Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (15 page)

“I can do that.”

“Good. There have been times when we’ve accepted a student only to find out later he’d forged his transcript or she lied about her extracurricular activities. We had to rescind their acceptance letters. So it’s best to get everything out in the open from the start.”

Mr. Brandon puts his pen back in the cup on his desk and closes my folder.

I shut my eyes. I still haven’t been completely honest with him. The election is in three weeks. I am planning to tell Mom and Dad the whole truth right after that.

I thought the worst thing would be not getting into Yale, but what if I got in and then they rescinded my acceptance?

I have no idea what to do next.

• • •

I won’t lie.

Call me a snob, but being my father’s daughter has its perks.

On the flight home from Connecticut, I stretch out my feet in first class. Dad upgraded us using his frequent flier miles. The flight attendant serves me sparkling water, steak and mashed potatoes, and chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.

Dad reads briefing paper after briefing paper on his iPad. He’s on the Senate Appropriations Committee on Foreign Relations, so his staff is always forwarding him information about overseas development. I glance over his shoulder. He’s reading a paper titled
PEPFAR FUNDING CUTS.
That’s the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief.

“What’s going on with AIDS funding?” I ask.

Dad lets out a long sigh. “I’m trying to keep it going at current levels, but some of the guys want to cut it. They don’t want to spend so much money on Africa when we could use the funding domestically.”

PEPFAR has always been a favorite project of Dad’s. At first, I didn’t completely understand why Dad would fight for it so hard when we have homeless, hungry people here in the United States, but then he explained that over the past thirty years, AIDS ran rampant in Africa, leaving twenty-five percent of kids without parents. Kids without homes are more likely to join groups that promote violence. Without PEPFAR, the entire African continent could’ve destabilized.

But still, what about hungry people here in America? It’s a hard balance. It would be great to help everyone, but funding has its limits.

“Do you think funding will be cut?” I ask.

“I’ll get the guys to change their minds, but not without giving up something else I want.”

“That doesn’t seem right, Dad.”

“That’s politics for you. But don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to keep it funded. It’s the right thing to do.” Dad flips the lid on his iPad, covering the screen. He nods at my laptop. “What are you working on?”

“Just finishing up my English essay that’s due Monday. It’s on Chaucer.”

“Ahh, the Cadbury Tales.”

I laugh softly. “No,
The Canterbury Tales
.”

“I know. But I always thought about Cadbury eggs when we were reading it in class.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Dad elbows me. “If only your mom would buy them for us.”

It’s such a comfortable moment between us, I rest my head on his shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I did this. I must’ve been a little girl?

He pats the back of my hand, then keeps his fingers there. Again, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. It feels awkward, but I like it too.

“So how’d your interview go?” he asks quietly. He must’ve been waiting for me to bring it up, because he hadn’t asked until now, even though we left Yale a few hours ago.

“Mr. Brandon was really nice,” I say. “Our conversation was very real.”

Dad nods. “I’ve heard that about the admissions office. They’re no bullshitters.”

“Exactly.”

“What did he think of your résumé?”

“He said it looks great. He didn’t mention any ways I need to improve it, but he said the committee will have to carefully consider my application, you know, because of what happened at St. Andrew’s… I may not get in.” My voice cracks. A tear slips down my cheek.

Dad squeezes my hand. “I’m proud of you no matter what.”

I wipe my nose. It’s nice to hear that.

“So what’s going on with Ezra Carmichael?” he asks.

Hearing my boyfriend’s name always puts a smile on my face. I shrug at Dad, hoping he won’t make a big deal of it. “We’re dating, I guess.”

“Does your brother know?” Dad asks.

“Not yet. I’m trying to figure out how to tell him. Ezra wants to do it in person.”

“Don’t wait too long. He deserves to hear it from you and Ezra and not somebody else.”

I take a long sip of my drink. “I like him a lot, Dad. I have for a long time. I know he’s got some stuff to work out, but he’s a great guy—”

“Of course he is,” Dad interrupts. “You forget I’ve known him since he was a little boy. Other than taking apart my lawnmower and always winning all your brother’s money at poker, I admire his character. What teenage boy asks permission from a girl’s father before starting a relationship?”

That makes my heart race. “Seriously?”

“Yes, he asked once a couple of years ago and again last week.”

I laugh. “What did you say?”

