Flawless (9 page)

Beauty is not caused. It is.

—EMILY DICKINSON

Chapter Nine

When we wake up the following morning close to eleven, Kristen's house is quiet. Her mom was asleep when we got home last night and is probably already gone. We've spent hundreds of weekends like this—moving between our houses based on who was home and what we wanted to do. Kristen has a pool, so we are here more often than not. The fact that we're usually here alone is just icing on the cake.

“Let's get some sun,” she says, eyes still closed.

I sit up and my stomach growls. “Food, then sun.”

“You first,” Kristen says, rolling over in bed.

Pushing to my feet, I head for the kitchen, where I grab an apple out of the fridge, open the blinds, then take a bite. Kristen's backyard isn't as luxurious as Amber's but it's so much better in lots of ways. Nothing in this backyard is breakable and the furniture is comfortable and well used. The sunlight dances on the top of the water, practically begging us to jump in.

When I get back to the bedroom, Kristen's deep breathing tells me she's fallen back asleep. I take the covers and yank them off her. She despises it when I do that, but it's the only way to actually get her out of bed.

“Come on, Kris. You need to spend some time in the sun.”

“I hate you,” she mumbles in her pillow.

“Just think how much prettier you'll look tonight with freshly tanned skin. No one likes a pasty girl.”

And that's all it takes to get her feet on the ground. In a matter of minutes, she's brushed her teeth and pulled her hair into a ponytail and is—barely—dressed in her skull-and-crossbones bikini.

We both jump into the pool to get wet before climbing out and taking our usual lounge chairs in the full blazing sun.

“Now, isn't this better than wasting the day in bed?” I ask.

“Actually, it's a lot like wasting the day in bed. I'm just in bed outside.” Kristen giggles at herself. She keeps her eyes closed as she talks. “So tell me. What do you think about Jay?”

My mind slips back to the hours we spent cutting up with Jay and his friends last night. “He's nice enough. Funny as hell.”

“I like a guy who can make me laugh,” Kristen says, a smile creeping onto her face.

I smile back, ready for our favorite game. “I like a guy who doesn't say ‘pull my finger.' ”

Kristen laughs. “I like a guy who doesn't floss with used floss.”

“Eww! I like a guy who doesn't cry at coffee commercials.”

“I like a guy who doesn't put sweaters on his cat.”

I laugh so hard, I start coughing. “Omigod, Kris. That's your best one yet.”

She high-fives me. “Guess Jay's not the only funny one.”

Seven hours later, I'm watching Kristen suffer over each choice while getting dressed. It's a miserable way to spend any Saturday evening, but tonight it's downright agonizing.

“Choose a shirt already!” I say, amazed that it can actually take someone over an hour to choose a shirt.

Kristen looks at the pile of clothes heaped on her bed, all of which she's tried on and dismissed. Twice. “I seriously need to go shopping,” she mumbles.

“We just did and you have more clothes on this bed than I have in my entire house.
Pick. Something
.”

“It has to be just right,” she says, arms folded across her bra-covered chest. It's hard not to hate her when she looks like a model. When she still finds something to complain about, it's enough to make me consider strangling her. Just for a second, anyway.

“Go with the red. It's definitely your color.”

“Too bold,” she says.

“How about the white tunic? White's great with your tan.”

She scrunches up her face. “Too … virgin.”

I look at my watch. “It's seven. You've got half an hour. He's a guy, Kristen. The only thing he'll notice is what's
in
the shirt.”

“Even Rock?”

“He's smart, Kristen. Not dead.”

She nods her head, a smile finally creeping onto her face. “You're right. Of course you're right.” She grabs the red shirt from the corner of the bed and pulls it over her head. I have to admit she looks stunning. If anyone should be on television spoon-feeding the breaking news to Houstonians, it's her. She's totally got the glamorous looks and style for that kind of thing.

Her phone beeps twice, the oft-heard signal that Kristen's got a text message. She grabs the phone from the bed and stands frozen while she reads. “Holy crap.”

Kristen has a tendency to overreact. To everything. So it takes a lot for me to get alarmed. I don't even bother asking her what the problem is. At this point, all I can think about is getting out of here before Rock arrives.

“Ticktock,” I say, urging her to snap out of it and focus on her date.

“Read this,” she says, tossing me the phone. “Then reply for me.”

I do this a lot for Kristen when she's driving, doing her nails, or just plain lazy. I turn the phone over in my hands and read the text she's opened on her iPhone.

I've been waiting to see you all day. Hope you don't mind if I'm early.

I swallow the lump in my throat, willing my face to look bored when what I'm really feeling is stripped of my very own happily ever after.

Kristen bends over and brushes her hair. “Are you replying?”

“What do you want me to say?”

She stands up, tossing her hair back. “Something cute, clever. Something funny.”

“If it's so easy, why don't you do it?”

Hands on her hips, she faces me. “Because you're so good at it, Sarah. Please?”

I sigh, knowing I can't or won't say no. Tapping the screen to life, I click Reply and type the first thing that comes to mind.

Hope you don't mind that I've memorized your eyes.

I click Send and put the phone back on the bed. “I'm not doing that again.”

“Sure you are,” she says, grinning at herself in the mirror.

Another two beeps on the phone.

“What'd you say to him?” she asks, reaching for the phone.

“That you liked his eyes.” I lie back on the bed and cover my eyes with my arm.

She giggles, then shakes my leg. “Listen to this. ‘They could never compare to your own. They put the Hope diamond to shame.' ”

“Sweet,” I mumble, eyes still covered.

