The Ruining (11 page)

the crock-pot. It won’t be as good, though. God, I haven’t used that since . . . ever. It’s at the bottom of the pantry, toward the back. Just hook it up and I’ll take care of it when I’m home.” She made it sound like I was doing her a disservice by allowing her to “take care of it” herself. And besides, wasn’t the point of crock-pots that they do all the work themselves?

I sliced up tomatoes, onions, peppers, garlic, potatoes, and zucchini for the stew. I hoped that would be okay. I added some stewed tomatoes from a can and a little salt and pepper. I sliced the meat into cubes and added a dash of rosemary. I’d cooked with a crock-pot many times before, all those times when my mother couldn’t. I’d woken up early before school and thrown everything in so that Dean would have something to eat when he got home from the parts store in the afternoon. I didn’t even have to think about what I was doing anymore.

By the time I finished, I needed a change of pace. I could work on my paper later, I decided. Why not go find Owen right then? It was kind of ridiculous that we didn’t see more of each other, given that he lived right next door. Unless he didn’t like me? The thought was ridiculous; I hated how insecure I was about Owen. It’s not like there had been any other girls coming and going over the past few weeks—I knew very well there weren’t, because I’d become a vigilant spy in my downtime. But there was something about him that was so confident, so secure—it had the very opposite effect on me. It derailed me. It made me feel like I wasn’t good enough.

I swallowed my paranoia—the awful fantasy I had of showing up unannounced and finding him with another girl—and threw on my swimsuit. I’d pack a picnic, and maybe we could drive down to the shore.

I packed us two turkey sandwiches on focaccia, some cheese, a bunch of olives, fresh cherries, banana bread, and San Pellegrino. One of the benefits of living here was that Libby was a food nut, but she didn’t eat any. She was obsessed with buying good food and always foisted it on me, hating to see it go to waste. As a result, I’d eaten more types of cheese in the last month than I previously knew existed. It kind of put those billowy shirts from the garage in perspective . . . if they were in fact hers.

I was halfway down the driveway when my phone rang again. I switched the picnic basket awkwardly over to my right hand, fumbling in my jeans pocket. I picked the phone up just as it went to voicemail. Libby again. I pressed “call back” before she could leave a message.

“Nanny, I’d appreciate it if you would pick up the phone a little more promptly when I call,” she told me. I bristled. I’d gotten to it as fast as I could, and . . . had she really called me Nanny again?

