In Too Deep (4 page)

hello, sailor

Phoebe held her long dark hair from the nape of her
neck with one hand, cursing herself silently for forgetting to put a barrette into her tote this morning before she left for school, her other hand clasping her sister Bijoux’s six-year-old fingers as she swung their hands manically back and forth, screaming, “Wheeeeeee Pheeeeebs!” with every third step of her black patent leather Mary Janes. At least once a week Phoebe made it a point to give the nanny the afternoon off and pick Bijoux up from one of the many dumbass activities Madeline was constantly scheduling for her youngest daughter. Today it was Mommy and Me class at the Gifted Children’s Center of New York—except Madeline had never even bothered to show up. Thankfully, the Center was located just one block up from Meadowlark Academy on East Eighty-sixth Street, so when her cell rang, Phoebe had quickly raced up the block to collect Bijoux, whose impish face broadened in delight at the sight of her older sister. Phoebe watched as Bijoux kicked a pile of orange leaves with her tiny patent-leather-clad feet, screaming happily as the flame-colored leaves flew into the air. Even though it was the first week in October, the weather had become strangely, inexplicably warm, the balmy temperature belying the leaves strewn across the lush emerald-green grass of Central Park.

Phoebe knew she could traverse the Park blindfolded if she had to—it was as much a part of her as the tangled hair on her head, or her own two feet that took her closer and closer to the boat pond—the site of countless picnics and daydreams. In fact, she couldn’t even walk past the pond without flashes of her sixth birthday party streaming through her brain—Mad and Sophie with cake in their hair and wooden boats in their tiny hands, the rustle of wind on the pond, the brightly colored miniature sailboats floating gently on the rippling water . . .

She rounded the gently curving path, every step taking her further away from The Bram Clan and Meadowlark Academy, the sparkling surface of the water reflecting against the lenses of her enormous bronze sunglasses, her heartbeat quickening as she spied Jared’s lanky frame perched on the ledge surrounding the circular pond. He was anxiously tapping one blue and yellow DC sneaker against the pavement, his arms crossed over the beat-up army green Triple Five Soul cargo jacket he wore over faded jeans. Bijoux announced their arrival, yelling a chorus of what sounded like, “ME me me me ME!” at the top of her small but powerful lungs. At the sound of Bijoux’s voice, Jared turned around to look at Phoebe, nodding nonchalantly at their approach as one hand came up and pushed his mass of straight, dark hair from blue eyes that could only be described as electric. Small clusters of kids Bijoux’s age and younger ran around the perimeter of the pond, their small arms flapping with the sugar-crazed glee that only came from ingesting incredible amounts of candy and Popsicles—and subsequently running away from their nannies every chance they got. Phoebe knew that there probably wasn’t a more neutral place to meet up in all of Manhattan than the boat pond, and she’d brought Bijoux with her as added insurance. So why did she feel so scared all of a sudden?

Phoebe took a deep breath and she willed her feet to move forward as she asked herself for the twentieth time just what the hell she was doing there.
He’s your best friend’s brother
, she told herself sternly, her feet moving relentlessly forward like she was being drawn in by a tractor beam—or some other sci-fi bullshit that her fourth-grade boyfriend would’ve probably known about. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to avoid him, but Jared was doggedly persistent. Ever since Drew’s party, Phoebe had received a barrage of sexy e-mails and instant messages on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis. Not to mention the phone calls and text messages at all hours—including lunch. Phoebe knew all too well that if Jared’s manic quest continued, it could really screw things up—especially if Mad decided to be her usual bossy self by grabbing the phone mid-text. Just thinking about it made Phoebe’s nervousness suddenly take a backseat to queasiness, as her stomach began to toss and turn along with the brightly colored boats in the pond. And Sophie absolutely
hated
her brother—if she ever found out what had almost-kind-of-been going on lately between them, Phoebe knew that Sophie would never, ever forgive her.

“Can I go play with them, Pheebs?” Bijoux demanded, pointing at the other kids milling around the pond while tugging on the bottom of Phoebe’s white sweater. “Okay, Beebs,” Phoebe said sternly. “But stay where I can see you, ’kay?”

