Flawless (13 page)

After I pull into the driveway, I step out of the car, grocery bags in hand. Jen is leaning on the hood of her car, looking more casual than I've ever seen her in jeans and a fitted white Abercrombie T-shirt. Despite the fact that she's about ten years too old to be wearing that kind of shirt, she manages to make it work.

“Hi,” I say, walking toward her. “Are you waiting on Mom?”

She shrugs, a confused look on her face. “She asked me to come over for dinner.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “She's never home this early.”

Jen frowns, twirling her keys around her index finger. “Well, I guess I can go run some errands and come back later. What time do you think she'll be here?”

“I never know,” I answer honestly. “But you're welcome to come in. I was going to grill some tilapia for dinner. Sound okay?”

“Heavenly,” Jen says, smiling at me with beautifully whitened teeth. “Are you sure you don't mind if I hang out until your mom gets here?”

“Not as long as you help with dinner,” I say, returning her smile.

Jen pushes herself off the car and reaches out to take a bag from me. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Thanks,” I say, flexing my fingers to get the blood circulating again.

I unlock and open the front door, then walk to the kitchen, where I dump the grocery bags, my purse, and my backpack. I make quick work of unpacking the groceries and pulling the usual seasonings from the pantry, actually feeling comforted by Jen's unexpected presence.

“Let me just put some rice on,” I say. This may not be the quiet evening I'd had planned, but it might be exactly what I need.

Jen leans against the counter, watching me work. “Do you always do the cooking?”

“Usually. Mom works so late, it's just easier if I take care of dinner.”

Before I can attempt continuing the conversation, Jen begins slowly walking around the kitchen and our adjoining living room. One of my favorite things about our house is that the kitchen opens to the rest of the house, so even when I'm in the kitchen I never feel isolated. I can turn on the television and watch MTV or the Discovery Channel and be content.

Jen stops in front of a wall of pictures. Mom's added pictures to that wall over the years, and now it's nearly floor-to-ceiling framed photographs. Some are of me on various sport teams, or at school events. Some are of her at work, behind the news desk or in the field. But the majority of them are pictures of us together. My favorite picture was taken on vacation three years ago when Mom surprised me with a trip to Hawaii. We're posing at the top of Diamond Head, nothing but a stellar sunrise and beach behind us. It's particularly special since we haven't been on a vacation since then.

“Mom won't take any of them down. She just keeps adding more,” I say, chopping the vegetables for a salad.

“I don't blame her,” Jen says, fake news-anchor smile I can spot a mile away tossed over her shoulder. “Every single one is gorgeous.”

For some reason, the word “gorgeous” sticks in my head. I've been described a million different ways, but gorgeous is not one of them.

“No pictures of your dad?” she asks quietly, scanning each frame carefully.

I shake my head. “Didn't I tell you he'd never been around?”

“Oh yeah, I guess you did mention that.” She doesn't look back, just keeps staring at the pictures, like she's looking for Waldo.

I want to tell her she can keep on looking but he's not going to show up, that there never was a Daddy Dearest. But that's Mom's secret to tell, not mine.

“You don't want to have contact with him?” she asks.

I shake my head as I transfer the sliced carrots to the crystal salad bowl, growing irritated. I've seen this woman four times and we've had this particular conversation twice. Either she's digging for dirt or she's got early-onset Alzheimer's. “Not even once.”

She turns from the pictures and comes back to the bar, sitting across from me. “I'm so close to my dad, I can't imagine my life without him. It makes me a little sad that you don't know yours.”

“His loss,” I say, doing my best to cut this dead-end conversation short.

Jen studies me for a long couple of seconds. “How did they meet? Your mom and dad, I mean. Did they go to school together?”

I finish chopping the celery, dump it into the bowl, then put the knife down. “You know, these are really better questions for my mom.” In spite of the way Jen's taken to Mom and my instant liking of her, her interest in my “father” is more than a little disturbing.