“I’m sorry,” I told her through gritted teeth.
“Before you leave, I really need you to make sure Zoe’s lunch is packed for tomorrow morning’s play-date,” she said. “Who knows what time we’ll be back tonight, and I don’t want to have to worry about it before bed.”
“Okay,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” she said, after a pause. “Not right now. But I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
I decided to leave the picnic basket in the driveway while I prepared Zoe’s lunch. When I finished a few minutes later, it was only a half an hour ’til I’d planned on meeting Owen in the first place. I wondered briefly if I should just wait it out in the house, but decided I didn’t want to lug that picnic basket any more than I had to.
“Just the girl I was hoping to see.” Owen swung the door open seconds before I pressed the doorbell. “And bearing food? How did you know this was my fantasy?”
I laughed. “How did you know I was at the door?” I asked. “Stalker.”
“It’s just that we’re so connected,” he replied. “Plus, I happened to see a strange basket lying abandoned in the middle of your driveway.
“Oh. Right,” I said.
“Ohhhh, someone thought I was keeping an eye on her! Getting a little cocky, are we?” He flashed me a playful grin that illuminated his green eyes.
“So I just swung by to ask if you had any soda,” I said seriously. “I was bringing this picnic to a guy down the street and I realized, gosh darn, I’m clean out of refreshments. . . .”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I get it. I’ll stop. Assuming you’re joking about Mystery Boyfriend, where shall we go?”
“You got wheels?” I asked. “Hanging out at your place has been great, but I’m dying for a tour of this city. It seems all I do these days is work.”
“At your service, madame. Just give me a sec.” I nodded, moving into the foyer as he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I liked Owen a lot. I liked that for all his banter, he was open and honest. I liked that he wasn’t afraid to show me he liked me. Maybe it was because he was twenty. Maybe older guys were just like that. But then I thought of Dean, and somehow I doubted he was the exception. Owen emerged from the kitchen a minute later carrying a Ziploc bag full of cookies. I tried unsuccessfully to hide my giddy pleasure. He’d thrown on a button-down shirt over his T-shirt and shorts, and he’d rolled up the sleeves over his tanned forearms. He was so different from the guys I’d dated back home. They’d had a raw, sexy energy, but Owen was real, and he was sweet, and he was good. It all combined for a more powerful want than I’d ever felt.
“You dressed up for me,” I blurted out. And instead of saying something witty back, it was his turn to blush.
“Just didn’t want to embarrass you,” he said mildly. “So, these are my mom’s famous chocolate chip cookies.” He extended the bag toward me, obviously eager to change the subject.
“What makes them famous?” I wanted to know.
“They just are. Once you taste them, you’ll get it.” Owen gestured toward the front door and we walked out together, climbing into his Jeep. I loved that Owen was probably the last guy on the planet to drive a Jeep Wrangler. It made him even cuter.
“But did you ever notice that the word ‘famous’ automatically makes a thing more appealing?” I asked him. “Like, if I were going to open my own restaurant, I’d call all of my creations ‘Annie’s Famous Green Beans’ and ‘Famous Apple Crisp’ or whatever.”
“What are you running, a Southern diner? I’ve got news for you, little lady. These cookies actually are famous. They won the Hershey’s bake-off in 1987.” I burst out laughing; I couldn’t help it. “Hey now.” He looked faux-wounded. “It’s a big deal! They fly you out to New York for those things.”
“I believe it,” I said soberly. “What was the grand prize?”
“Cash award,” he said. “Plus a cookbook with recipes from all the other contestants.”
“So basically . . . a cookbook with all of the losing entries,” I clarified.
“Yep. I’d say that’s pretty much it.”
“Hopefully the cash award was generous.”
“It’s not polite to discuss money,” he said. He was only kidding, but his words reminded me of the incident in the Cohens’ garage.
“Ugh,” I said aloud. My resolve weakened, and I reached in the bag for a cookie. “Oh my god! These are amazing!” I wasn’t lying. The chocolate chips were somehow still melty inside the soft, chewy dough. Yet the cookie itself was cool, like they’d been baked hours or maybe even a whole day before. How did the melty chips exist within cool dough? It was a science miracle.
“Why the ‘ugh’?” Owen wanted to know.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, waving it off. “Just something you said reminded me of this thing that happened a while back. I accidentally stumbled across some files I wasn’t supposed to see, and I almost got fired over it.”
“Unbelievable,” Owen said, visibly bristling.
“What? I shouldn’t have been snooping through their stuff.” “Well, were you? Actually snooping, I mean?”
“No. I was trying to move some boxes in the garage, and one of the boxes broke and everything fell all over the place. But I should have been more careful about letting my eyes wander where they shouldn’t have been.”
“Well, what did you see?”
“Just some financial information,” I hedged. “Nothing terribly personal.”
“I can’t believe they’d fire you over what was obviously a total accident,” Owen muttered. We were driving along Highway 1, watching the coastline breeze by. Owen was an expert driver, dodging traffic with confidence, one arm resting on the open window.
“What? It’s not like they actually fired me.” I hadn’t even told him the bad part, but his mood had turned darker within seconds.
“You’re right. Just a knee-jerk reaction, sorry. I think they’re good people, I just . . . I don’t know what it is. Something doesn’t sit well. But I’m probably just reading into it.” He turned up the music, nodding his head along with Fun. But in my periphery I could see his eyebrows knitting together, the way he rubbed his bottom lip with his index finger, controlling the wheel with his opposite hand. And then my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and motioned for Owen to turn down the music.
“Hey, Libby,” I said, with a pointed look in Owen’s direction. He pursed his lips disapprovingly. “No, I’m with Owen. No, we’re pretty far away right now. Yeah. Okay. All right. It’s not a problem. I put the green one in the wash yesterday. All right. Okay, thanks, sorry for leaving it out. Yep. Thanks. Bye.”
“What?” I asked defensively when I hung up. “She needed to know if one of Walker’s shirts was clean. And I guess I left my lit reading on the deck, and she brought it inside for me.”
“They make you do housework too?”
“Not really. Just light stuff here and there when the maid cancels, or if it builds up before her day off. They cut her schedule back a little since I can do a lot of it myself pretty easily.” I avoided his eyes, knowing what he’d have to say about that.
