—but a small, long-dormant part of me was woken enough to register disappointment.
“What is with the grandma attire?” Dixie asks, interrupting my thoughts.
My white bikini is far from grandma gear. “It’s called a swimsuit. You should try one sometime.” Insult returned, I pick up my magazine and flip back to the article on jobs and personalities. I shove Vaughn out of my mind and focus on my goal for the summer: if I can figure out what I want to do and set a plan in motion, maybe I can avoid law school. The thought of three grueling years of academics for a career I don’t want makes my stomach roil. That my dad expects me to work for his firm afterward is gut-wrenching. Will more time away from my hometown make it easier to go back? Will pretending law makes me happy bleed into my cells enough for me to completely get over breaking the law and destroying the boy I loved?
“Saving the goods for Prince Charming?”
God, she never stops. I’m not saving anything for anybody, including a nonexistent Prince Charming, but the careless barb hits home anyway, because the goods have gone unused. I’m still a virgin by choice. Still feel promised to Mason, because when our lives irrevocably changed we were madly in love with each other.
“Since I’m blessed with the joy of your company this afternoon, I take it you’ve had no luck finding a bartending gig,” I say. “Hard to believe nobody’s fallen for your sparkling personality.”
She cuts me an annoyed—and dare I think impressed—glance. “Haven’t started looking yet. I put a little savings aside, so I can kick back for a minute. But don’t worry. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet. Something you’d know nothing about.”
“You have no clue what I’ve had to deal with,” I fire back, pissed that she thinks she knows what it’s like to walk in my shoes. “Stop thinking you’re the only one who knows life’s not fair.” Rather than wait for her to say anything else, I jump to my feet.
The swimming pool is freezing, but I’d rather deal with cold water than a cold sister. I’ve attempted a swim twice already and stepped down only to the fourth step, but third time’s the charm. This time, I walk over to the deep end. I stare into the tranquil blue water. Just jump, Kendall.
Just.
Jump.
Laughter—deep, masculine laughter—floats to my ears, and I look up. Beyond my aunt’s beautifully kept backyard and up to the patio next door, Vaughn and another guy have walked outside. My breath catches at the sight of him. Even from a distance he makes my skin heat, my heart stop, then start. A week without any contact has done nothing to diminish this unfamiliar tug toward him.
I watch him put his hand on the railing near their pool and turn his head in my direction. Our gazes collide. I think the guy next to him is looking at me, too, but I can’t say for sure, because I’m stuck on Vaughn. Tingles break out over my skin.