“But I don't get it. Isn't a diamond clear? I mean, my eyes are about as blue as they get. Clear eyes? Eew.”

I shake my head. How can someone be seventeen, have watched
Titanic
a dozen times, and not know the Hope diamond isn't a traditional diamond? Honestly.

“The Hope diamond is blue,” I tell her, doing my best not to add something completely rude and sarcastic.

Kristen sighs like a dreamy girl from a second-rate fifties film. “He's perfect.”

He
is
perfect … but for her or for me?

She puts the phone in her pocket, then grabs the straightener from her dresser. “Can you run this over the back? I can never really reach it.”

I nod, wishing I was anywhere else. Like getting ready for my own date with Rock. I pull her already-straightened hair through the CHI while she scrutinizes her face in the mirror.

“Is it just me or is my chest splotchy?”

I don't have to look in the mirror to answer. “You always get like that when you're nervous, Kris.” And the fact that she's nervous tells me she's really excited about Rock. I mean, completely over the top. Because she dates. A lot. And never gets nervous.

And in that little telltale sign, I know being a good friend to Kris is the right thing to do. Rock means a lot to her, to her happiness. What if he
is
the one for her?

She takes the oversized powder brush and dips it into her bronzing dust with just the right amount of sheen. Two swipes across her chest do the trick, easily camouflaging her one fault. “God, I hate when I get like this. You're so lucky you don't have to worry about this kind of thing.”

I release her hair from the straightener and lean against the dresser so we're facing each other. “What do you mean?”

Eyes wide with realization, she starts backpedaling. “You know what I mean, Sarah. You're … um … you're lucky you don't get all splotchy like this.”

Narrowing my eyes, I study her. In my heart, I know she would never intentionally hurt my feelings. But still. “Because it sounded like I don't have to worry about getting all dressed because I can't get a date.” Which, now that I say it out loud, is completely accurate. So what's my point?

Kristen shakes her head emphatically, grabbing my hands and squeezing them. “You know that's not true,” she says. “Honest. And you could date about a hundred guys. But you don't put yourself out there, you know?”

And I guess she's right. I've never really been up to the challenge. It's always been so much easier, so much safer, to pretend I don't want to date. I've never been able to take that leap and just give it the old college try, as Mom says.

“I'm sorry,” I mutter, feeling 100 percent ashamed. “I'm just …” I trail off, not sure what to say. If I was up to telling the truth, I'd tell her what a jealous wench of a friend I am. But I won't spoil this night for her. No matter how bad it hurts.

I finally finish my sentence with a lame, “Forget I said anything.”

Fortunately, she does and practically dives into her closet looking for shoes. She's tossing out possibilities when I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror hanging on her bedroom door. When I see myself like this, head on, I can almost visualize the face I'd have with a normal nose.

Almost.

Kristen snaps her fingers in front of me. “Hel-
lo
. Help!” She points to her feet, a black ballet flat on her right foot, dressy red sequined sandals with a tiny little kitten heel on the left.

“Definitely the red,” I say.

“But my toes are painted hot pink.”

“Get the polish,” I sigh. “I'll paint them for you while you put on your jewelry.”

Kristen tosses me the red polish on her dresser and reaches for the silver heart necklace she reserves for special occasions. Against her bronzed chest, it looks incredible.

Just as I finish the last toe, the doorbell rings.

“Omigod,” she whispers loudly, like he might be able to hear us outside. “That's got to be him.”

I look at the clock, then back at Kristen. “Five minutes early. That's more like it.”

I screw the lid on the polish and return it to the dresser, then walk to the window to peek outside. “I can't see him, but his truck's out front.”

Kristen's mom opens the front door and invites Rock inside. It's easy to pick out his voice; the smooth, deep texture reminds me of melted chocolate.

“Come on, Kris. You look amazing.” I grab her arm and pull her from the mirror and out of the bedroom. When we enter the living room, I'm struck speechless.

No guy has a right to look this freaking hot.

Just-right jeans with a sexy, black button-down shirt opened just enough to reveal a rope necklace.

“Hey, Sarah,” he says, obviously surprised to see me. “You joining us tonight?”

“Oh, no. I was just leaving,” I say, reaching for my purse on the coffee table.

“Hi, Rock.” Kristen eases into the room, working her way around me to get closer to her date. “You met my mom?”

“Oh, yeah, we've already met,” Kristen's mom says, all smiles. I can hardly blame her. Shoot, a nun would be smiling at this guy. “I guess you two better get shaking if you're going to make it there by eight. You know how traffic can be.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Gallagher.” Rock reaches forward to shake her hand and I can tell she's impressed. Who wouldn't be?

When Rock opens the door for Kristen, I walk out behind her, seriously regretting that he's following me in my old Levi's and last year's football T-shirt. I'm quick to flee his line of sight by walking across the lawn to my car, which is parked nose to nose with Rock's truck.

My car is actually Mom's old Lexus, black with tinted windows. Very mysterious looking, which is totally not my personality, but I love it anyway.

“Sarah,” Rock says, stopping at the end of the sidewalk.

“Yeah?” I ask, fully aware that Kristen's waiting for him to open her door but watching me.

“Why don't you come with us?” he asks, smiling like he isn't asking me to do the utterly impossible.

“Oh, no, no. I couldn't. I'm busy, busy, busy. Y'all have fun.” I click the unlock button on my car remote, frantic to escape. I'd rather walk on fire than be the third wheel on their date, watching them snuggle, feed each other, hold hands. And, what, I get to witness their kiss good night? No freaking way.