“Did she give you a hard time for leaving it outside?” he wanted to know. “It sounded like you were apologizing.”
“Not really, she just doesn’t love it when there’s clutter. I totally get it,” I said defensively.
“Are you their babysitter or their maid? And isn’t this supposed to be your day off?”
“You’re acting sort of weird,” I informed him. “Just relax.” He let out a frustrated noise akin to that of a baby lion in distress. A bereaved sort of growl that made me laugh. I liked how Owen was just Owen around me, no pretension, no real efforts at being someone other than whom he’d always been. I’d only known him a few months, but I already felt closer to him than I’d ever been to anyone, really. I’d hung out with a couple of guys in high school, and of course I’d had those three months with Daniel, but those other guys were just faces. Bodies. Ways to pass the time. It was hard to explain, but those people were just hands holding my hands, lips pressed against mine, people to watch movies with and go to parties with and make out with. Owen was different: more and better in ways I didn’t fully understand. And then it hit me: I didn’t feel like an outsider around him. I didn’t feel damaged, bad, deformed. But he doesn’t know about Lissa, said the ever-persistent voice in my head. He doesn’t know who you are, not really. And what will he think of you then? I decided to ignore the voice for as long as I could. Besides, Owen was different from Daniel. I could let Owen in.
“And you know, even my dad was a little offended,” Owen went on. “She was kind of critical. And I mean, she’s, like, twenty-four. My mom’s in her fifties. She knows a little more about it than Libby.”
“Wait, what?” I stopped him, my heart thudding. “Who’s twenty-four?”
“Libby. You didn’t know that? God, just look at her.” He let out a low whistle.
“Um, obviously you have.”
Owen rolled his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not into hyper-maintained women. I mean, Jesus. She probably sleeps in her makeup. She’s definitely not my type.” I thought it over. I’d thought Libby was around thirty. The way she dressed, the way she carried herself . . . she just seemed thirtyish. She was beautiful and young-looking, sure. But twenty-four? It seemed impossible.
“She can’t be twenty-four,” I argued. “That means she graduated from college, like, three years ago. Walker’s not that creepy. And Walker is definitely not twenty-four.”
“He’s thirty-three,” said Owen.
“Okaaaay. But how do you know all this?”
“My dad was their real estate agent. He filed all their paperwork when they bought the place.”
“He clearly has high standards for client confidentiality,” I noted stiffly. I didn’t want to get in another fight with him. But I was feeling a range of emotions. For some reason, Libby’s age bothered me. I don’t know why, but it didn’t gel with this image I had of wife number one, whom I’d begun to deify despite myself. The fact that Libby was that much younger just felt so slimy. So underhanded. A betrayal of Walker’s wife’s memory. And Walker and Libby had seemed . . . perfect. But here was Owen, drilling little holes in their idyllic façade. I didn’t like that, either. I was already feeling stretched thin with everything the Cohens expected me to do. It was a lot more difficult than I’d anticipated. The last thing I needed was pressure from Owen, too, when I needed him to serve as my escape.
But there was something else that bothered me about it. The more I was forced to confront, I realized, the harder it would be to keep all this up without feeling like their slime was rubbing off on me. But it was only a job. I had to think of that. What they did had nothing to do with me.
“Oh please,” Owen scoffed. “My dad only mentioned it because my mom was prying. She couldn’t believe they had a threeyear-old kid. I don’t even know how much the place cost. I don’t know any of the other details. Except that they paid for the whole thing in cash. But you can find that information on public websites.”
“A wee bit curious, are we?” I said, trying to make light of it.
“My job is the Internet,” Owen said with a shrug. “It’s not that hard to figure these things out.”
“So what do you know about me?” I asked sharply. “What sort of research did you do?”
“Just a basic background check, where you grew up, your IQ, that sort of thing.” I felt the blood drain from my face. I dug my fingernails deep into the palm of my other hand, fighting panic. “Jesus, Annie,” Owen said, looking alarmed. “I was only kidding. I’d never in a million years check up on you like that.” It took a second for his words to sink in, a long second in which I struggled to breathe normally again.
“That was really crappy,” I told him through the beginnings of tears. “That was really, really crappy.”
“Hey,” he said with concern, placing a hand on my knee. “Hey, shhh. What’s wrong? I was just kidding.”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying to pull myself together. He probably thought I was nuts. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m getting so upset.”
“No, no, you’re right. That was mean. Here.” He rifled around in the glove compartment and finally handed me a pack of tissues. He steered the car into the parking lot of an InN-Out and cut the engine. Taking my hand in his, he began to sketch semicircles on my wrist with his thumb. “I really didn’t mean to upset you. It was only a joke.”
“No,” I said. “It’s really not a big deal. As long as you swear you would never actually violate my privacy like that.”
“I would never,” he swore, his eyes earnest. “I’m serious. I never check up on people. Even with the Cohens, I was more curious about the house than anything else.”
“Okay.” I was feeling a lot calmer. In retrospect, the last fifteen minutes seemed more intense than they’d needed to be. “I just . . . I don’t know. My emotions have been all over the place lately. I’m really sorry. Don’t think I’m a freak. I’m just not sleeping well, and—”
He placed his hand gently on the side of my face, stroking my cheek, my neck, the hair at the base of my scalp. He leaned forward and kissed the side of my cheek once, then again. “You’re not a freak,” he whispered next to my ear, sending goose bumps down my spine. “You’re perfect.” His left hand cradled my jaw; I let him turn my face toward him. When our lips met, it was pure, perfect, surreal. My body felt so electric that I almost couldn’t feel a thing. His lips moved against mine, softly but with a gentle rhythm that pulled me closer, made me want more and more. As the thing I’d fantasized about ever since I met him five weeks ago materialized, it became briefly impossible to separate fantasy from reality. It all blended into a beautiful, chaotic mess. I allowed it to sweep me up, content to relinquish all my self-control.