“I said okay. But I told him he’d better follow through and ask you out, because I won’t say yes for a third time.”

With a smile, I snuggle my head against Dad’s shoulder, and he leans his head back against the seat. His black hair has a lot more gray in it than it used to. Frown lines accentuate his mouth. I can’t help but think those lines are my fault. My mistake is blotting out everything my dad has worked for for eighteen years.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry. For everything.”

“I know,” he replies quietly. “I hate how the press is portraying you.”

The guilt might drown me.

“I’m worried about you,” he adds.

“You have nothing to worry about. I’m good. But I feel terrible about what’s going on with your campaign,” I say. “I wish I could help somehow.”

“I want you to focus on you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say with a small smile.

After that college interview and all my conversations with Ezra, I like the idea of figuring out what I want. What I need.

I just hope I figure it out before it’s too late.

“I don’t think Ezra and I need your prompts anymore,” I tell Miss Brady.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we’re dating now.”

Miss Brady smiles. “I’m glad you have someone to talk to. How about friends?”

“I’m getting closer with Alyson and Chloe from the soccer team. They’re different from my old friends, but I like them.”

“Different how?”

“They’re more laid-back. Like, Chloe never talks about her plans for the future except for how she wants to travel. With my old friends, and with Ezra—my boyfriend—it seems like we only talk about the future.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you want to concentrate on. But don’t spend so much time thinking about the future that you forget to live
now
. High school needs to be a balance of serious and fun, just like life.”

• • •

It’s Friday night, and Ezra is coming over to hang out. When he arrives, Marina answers the door and calls up the stairs, “Taylor! Ezra’s here.”

I love how when my parents are here, Marina walks from room to room and makes quiet announcements, but when they’re gone, she shouts like a normal person. It makes this house feel more like a home.

I finish my makeup and check my hair in the mirror, then jog down the stairs. Ezra’s not in the foyer. I poke my head into the living room. He’s not in there either. Then I hear his voice coming from the kitchen.

“Mustard, please. Thanks.”

I find him standing at the island, relaxed in a navy-blue pullover and loose, worn jeans. Marina hands him a sandwich cut into triangles.

When he sees me, he sets the plate down and gives me a broad smile. I rush into his arms for a long hug.

“Mmm,” he says into my hair. “I missed you. It’s been too long.”

“I just saw you this morning for coffee.”

“I was going into withdrawals. I need a kiss.”

I grin and get up on tiptoes to give him what he wants.

Marina clucks her tongue. “None of that hanky-panky in my kitchen.”

I break away from my boyfriend but keep my arms stretched around his neck. “Did you just say hanky-panky?”

Marina’s response is to shoo us out of the room.

We twine our fingers and go down the steps into the basement, taking his sandwich with us. Ezra slips off his work boots, and I turn on the TV.

It’s campaign season, so of course, the first commercial to pop up is one for Harrison Wallace.
“Like you, the most important thing in my life is my famil
y
.
”
The commercial cuts to pictures of Wallace’s perfect blond wife and three perfect blond kids. They’re in a kitchen, cooking together.
“This election, my vote is for better healthcare. I want to build more hospitals and bring better healthcare funding to Tennessee. Vote for me, Harrison Wallace, for senator, because your family matters.”

I shut my eyes. It’s a brilliant commercial. It would be in poor taste for Wallace’s campaign to come right out and attack me for being a drug user, but he can get away with playing up his own family. That commercial was the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if homemade apple pies and lemonade started flying out of the TV.

There’s no room for error in Dad’s campaign. I understand enough about politics to know that if we were in any other part of the country, say New York or California, my mistakes wouldn’t become as major a campaign point. Because let’s be honest, elections in the South are all about family values. They’re about tradition.

Ezra bumps his knee against mine. “You all right?”

I paste on a fake smile. “Definitely.”

“Liar. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“Fine. It’s been a long week, I’m tired, and I’m hungry.” I side-eye his sandwich.

With a laugh, he passes me a triangle, and we chew, content in the silence.

Since Mom and Dad aren’t coming home tonight, there’s no rush to fool around before they get back. I love just relaxing with Ezra on the couch, on the rug, in the armchair. We keep moving around the room as he play-wrestles with me and tickles me, but I always end up in his lap again, kissing his lips, curling my fingers into his hair.

My smile is real now.