“YA!” Bijoux yelled, running off like her emerald green Petite Bateau pinafore and matching sweater was on fire. Phoebe turned to Jared, trying to force her face into a smile that seemed to come out more like a grimace, squared her shoulders, and prepared for battle.
The only reason you came here today,
she told herself
, is to tell him to knock it off, that you will never go out with him. Never
. “Just keep telling yourself that,” she muttered, tossing her winter white, wool trench down on the stone ledge of the pond as she sat down next to him, pushing her shades on top of her head, the fall sunlight shifting through the trees, casting long, leafy shadows on the pavement. Jared turned to her and smiled, his blue eyes glowing in his still suntanned face.

“Hey you,” he said, knocking her with his elbow, a wry grin plastered over his face. Phoebe felt her heart leap in her chest at his touch.
Here we go
, she thought, and exhaled heavily.

“I didn’t think you would show,” Jared said quietly, kicking one foot against the pond’s cement rim.

“Me neither,” Phoebe muttered, pulling her shades down over her eyes to avoid his gaze.

“But I hoped you would. And I’m really glad you came—even if you did bring a chaperone.” Jared looked at the ground with a half-smile, then took her hand in his own, gently squeezing her fingers.

Phoebe was shocked at how good it felt to have her hand in his. His manly-looking paws were uncharacteristically soft, the smooth, firm touch of his flesh catching her totally off guard. He made holding hands as important as it had been in second grade when she’d walked to school with the then love-of-her-life, eight-year-old Marvin Jackson, who had grabbed onto her hand like a king-sized candy bar and didn’t let go until they arrived at school, her fingers sweaty and slightly numb.

“I only came because you and I really need to talk,” Phoebe said, her mind snapping back to reality after a mere second of Sophie’s visage floated in front of her hand-holding fantasy land. She pulled her hand away and tucked it between her knees, hoping that it would be, somehow, out of Jared’s reach. “This,” Phoebe went on, “whatever
this
is—which is nothing. This nothing, or something—or whatever—needs to stop. Now. You’re Sophie’s brother and Sophie is my best friend and this absolutely
cannot
be happening.
Isn’t
happening.”

“Uh-huh.” Jared nodded, that so totally cute and
completely
disarming smile making another appearance, brightening the entirety of his slightly salt-cured and perfectly tanned face.

“Yes. Uh-huh is right. And I guess that’s all we really need to say about it,” Phoebe replied, trying desperately to be all business, to resist the black hole of his hotness. Jared didn’t reply, just kept on with that smile, his hand inching ever so slowly back toward her own. “Well then, I guess I’ll be going,” Phoebe went on, eyeing his slowly advancing hand as if it was a deadly spider, but one whose venom would bring her ultimate pleasure before death. She watched it and watched it, moving closer, moving faster, moving so completely and so obviously against everything she had just said that she found it impossible to take her eyes off of it. His hand found hers and she flinched, imagining the poison of his touch, the betrayal that such a simple action defined. She had to leave. Now.

“Wait. What were you saying?” Jared said, tightening his grip, his voice slow and relaxed, as if he had just awoken from a nap. “I was too distracted by the pretty that’s all over your face—you should be more careful about that, you know. Getting pretty all over yourself—it could get you in a lot of trouble.”

Despite her resolve to stay strong, Phoebe felt her face cracking into a smile. Like she wasn’t in enough trouble already? Her life practically defined trouble as it was.
You have to leave
, she told herself.
Get up and just
go. Phoebe knew that if she stayed there another minute longer, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from touching him, or, God forbid, she might even
kiss
him—and that would be disastrous. Just the thought of Jared’s smooth, red lips touching hers made her head swim like the fleet of blue and yellow boats dotting the surface of the pond.

Phoebe glanced across the pond, her dark eyes searching for Bijoux—who was currently straddling a little boy wearing a pair of dusty overalls and a blue cardigan. Bijoux sat on his chest, her little legs on either side of his flailing body, and appeared to be trying to shove a wooden sailboat up his nose. “Stay still!” Phoebe heard her sister scream out with no small amount of glee. “This won’t hurt a bit!”

“I have to go,” Phoebe said, throwing her bag over her shoulder and standing up, her tone conveying a decisiveness she
wished
she actually felt.

“Yeah. Me too.” Jared stood up and stretched his arms overhead like a cat stretching in the sun. As she turned to walk away, he caught her arm, pulling her back. “Oh, just one more thing,” he said with a half-smile on his lips.