“Oh, sure. I'm sorry,” she says. I'm happy to see she at least has the decency to blush at the impropriety of her interrogation. “The journalist in me just insists on getting all the details.”

“Occupational hazard, I guess.”

She smiles, brightening her face, making her even more beautiful than I previously thought. That smile's a moneymaker. And I have a growing suspicion she knows how to use it to her advantage.

My phone vibrates on the counter and I answer it quickly. “Hey, Mom.”

The familiar sounds of the newsroom can be heard behind her. “I'm leaving work. Need anything from the store?”

Drawing my eyebrows forward, I look at Jen. “No, I've already been. Jen's here.”

Silence penetrates the line between us. “Hmm. Does she need me for something?”

I look at Jen before answering. She takes a swig from the bottled water in front of her, then moves away from the counter and walks aimlessly around the living room, studying the various knickknacks and journalism awards displayed on the antique bookcase.

“She said you invited her for dinner,” I say quietly.

I can practically hear the wheels turning in Mom's head. “I told her she should come over
some
night, but I didn't mention tonight specifically. At least, I don't think I did.”

Not knowing what to say, I stay silent and keep my eyes on Jen, wondering exactly what she's doing here.

Mom laughs, breaking my intense gaze on our guest. “Well, if she says I invited her, I'm sure I did. Sorry about the surprise. I'll be there in ten.”

I close the phone and take a deep breath, a ribbon of suspicion curling its way around my spine.

Jen turns around, obviously aware my call has ended. “Was that your mom?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “She's on her way.”

“Great,” she says, smiling innocently.

The following day, I set my lunch on the table in my usual spot across from Kristen and Rock.

“I've come up with a plan,” Kristen says, eyes sparkling mischievously.

I sigh, looking at my lifelong best friend. “Whatever it is, it better not involve me.”

“Of course it involves you. All my best plans do.” She keeps her arm wrapped around Rock's as she rushes on. “I've got one word for you. Double date.”

“That's two words. And no thanks.”

Rock chuckles softly, eyes on mine. “I told her you'd say no. But have you ever tried to change her mind?”

“A few thousand times,” I say, grinning despite the circumstances.

“Have you ever succeeded?” he asks, ignoring the daggers Kristen's shooting.

“Not even once.”

“Just hear me out, Sarah,” she says, slapping her hand on top of mine.

“Absolutely not. I can't think of one single thing I'd rather do less. N. O.” Seriously, just the thought nauseates me. It's bad enough she's trying to set me up. I'd rather stab myself in the eye than watch Kristen and Rock paw each other all night while I force conversation with a total stranger.

“But I've already set it up.”

I level my most hateful gaze on her. “Tell me you're joking.”

She shakes her head. “I promise this is a good thing. It's time for you to get out and have a little fun.”

I almost laugh out loud. That's exactly what I tell Mom.

“You're thinking about it,” she singsongs, completely misreading my momentary silence.

“You don't want to know what I'm thinking.”

Again, Rock laughs quietly. It's a low, rumbly laugh that's all testosterone and sexy as hell.

“Come on, we're doing this for you,” Kristen says, retreating to full-pout mode.

“Don't include me in this craziness,” Rock says.

Kristen ignores his comment. “We'll be doubling so it'll be tons of fun no matter what. You'll love it, I promise. We're going to a dramatization of
The Birthmark
. Tell me that isn't right up your alley.”

I stare at her in disbelief. “You can't be serious.”

Kristen folds her hands under her chin, like a child saying her bedtime prayers. “Please, Sarah. It'll be fun.”

Well, at least now I know why she wants me to double with her. There's no way she can get through
The Birthmark
and I really want to see it, but the thought of spending an evening watching Rock hang all over Kristen has me close to hyperventilating. I have to get out of this.

“Kristen,” I say, imploring her with my eyes to see reason. “Look at me.” I don't have to point to my nose; she understands what I'm referring to. “No one wants to date this.”

“That's ridiculous.” Rock scowls.