He slightly lifts my top and runs his warm fingers over my lower back. Heat flares in his green eyes. I want to take this further, but Marina could walk through the basement on her way to the laundry. I hope she wouldn’t be doing a load of clothes on a Friday night, but you never know.

“Let’s go to my room,” I say between kisses.

“You are insatiable.”

I playfully push his chest. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, it’s a very, very good thing. I love that about you.”

“You love that I’m horny?” I tease.

He bursts out laughing. “I love that you always go for what you want. I wish I could do that.”

I roll my eyes. “I hate it when you sell yourself short. You can do whatever you want, Ez.”

“You don’t get it. I can’t.”

I take a deep breath and lay it out there. “I was doing research online, and most colleges offer help for people who have learning disabilities.”

He winces when I say that, although I don’t entirely get why. It’s not like it’s something he can help; it’s a genetic thing. I guess it’s sort of like mental illness. It’s not rare by any means, and it’s not anything to be ashamed of, but people are still scared of the stigma that comes along with it.

But I don’t know what else to call dyslexia other than a learning disability. I certainly can’t call it a problem or an
issue
. Because it’s not.

“I think if you explain your situation to Cornell, they would help. You could go back to school.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Tease? I thought you were horny.”

I pinch his arm. “I’m being serious!”

“You’re serious all the time.”

“I am not,” I reply, even though the guidance counselor said something very similar.

I’ll show them who’s serious.

I launch an attack, tackling him to the carpet. He retaliates with tickles. I squeal and escape by crawling away. Laughing, he chases after me on his hands and knees. He snatches my ankle, pulling me up close to him, pinning me to the floor and pushing his hips to mine with a sexy grin. I can feel his hardness through my leggings; it makes me gasp. Gasp—and think naughty thoughts. We’re still getting to know each other again and haven’t slept together, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.

He softly kisses my lips, cupping my cheek with his hand. When he opens his eyes and smiles lazily, I flip him onto his back and straddle his hips.

“I have one more thing to say,” I announce.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he mutters.

“I’ll stop being serious after I say this.”

“Fine, go ahead.”

“Please call Cornell and ask how they can help.”

“Taylor, seriously. We’ve been through this. I hate classes. I hate taking notes. I hate writing papers. I hate reading. I’m happy now.”

“But you want to be an architect.”

“What I want and what’s going to happen are very different things. You think my dad would pay for me to go to school to become an architect?”

“You could always get student loans.”

With his hands wrapped around my waist, we sit in silence, looking at each other.

He’s right. I am being way too serious for a Friday night. So I start another wrestling-tickling fight, and for a second time, I end up in his lap with his arms straitjacketed around me. He kisses my nose.

That’s when I hear a throat being cleared.

I fall off Ezra’s lap backward, then scramble to a sitting position. I swivel around to find Oliver.

“Oll!” I squeal, jumping to my feet and hurtling myself into his arms. It’s so good to see my brother. I hug him hard, then step back to take him in. Same disheveled auburn hair. Dark jeans, a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, a white button-down, and brown loafers. Totally an outfit my mother bought him. His eyes glare from behind his glasses.

He pats my back stiffly. “What’s going on here?”

“Creepy,” I say. “Your voice sounds just like Dad’s.”

No one laughs at my joke.

I start, “Ezra and I—”

“Oll, I need to speak with you in private,” Ezra interjects.

“Oh, come on,” I complain. “Just tell him now.”

“Tell me what? That my best friend is fooling around with my baby sister?”

“We need to talk,” Ezra repeats.

Oliver nods at Ezra. “Upstairs.”

My brother storms out of the room. Ezra takes a few long, steadying breaths, stands, and adjusts the front of his jeans. He blushes when he notices me staring. Then he trudges up the steps after Oliver.

I blow out a puff of air and cross my arms. Then uncross them. I look up at the ceiling. Chew on my thumb.

I’d hate to mess up their friendship. Oliver and Ezra have known each other for almost fifteen years. I had been planning to tell Oliver about me and Ezra, but I wasn’t honestly sure how to tell him yet. Our relationship is still new. Shaky. Fragile. I mean, I know we’re really into each other, but what if I can convince him to go back to school for second semester? What if he decides we can’t date because of that distance, or if he continues to spout nonsense about feeling inferior?

Then I remember what he said a few minutes ago: “
I like that you take what you want
.”

