Fish Out of Water (13 page)

“Doesn’t mean much, seeing as you’ll hook up with girls you apparently hate.”

He smiles. “Touché. But I’m not drunk right now.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out, determined not to look back at him. Because if I do and he’s still giving me that disgustingly cute grin, then I’m in big trouble.

Chapter 18

I lay out the fancy clothes on my bed, staring at them in the faint morning light. There’s no denying they’re pretty, but they still feel like someone else’s. Taking a deep breath, I push down the nerves. It’ll be over soon enough, and then I’ll have someone to clean tanks for the rest of the summer. And goldfish tanks are nasty.

I smile, picturing Dylan grumbling about how many he has to clean. He’ll regret giving London my name if it’s the last thing I do.

Heading for the bathroom, I decide getting ready for today should count toward my twenty-four hours as fake girlfriend. Usually my Saturdays are spent in grungy beach clothes, but today I have to do the full run-down.

I scrub my hair, shave, moisturize, pluck, and blow dry like I’m going to Prom. Not that I’ve ever been, but I imagine it’s at least this involved. As I stare at my reflection, trying to decide what to do with my hair, my phone rings. The name in the window is not what I expected, but I’m happy to see it.

“I’m baaaaaack!” Olivia says when I pick up. “And you should see my tan. You’ll be jealous.”

I smile, her voice putting me at ease. “I already saw enough pictures to make me green with envy.”

“I noticed—flaunting your slumber party, jerk.”

“It was impromptu. But you still missed out.” I pull out my makeup to put on while we talk. “So what’s with the early call?”

Olivia laughs. “I miss you! I wanted to know what beach you were sculpting at so I could see you and Shrey.”

“Actually…” My stomach drops. How do I begin to explain I’m about to go out with Dylan when last time we talked I was so against it? “I’m going to Cypress Point today, so no sculpting.”

There’s a pause. “Like, the golf course?”

“Yup.”

“Uhhh, did you win the lottery since we last spoke?”

“The lottery from hell.” I apply mascara liberally, dang short lashes. “I’m sure you remember Dylan.”

“No. Way.”

“It’s not what you think—he lied and told some people I was his girlfriend. I got roped into pretending it’s true for a day.” I pull open the bathroom door and head to my room to dress.

She laughs hysterically.

I’d strangle her if she were here. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, it is. You don’t have to be so stubborn. It’s okay to change your mind about a guy. He obviously likes you, and if you actually agreed to this I bet you like him, too. Whether you admit it or not.”

“No. I don’t. Trust…” I stop, staring at my bed in shock. My clothes are gone—just the shoes remain at the foot of the bed. “Olivia, I gotta go. Call Shrey. She’ll fill you in on the rest.”

I hang up before she replies, my heart pounding as I spin around my room. They can’t be gone. No one is even awake yet. I hold my breath, trying not to panic, and that’s when I hear it:

The washer is running.

Sprinting down the hall in my towel, I make it to the laundry room just in time to see Betty put my cashmere sweater in the water. The pants are about to go in, but I dive for them. “No!”

She gives me a look that implies I’m the crazy one. “I was just washing your outfit—you have to wash clothes once before you wear them.”

“How could you?” I scream, pushing past her to the washer. I pull out the sweater, but it’s already soaked through and ruined. There’s no way I can fix this before Dylan comes. He’ll kill me for this.

“You hadn’t even taken the tags off.” She glares at me. “Do you know how many people try that stuff on? It’s like wearing other people’s sweat.”

“This is dry clean only! Not crappy used clothes from Goodwill!” I try to gently wring out the sweater, but it looks like a hideous dead rat already. “Were you going to put it in the dryer and shrink it, too?”

She looks down. “I was just trying to help. For your big date.”

“By ruining my clothes?”

Finally, my parents appear in the doorway, probably startled awake by my yelling. “What’s going on?” Mom asks.

“This!” I hold up the sweater. “You guys are supposed to get up when she does—you have to
watch
her like she’s a little kid, remember? You didn’t and now I can’t wear the sweater Dylan paid three hundred dollars for.”

Mom comes forward, looking guilty. But it’s not enough. “Maybe we can fix it. I can get the blow dry—”

“It’s too late. He’ll be here in like ten minutes.” I squeeze my eyes shut, so angry I can’t see straight. “Why did you have to be stupid today?”