“See? Even Rock agrees,” Kristen says. “I'm not taking no for an answer. It's you, me, Rock, and Jay. Friday night at seven.”

“
Jay
? As in
Jay Thomas
? The one who does the Napoleon Dynamite impersonations?”

Don't get me wrong. I love a funny guy as much as anyone, but that is
so not
what this is about. And it's not like Jay isn't handsome; he is, but he's totally not my type. Not that I even knew I had a type until Rock came along. Turns out, Rock defines my type.

“Please, Sarah. Please.” Kristen finally releases Rock from her grasp and grabs both my hands, like we're making some sort of fatalistic pact. And, to be honest, it kind of feels like we are.

And for everything we've been through together over the years, I hold up one finger. “One double date. One.”

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes

—LORD BYRON

Chapter Thirteen

I consider myself pretty calm; a veritable fortress, especially when compared to most girls my age. But put me in line for a double date with Kristen and Rock and I turn into a nervous, sweaty mess.

The four of us are packed into Rock's truck—thank God it has a decent-sized backseat—and we're headed to the Arena.

I'll give Rock this, he knows where to take a girl on a date, especially for a guy so new to Houston. There aren't too many guys who would suggest a play for a date, particularly the kind of guys Kristen normally dates.

Jay and I are sitting in the backseat of Rock's truck, which gives me a bird's-eye view of Rock and Kristen holding hands across the console separating them. The space between me and Jay is considerably less intimate.

The faint scent of Rock's cologne, a scent I've come to recognize as his, penetrates my senses and makes me wish I was sitting in the front seat next to him. Anything to get closer to him. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, leaning forward just an inch to smell him even better. It's not until Jay clears his throat that I realize how insane I must look.

I'm quick to face him, doing my best to act like he didn't just catch me inhaling all the spare oxygen in the truck.

“Where're we going again?” Jay asks, focusing his attention on me, making me even more self-conscious than I al-ready am.

“The Arena Theater. Have you been there before?” I ask.

Jay nods. “Couple of times. My dad and I like to check out the big comedy acts there. The last one we went to was Larry the Cable Guy. Talk about fun-
ny
!”

Without pause, Jay launches into a pretty impressive impersonation of the comedian, right down to the trademark “Git-r-done!” which is enough to send Kristen into a laughing frenzy.

Rock and I are relatively quiet in comparison to Kristen and Jay, letting them carry the conversation in the truck.

When Jay does a spot-on impersonation of Mr. McGinty, our peace-loving guidance counselor, all four of us wind up laughing hysterically.

Wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, I face Jay. “You're really good.”

“Seriously!” Kristen adds. “You should definitely be a stand-up.”

Jay smiles at the compliment and even in the dim light of the truck, I can tell he's blushing. “Thanks.”

We park in the garage, then walk to the Arena's main entrance. The four of us make a pretty nice sight, I think. Kristen and I are in sundresses, which are just the thing for the Houston heat. And the guys are both in khaki Dockers and polos. Nothing too formal, but nicer than jeans.

It's hard not to compare Jay to Rock, even though it's totally unfair to do that. I hate being compared to Kristen.

Jay is definitely no Rock, but to be honest, he's cute in an all-American, boy-next-door kind of way. He's got a real wholesome look to him. Which is about a million miles away from Rock's rugged face. Rock's more the strong, quiet type whereas Jay's definitely the life of the party.

Jay and I follow Rock and Kristen, and although we're walking side by side, we're not touching. I can't make myself look away when Rock pulls Kristen in close, like he's trying to keep her warm. Like it isn't eighty-five degrees in the steamy garage.

As we approach the entrance, Rock pauses to pull the tickets out of his wallet while Kristen and Jay debate which comedian from Blue Collar Comedy is the funniest.

Rock's humming a song that sounds familiar but I can't recall and I watch him intently, like a groupie watches her idol. When he looks up, locks eyes with me, and smiles, I nearly jump in surprise. “Ready?” he asks.

