The Starter Boyfriend (10 page)

“Courtney, I’ve done something I’m not proud of.”

I couldn’t speak. If I could have blocked my ears from hearing, I probably would have done that, too. Logic told me this had to do with something illicit. Like cheating. Or sex. And sorry, but in that case, there were a world of other conversations I’d rather be having—like with Jacy, Randy’s mother, even my
own
mother.

In a quick, jerking movement, she pulled out a box from behind her back. A shoe box. “Open it.”

The blood in my veins thrumming, I pulled off the lid and pushed back the tissue paper to see a pair of sexy, satiny light blue pumps. Roughly my size. And while they were stunning, the connection between them and her raging guilt made no sense. I looked up at her.

“They’re to match the Homecoming dress. And I know,
I know
I had no right to shop for them. You didn’t ask me to find you shoes. I’m not your best friend and I’m not trying to be your mother. I don’t really know what we are right now, sweetie, but I just get so excited about you and your life that sometimes, I think, I overstep boundaries. I’m sorry.”

Wow. I pulled a shoe closer because it was so much easier than looking at Jennifer as I forced out the words I suddenly wanted to say. “This is wonderful of you. And—and I know some of this step-mom/step-daughter thing is awkward, but it’s good awkward.”

“So,” she said hopefully, “you like them?”

“I love them.”

“Definitely drop knee, huh?”

I cringed inwardly.

“You forgive me for being presumptuous, Courtney?”

“Forgive you? I love you for it,” I managed and did a note-to-file that in Jennifer’s case, looks were deceiving. For behind her loud movements and big, ballsy ways, seemed to be hiding a pretty sensitive person. “Thank you.”

I kicked off my sandals and slipped the shoes on. They felt soft and elegant and so special that I suspected if I clicked my heels together, a wish would come true.

However, the fact the wedding was still on
was
that wish, right? Which was something I had to keep my mind wrapped around, especially since life seemed to be coming at me lately with the speed of a fastball.

Chapter 11

The Pacific Coast Highway traffic was blessedly light that Friday afternoon. Heading toward the shop, I went through my mental check list:

1—Randy’s boutonnière pre-paid and on order? (
Check
.)

2—My outfit accessories present and accounted for. (
Check
.)

3—Dress picked up from dry cleaner? (
Um, not yet
.)

4—Getting excited about the whole Homecoming thing? (Um, no.)

Number four had nothing to do with number three. I was going, come hell or high water, and needed the dress. It was just that work today was going to be nuts with the Homecoming boys on top of the usual wedding groomsmen, and I wanted to get there ASAP. I’d decided to put off that pick-up until morning, and to give myself a pick-up of another kind: a can of Red Bull.

But all the energy drink did was make me jittery (and have to pee), and luckily, by the time things got frantic at the shop, I’d already started a crash back down to earth.

Randy and his mother arrived as a bustling groom party was filing out the door, and got pretty much shoved against the window. Mrs. Schiff appeared slightly traumatized when she recovered, patting down her frosted hair, while Randy—best known for his crashing and tackling maneuvers on the forty yard-line—mixed his hello to me with a yawn.

“I’ll be in the back,” Phillip told me, arching a meaningful brow.

I nodded, hoping I didn’t have to send out an S.O.S.

Soon, Randy was standing tree trunk stiff on the alteration pedestal in an all-black, two button, satin lapel 02117. Between his bored expression and the fact The Big Game was just hours away, I was surprised he was here at all.

“You didn’t actually have to come in for this fitting,” I said, giving his wrist cuffs a tug. “Your mother could have just picked it up.”

He flicked his head toward his mom. “Tell
her
that.”

Mrs. Schiff looked up from the cuff links she was carefully examining. “He needs to look perfect when he’s crowned king.”

King. Naturally. What had I been thinking?

She went on to inspect every inch of the materials, and twice making me check the invoice to confirm he’d gotten exactly what they’d ordered. Both times my adrenaline spiked with dread, but both times she’d stood corrected and backed down.

Until she spied the dangling vest thread.

“Here, let me take care of that,” I assured her, reaching for a pair of scissors from the alteration basket. I’d seen Phillip do this a dozen times. “This is nothing.”

“It certainly
is
something. It could catch and unravel. What if Randolph is on stage at the time?”

It made zero sense that his vest, which would be buttoned inside his jacket, would catch on anything at any point, let alone while he was in the spotlight. With blessedly steady hands, I made a quick snip at the thread, and pulled the piece away.

“All good now,” I told her, placing the scissors back in my basket.

She responded with a combination sniff and exhale that was Queen Bee perfect, making me wonder if she’d learned it from her son’s ex or had perhaps invented it back in her day. “We are
not
good. This tux is damaged, and it’s too late to get a new one. I insist on it being comped.”