“Mika…” Betty looks like she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough!” I grab the sweater from Mom and shove it in Betty’s face. My whole life has been ruined by her—having to watch her, losing my chance to intern with my parents, and now this. “You messed everything up. I’m lucky I saved the pants before they got soaked, too. No one asked you to wash my stuff! And what were you doing in my room anyway?”

She starts crying, but I don’t care. She should cry.

“Sweetie.” Mom gives me a stern look. “It’s just a sweater. You’re acting way out of line for—”

“It’s not just a sweater! It was a gift. He bought it for me to wear today. Now I can’t.”

“That’s no reason to call her stupid,” Dad says. “She meant well, and—”

“You’re taking
her
side?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Just last week my dad wanted to get as far away from his mother as possible, and now I’m in trouble for yelling at her? “Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she can get a free pass for everything she screws up! If you’d put her in a home this would have never happened. None of this.”

Dad glares at me. “Mika, you’re this close to getting grounded.”

“You need to apologize,” Mom adds.

I shove past them. “Forget it. You don’t understand.”

This time I do slam my door, and it takes everything in me not to scream. Betty picks the worst moments to be nuts. I have just enough time to get dressed before Dylan gets here, and half my outfit is ruined. He’ll take one look at whatever shirt I wear and get mad.

I lay the sweater out flat on my desk, hoping that I can salvage it so I can wear it later. Maybe if we need to go out on another fake date. But the ribbing is stretched weird, and I can’t get it to go back. Putting my head in my hands, I force myself to move on. There’s nothing I can do but find something to go with the pants. I pick out underwear and get dressed save my shirt. Then I proceed to go through everything I own, hoping something will work.

Problem is, nothing is better than that sweater. Even if it wasn’t me, it was beautiful and perfect and all my clothes look like they come from a completely different world than these pants and shoes.

Because they do.

I end up settling on a lacy purple tank with a cream cardigan that I wore to a benefit for the Aquarium last year. It’s the nicest combo I have, though nothing near three hundred dollars. There’s no time to do my hair, so I put it in a ponytail. An ocean-side golf course will probably be windy anyway.

Unable to look at my family, I grab my bag and head outside to wait for Dylan. At least this way my parents won’t see his reaction. Too bad that won’t spare me.

The silver car appears at the end of my street, and I feel like I’m about to throw up. Dylan parks right in front of me, gets out. One of his eyebrows is cocked as he takes in my outfit, and not in a good way. “Where’s the sweater?”

That’s when I burst into tears.

Chapter 19

I cover my face, beyond embarrassed for breaking down. The summer’s stress must have finally gotten to me, because I struggle to pull myself together. “My stupid grandmother put it in the washer and it’s ruined. I’m so sorry. I put it out and then showered and when I came back she’d taken my clothes and—”

His hands come down on my shoulders. “Whoa there. Calm down, you’re rambling.”

I risk a peek at his face. To my surprise, it’s more worried-looking than angry. “You’re not mad at me?”

“It’s not your fault.” He runs his hands down my arms, but then pulls away like he didn’t realize what he was doing. “Did you seriously think I’d get mad at you over a sweater?”

“Uh, yeah.” I wipe under my eyes. So much for looking nice today. “I thought you’d rip me to shreds.”

He winces. “I guess I can see how you’d think that, but you still look nice. It’s just a sweater.”

“It was a gift, though. You worked for it, and…I liked it.” I look at my feet, the snakeskin flats gleaming back up at me. “I didn’t even get to wear it once.”

“I had no idea you were so sentimental.”

I give him my best pout.

His smile stretches wide, and even though we’ve been talking for a few minutes it’s the first time I really take him in. Nice-fitting black polo, slender white slacks, leather golf shoes—he totally makes this sport look cool. “Better be careful with that pout, Mika. It makes me want to do real boyfriend things.”

My eyes narrow into a glare. “You suck at flirting.”

He laughs as he opens the passenger side door. “That’s better. C’mon.”