I turn to Jay, who's moved close beside me, walking in step with me. There's an easiness with Jay I can't deny. He's a comfortable guy to be around, funny and confident but not cocky.

I'm the last one to enter the theater when Jay holds open the door for us. As he releases the door, he places his hand lightly on my back, guiding me as we follow Rock and Kristen.

When his hand lingers, I can't help but feel flattered that someone as popular and nice as Jay obviously likes me. At least enough to touch me. The saying “Beggars can't be choosers” runs through my head. Almost instantly, I feel guilty for even thinking such a thing. I should be proud to be with him. I try to focus on Jay, on the feel of his hand on my back.

The theater isn't Houston's finest, but it's nice just the same. Small and intimate, which is great for this kind of event. Vendors fill the lobby, selling everything from drinks and snacks to programs and souvenirs. Even over the conflicting smells in the lobby, the scent of Rock's cologne wafts to me as I walk in his wake. I haven't noticed Jay's cologne, but I make a mental note to do find out what he smells like.

“Here we are,” Rock announces, stopping at the entrance to our section. As we follow the usher to our seats, Jay keeps his hand on my back, staying so close behind me that if I stopped suddenly, he'd be on top of me. It actually feels pretty special having someone that close.

The tuxedoed usher, a college-aged guy with a barbell piercing through his right eyebrow, stands transfixed, eyes trained on my nose, when I attempt to move past him to my seat. Rock and Kristen have already shuffled down the narrow aisle and are waiting for me and Jay to follow, but I can't move out of humiliation. Which is utterly ridiculous when you consider I've dealt with this kind of thing my entire life.

But having someone gawk at me so candidly is crushing—especially on a date.

Jay gently nudges me forward as he turns to the usher, snapping his fingers millimeters from the usher's eyes. “Can I help you with something?” he asks, going from all-American funny guy to ass-kicking superhero in the blink of an eye. Maybe I can like this guy after all.

The usher steps back, mumbling something that sounds like “sorry” before hightailing it back up the aisle to man his post at the door.

I don't dare face Jay since I have absolutely no clue what to say. I can't even decide if I should say anything at all. So I totally cop out and act like nothing unusual happened. Like my date didn't have to stand up for me because I was too humiliated to do it for myself.

Not my proudest moment. Not by a mile.

I walk to my seat next to Kristen and notice her eyes are narrowed, her predictable protectiveness in action. Knowing I need to defuse her anger, I smile and wink at her to let her know I'm okay. Because if she thinks I'm truly upset, she'll go all mother-protecting-her-cub on that insignificant usher. And that wouldn't be fun for anyone.

More surprising than Jay's willingness to defend me is the way Rock's standing, watching the usher at the door. His normally placid eyes are dark and menacing, like he's doing everything he can to telepathically hurt the usher.

“Great seats, man,” Jay says, jarring Rock out of his trance. Jay nods at him in an everything's-okay way and sits down.

Rock nods, reluctantly taking his seat as he lays those beautiful eyes on me. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out, and his eyes go soft again.

Looking back at Jay, Rock says, “Glad you like them.”

Kristen pulls Rock's hand into hers. “I've never been here before. I love the way it's set up,” she says.

Rock's eyes are back on mine as he mumbles a response. When he gives me a crooked little smile, my heart drops.

I'm spared from suffering through lame chitchat until curtain time when the lights dim, signaling the start of the play. There
is
a God.

It doesn't take long for me to forget the incident with the usher and lose myself in the play, which has a cast of only three: Georgiana, Aylmer, Aminadab.

Watching the story unfold just ten rows in front of me, I can literally feel myself on the stage as Georgiana. She's stunning with just one visible flaw: a birthmark on her cheek in the shape of a hand. And she's entirely comfortable with the birthmark. It's just a small part of who she is, like her lips or her eyes … or her nose. In fact, other people find it alluring.

But things change for Georgiana. Just like they've changed for me.

When her husband, Aylmer, becomes obsessed with her birthmark, insisting on its removal so she'll be flawless, she agrees in her eagerness to please him.