Phoebe rolled her dark eyes in exasperation. “
What
?” Phoebe knew that she was in trouble. She knew that she should leave—hell, she should run, but her feet were curiously stuck to the pavement, and she found herself unwilling to wrench herself away from his grasp. Without another word, Jared pulled her to him, and as he leaned in, her senses flooded by the clean scent of his soap and that salty, citrusy scent that clung to his skin like seaweed, she couldn’t stop herself from responding. It was like one of those dumb action movies where you see a car crash in slow motion. From somewhere that felt far way she watched as his head tilted toward her, felt a rush of salt wind as his lips touched hers, then the soft pressure of his mouth—powerless to stop any of it from happening.

Or, at least that was what she told herself as she leaned into his body, twining her arms around his neck, her soft leather bag dropping off her shoulder and onto the pavement as she closed her eyes and kissed him back.

tea and caviar

Drew leaned across the table and smiled, taking
Casey’s cool, slightly freckled hand in his own. Even though he’d been to the Russian Tea Room—in all its past incarnations—more times than he could count, here with Casey everything looked suddenly different: the heavy red velvet drapes that fell to the floor, the brass buttons on the waiter’s black coat shining in the deep crimson light of the room, even the crystal-laden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling sparkled as if he was seeing them for the first time. Ever since he started dating Casey, he seemed to feel like this all the time, whether it was showing her his favorite Pollack at the Met, or introducing her to the simple pleasure of a hot corned beef on rye in the dingy yet supremely comforting dining room of Katz’s Deli—the very fact of sharing these things with someone who got excited about them, too, was a whole new experience. One he could get addicted to if he wasn’t careful. So far, at least, there was nothing about this girl that he didn’t like.

Not that she was perfect—in fact, that was kind of the point. Casey was as far from conventionally flawless as you could possibly get, which by default
made
her perfect. Drew watched as she dug her fork into the plate of caviar and perfectly cooked blinis, holding back her mane of curls that went every which way with one hand, and raising the fork to her mouth with the other. Just looking at the way she parted her lips, closing her eyes as the tiny black fish eggs exploded on her tongue made him slightly crazy. He wanted to drag her under the pristine white tablecloth and do decidedly unculinary things with that gleaming silver boat of pillowy white sour cream . . .

“I always crave blinis in the fall,” Drew said, his voice sounding almost as happy as Casey’s tongue after her first taste of beluga caviar. “My dad took me here around this time every year when I was a kid—never in the summer or the spring or the winter—just the fall. I guess I’ll never be able to make it through the month of October without a few fish eggs popping against the roof of my mouth.”

“Who could blame you,” Casey said between bites, her wide eyes clearly voicing her mind’s wish that blinis were the size of vinyl records instead of silver dollars. “Although I think restricting the eating of caviar to the fall is a mistake—I could eat this stuff every day for every meal. Breakfast, lunch,
and
dinner.”

“Then you and my dad will definitely get along well,” Drew said, biting into the pillowy dough. “And that would be to your advantage, because if you want to eat caviar every day of the week, you’re going to want to buy it wholesale—and he can. You know, this stuff costs hundreds of dollars a tin. They don’t call the miracle that is caviar, lobster, and eggs a million-dollar omelet for nothing.”

“Hundreds for a
tin
?” Casey said, looking at the little black pearls on her plate in a whole new light. “That’s craziness. Maybe I’ll stick with your whole once-a-year thing after all.”

“It’s a good system,” Drew said, leaning back against the banquette and taking in the velvet-soaked luxury of the room. Madison had always refused to go to the Russian Tea Room with him. Having been forced to spend endless society lunches and birthday parties in this red velvet room since she was a child, she thought the place was total yawnsville—the type of old-school haunt where Edie and her friends went to drink vodka and knit quilts, or whatever the hell people her mother’s age did for fun. “But most people who live in this city don’t eat a normal person’s paycheck for their breakfast,” Drew said, motioning to the shiny, black eggs that spilled out of the plump pile of blinis on his plate. “I’m in this AP Cinema class this semester, and I think I’m going to make a documentary about it. Maybe interview the homeless or something,” he said, stabbing another blini with his fork. “It’s pretty awesome—Paul Paxil is taking over our class for the next six weeks, so I’m feeling like I should do something more socially conscious.”