Dylan makes a U-turn, and then we’re off toward the 17-Mile Drive, which I haven’t been to in forever. Cypress Point is right near the beginning of it on the Monterey/Pacific Grove side. The Drive is yet another one of the touristy things around here, a beautiful road through forest and golf courses and coastline that lands you right near Pebble Beach and Carmel on the other side.

As I watch the houses pass by, my mind wanders to Betty crying and me yelling at her like a lunatic. This pit forms in my stomach—Dylan didn’t even get mad, making my reaction completely unwarranted. Maybe my parents were right about how I was acting…

“Are you okay?” Dylan says.

I jump. “Oh, um, yeah.”

“Lie.”

I sigh, not really wanting to bring up all the stuff I’m dealing with at home. “I just…I guess I still can’t believe you didn’t get mad at me.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you’re the one who’s constantly picking fights with me.” He pulls onto the main road that turns into The 17-Mile Drive. “It’s not my fault I have to defend myself.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then realize I can’t because he’s right. The last time he started it was…I can’t remember. New approach. “It’s not my fault you’re always doing things wrong. Someone has to point it out.”

Dylan’s knuckles go white from gripping the steering wheel, but he says nothing. As the city gives way to cypress trees and the rocky coast, I buzz on a heavy helping of nerves. He turns at the Cypress Point sign, and as he slows down by the gate I feel like I’m trying to sneak into a palace.

The guard sneers at the car, but when Dylan rolls the window down the man’s eyes go wide. “Mr. Wainwright! Sorry, I didn’t recognize the car. Go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” When the gate goes up, he drives through like he’s done this a million times.

I stare at him, unsure of what to think. This version of Dylan is so different. “Mr. Wainwright?”

He rolls his eyes. “They like propriety. Just you wait.”

“Great.” As the road opens up into a parking lot, my breaths come short and fast. There’s an expansive clubhouse adorned with trees and flowers and big windows. A few people stand outside, all wearing clothes like Dylan’s and sporting golf bags. Even dressed nice, it doesn’t feel like enough. “Can I change my mind now? I don’t want to do this.”

“Too late.” He parks fairly far from the clubhouse. Putting his hand on my knee, he smiles at me. “It’ll be fine, okay?”

“How do you know?”

“Because the only pretend thing about this is our relationship. You don’t have to lie about your life—you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Besides…” He moves his hand to my cheek, and I freeze. “Maybe it would be easier to see this as our first date.”

I pull back, my face on fire. “Don’t mess with me like that.”

“Do I look like I’m messing with you?” His face is completely serious, and I keep waiting for him to give away the joke. He doesn’t. Olivia can’t be right. He can’t actually like me. With a frustrated sigh, he finally looks away. “Don’t bring your bag or phone. I wish I could’ve bought you something nice, because London really will tear that sack to pieces.”

“Oh, okay.” I look at my striped messenger bag. It’s been my favorite for years, but suddenly it seems beaten down. I try to stuff it under the seat.

He shakes his head. “Mika,
no one
will steal that. Promise.”

“So either you’re hitting on me or being mean?”

“I find it very hard to be just your friend.” He opens the door and gets out, leaving me in a confused daze. I signed up for fake girlfriend duty—now it seems like he did this in hopes that I
would
become his girlfriend. Maybe we don’t fight as much as we did at first, but I never would have seen this coming.

I force myself out of the car. Dylan has the trunk open, and when he shuts it I see the bag of golf clubs at his side. He throws them on his shoulder and motions for me to follow.

“Those look a lot nicer than my dad’s,” I say, deciding I should at least be nice to him today. I’ll have to figure everything else out later.

Dylan slows his pace so I can keep up. “My dad only let me take two bags when he kicked me out. This was the second one. Funny how fast you figure out your priorities when your whole life gets reduced to so little.”

“I didn’t know you liked golf that much.”

“You never asked.” He grabs my hand then, and I don’t fight it. I might even enjoy it a little. “Once dreamed of going pro, but I never got to practice like I wanted.”

“Okay, you’re never allowed to mock my fish again—your interests are lamer.”

“Golf is not lame.” He pulls the clubhouse door open, waits for me to go in first. “You’ll see after today.”

The lobby alone is pristine. Everything looks like it’s made from the best possible material. People mill about in groups, mostly old guys, a few women, and even fewer teens. Pretty much just London and Brock, who are already heading for us.