I flash back to the night I scanned that ridiculous Web page to check out new noses, just to make myself more attractive to Rock. More attractive to anyone, even myself.

I ache to scream out to Georgiana, “Don't do it!”

The emotions rolling through me are ludicrous. I've read the story before. I
know
she ends up dead as a result of her husband's “cure” but my stomach twists as I watch the actress take the cup of liquid from him. Tears sting my eyes and I swallow audibly. I'm too full of emotion to be embarrassed, even when Jay puts his hand on the chair behind me, letting his fingertips rub my shoulder in a soft, soothing way.

Onstage, Aminadab mutters he would never change Georgiana if she were his wife. Will someone ever feel that way about me? About my nose? I mean, a birthmark can be covered with makeup, but a nose?
My
nose? Not so much.

I swipe at the trail of tears on my face, closing my eyes to the scene being brought to life.

“Oh geez,” Kristen whispers, then grabs my hand. Her death grip does little to comfort me as I open my eyes in time to see Georgiana take her last dramatic breath on stage.

Let's face it. I've had seventeen years to think about the way people see me. And how I see myself. Nine days out of ten, I'm happy to stay exactly the way I am. But on that tenth day … I'm not so sure I wouldn't fall for some crazy Aylmer-ish scheme to fix my nose.

The other three chat without me on the ride to the restaurant because my head is still swimming with thoughts of Georgiana. A dull thud pounds in my head. I don't want to be like Georgiana, a girl so easily convinced that she has to be perfect. It's what I've preached to Kristen for years. It's what I've fought against for as long as I can remember.

I'm pulled out of my funk when we park in front of my favorite Chinese restaurant in Houston, P.F. Chang's.

When we sit at a booth near the back, Jay rests his arm behind my shoulders, leaving me frozen in place. Am I supposed to move around or sit completely still? What if his arm slips off and he thinks I'm being rude? Or worse, he thinks I'm interested? I totally play it safe and sit like I've got a motion-sensored bomb tied to my butt.

Jay doesn't seem to notice my rigidity because he laughs and cuts up over dinner, like having his arm draped over my shoulders is the most natural thing in the world. Like we do that every day.

Even when our meals come and he puts his arm down, his hand finds mine from time to time, squeezing it or brushing over it like a little reminder that he's there. And, honestly, it's totally got me flustered.

As if that wasn't enough to deal with, it's getting harder and harder to ignore the way Rock keeps looking at me. Studying me, like he's trying to read my mind. Even when Kristen attempts to pull him into her conversation with Jay, he only gives her a cursory glance, a grin, and a few words.

“What'd you think about the play?” Rock asks suddenly, interrupting Jay midsentence.

I look at Kristen, then back at Rock. “Me?”

He nods, impatient. “You.”

“I've read the story before, so there weren't any surprises.”

Again, he nods, growing irritated. “But the
play
? How'd it hit you?”

“It was great, Rock. Really. Thanks for the tickets.” Geez. What does he expect me to say? I loved the way it tore at my gut, making me more aware of my unmistakable flaw than ever?

But he's relentless. “Do you think Georgiana was right to go along with Aylmer's plan?”

Before I can answer, Kristen pipes in, rolling her eyes. “Hel-
lo.
She ended up dead. Of course she shouldn't have gone along with it.”

Rock turns his attention to his date. “That's not the point. Should she have given in to his demands to be perfect? To be what
he
wanted?” He targets me again. “Do you think she was right to do that, regardless of how it ended?”

I shake my head, fully understanding the point he's pushing. “Of course not. No one should change the way they look in order to please someone else.” As the words slip through my mouth quietly, I know that's how I feel in my heart of hearts. Even on that tenth day, when I consider changing my nose, it's just that—a consideration. Curiosity. Nothing more.

The entire conversation is so intense, so confusing, my head is spinning. The table is silent and everyone's looking directly at me.

The corner of Rock's mouth turns up slightly and his eyes soften. “Is that really what you think?”