I can do that.

I charge up the stairs to the kitchen, where I find Oliver pouring tequila into shot glasses and Ezra shuffling a deck of cards.

“I don’t care what you say,” I snap at my brother. “I want Ezra, and nobody’s going to stop me from dating him. Not you. Not Dad. Not Svetlana, the Russian gymnast.”

“Rawr,” Oliver says.

My little speech lights up Ezra’s eyes.

“Bottoms up, man,” Oliver says, pushing one of the shots in front of Ezra. They sprinkle salt onto their wrists, toast their glasses, throw back their liquor, grimace, then lick their wrists. Next, Ezra deals Oliver a card.
Are they playing blackjack?

“Seriously?” I say. “Were you just going to leave me down there all night while you get trashed and gamble?”

They both have the decency to look sheepish. Ezra sweeps the cards back into a neat pile.

Oliver holds an arm out to me. I slide up against him and accept his hug. “I wish you’d given me a heads-up that you’re with Ez now. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was trying to figure out how. I didn’t want to mess up your friendship, but I’m not giving up Ezra either.”

“It sucks to know you didn’t feel comfortable telling me.”

I nod. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

My brother gives me a small smile. “Love you too.”

“So you’re okay with us dating?”

Oliver looks from me to Ezra. “I trust him with my life. Why wouldn’t I trust him with my sister’s?”

Aww.
Ezra nods once at my brother, and Oliver nods back. Then they glance away, because they are guys, and guys seemingly can’t be seen showing affection toward one another.

“What are you doing home?” I ask my brother.

“Fall break.”

“I thought you were going to Alana’s house in Miami,” I say, and Ezra nods. He must’ve been under the same impression.

“Eh, Alana and I broke things off yesterday. I got cold feet about spending five days alone with her and her parents, and that got us talking about how we’d both rather be single for now. So I decided to come home. I needed to see how you’re doing…but I guess I know, since I caught you and Ez practically bumping uglies.”

“Ugh!” I shout.

Ezra makes a face. “Dude, never say ‘bumping uglies’ again.”

“If you don’t want me to say it, you shouldn’t have been trying to do that with my sister.” Oliver pours himself another tequila shot. He tosses it back, then grimaces.

“Hey, where’s mine?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” Oliver says.

I snake an arm around Ezra’s waist. “Where’s mine?”

With a smile, he surrenders his shot glass to me, and I reward him with a kiss on the cheek.

“Gross. Just because I’ve given Ez permission to date you doesn’t mean I want to see any PDA.”

I shoot my brother a withering look. “Permission?”

Oliver ignores me and turns to Ezra. “Do you want to head up to Nashville? There’s a new nightclub I want to check out. It’s called Tunnel Vision.”

My brother absolutely loves clubbing. I’m surprised he didn’t head to Miami on his own so he could hit up the night scene. Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t tried to get a role in one of those
Step Up
movies.

Ezra has always been more of the listening-to-live-music type, but the boy can dance. Like, seriously dance. I’ve never actually fast-danced with him, but I remember watching him at St. Andrew’s dances, and of course, I’ve seen my brother’s videos from their trips to Mexico and Europe. I nearly groan at the thought of Ezra behind me, swaying his hips against mine. God, I’m a complete perv. But at least I own it.

“I’m up for dancing if you are,” I say to Ezra. “I can use Jenna’s old license to try to get in, but it might be risky.”

He takes my hand, caressing my fingers. “Not tonight. I’d rather just hang out here.”

With a roll of his eyes, Oliver pours Ezra another shot. I steal it and drink before either can protest. It tastes horrible. I can barely swallow it. I cough hard and let out a burst of laughter once I’ve recovered. Then I burp accidentally.

“She’s all yours, bud,” Oliver says to Ezra.

“Hey!” I slap my brother’s hand.

My phone buzzes with a new text from Chloe.

What r u doing?

Hanging out w Ezra and my brother. Want to come over?

Can Alyson come too?

By the time they arrive, Ezra and Oliver are tipsy, and we’re having our own dance party in the formal living room. When Marina shows Chloe and Alyson in, Oliver has unplugged a decorative lamp and is singing into it, pretending it’s a microphone.

I say, “If Mom saw this, she’d have a coronary.”

“
I’m
going to have a coronary,” Marina says, and Oliver placates her by setting down the lamp and making her dance with him.