My head practically spun. I’d heard finances were tight for the Schiffs, but Phillip had a business to run. And a free rental because of one formerly dangling thread? In her dreams!

Still, it was best not to duke it out with her, especially the day before the dance. Citing the old adage of if-you-can’t-beat-them-to-join-them, I took a step closer and said her name, real low. Like we were partners-in-crime.

“Mrs. Schiff? I hear what you’re saying. The thing is, my boss knows that I’m Randy’s date, and he’s already been kind enough to loan me a beautiful dress. I’m pretty sure he’s giving me
all day tomorrow
off to get ready,” I added, only a little bit lying because “pretty sure” was subjective, right? It ranged from slim-to-none chances to a definite, I figured. “I’d like to stay on his good side, and not call him out for this right now. Could we discuss this when you’re returning the tux instead?”

With the hope, I continued silently, that you’re testing me or setting limits, and will forget all this ridiculousness by Monday?

Her mouth went so flat that her lips practically vanished. I braced myself for the mother of all tantrums. Only to suddenly see the anger fall from her face.

“Why, you brilliant thing, you!” She shook a playful finger at me. “Still in high school, and already figuring out how to get ahead in business!”

I bit back a smile. She was the one I was playing, not Phillip.

“She’s a keeper, huh, Randolph?”

When he didn’t respond right away, she smacked him on the arm, which seemed to startle him back to consciousness. “Uh, yeah, Courtney,” he said. “Good one.”

His mother preened. “You could take lessons from her, Randolph. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Then she lifted her hands and her eyes heavenward. “I am thrilled my son has finally listened to me and fallen for the right kind of girl!”

Fallen
? Now it was my turn to shout to the almighty, as in O.M.G.!

Randy and I mumbled see-you-later’s at each other as he made his way toward the front door, the tux bag laying across his shoulder. His
smother
stopped before me and widened her arms for a hug. I moved in reluctantly.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow night!” she exclaimed, squeezing me so tight I thought my gall bladder might come out my nose. “See you then!”

She disengaged, then followed her son out the door.

Feeling the blood restoring to my limbs, Phillip’s voice filled the room. “Mommy Dearest adores you.”

I glanced to see his eyes crinkling with humor. “Yeah, how’d I get so lucky?”

“She’s probably practicing your married name in her head right now. Courtney...what’s their last name again?”

“Schiff. But it might as well be Don’tGoThere because I’m not.”

He uttered a husky laugh.

Zipping up the tuxedo bag, I brought Phillip up to speed on the woman’s plans to get the tux comped, just in case I wasn’t in the store when she returned.

“Well done.” He flicked his head toward the wall clock. “Now look, I know it’s a big weekend for you. If you want to take off early...”

I felt my brow furrow. Sure, I wanted to leave. I was exhausted and hungry, and I still had to go to the stupid football game. But first, what I really wanted? To steal a few minutes with my polyester gabardine cutie. To let down my guard, get a hug and a laugh. Like filling up the gas tank before a long drive. “Sure, um, you want to grab some dinner first?”

“No, I’ve got some pizza in the fridge, thanks.”

“Then maybe you just want to take a break? Get some fresh air?”

His gaze sharpened as it bore into mine. And although I was sure it was a mere coincidence (more likely, my own paranoia), it seemed as if he glanced at the window display before glancing back at me.

My lungs went all heavy, and I was surprised when I took a breath, that it made no sound. “Or,” I managed, “I could just go home.”

He said nothing.

Which was my cue, of course, to take off. I grabbed my backpack, told him I’d see him on Monday and headed out the door, carefully not looking back or at the window. Just in case Phillip was watching.

* * *

“Yum,” I murmured to Jennifer back home, wolfing down a couple fish tacos at the kitchen table. She’d topped them with some kind of orange dressing that looked a lot like Animal Style sauce, but with a south-of-the-border kick.

My dad was clearly in heaven, too, for by the time I jumped up from the table, he was chowing down his third.

“Muchas gracias, senorita!” I said to our sombrero-wearing cook, and headed for the stairs.

Upstairs in my room, I leafed through my hangers for the right tank to layer under my tee and favorite fleece hoodie. It would definitely get cool later on the beach. Only to get stopped short by the sight of something completely out of whack.

The homecoming dress. Hanging there, all nice and clean and blue and pressed inside its dry cleaning bag. Way to go, Jennifer!

After a zip-up of my jeans and a touch-up on my face (was there such a thing as too much lip gloss?), I skipped back down the stairs, passing my dad in his favorite recliner in front of the TV. My step-mom-to-be was in the kitchen, her hands immersed in soapy water. Doing the dishes.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I moved in for a quick back squeeze. “Jennifer, thank you
so
much for picking up my dress! What a wonderful surprise.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re happy, sweetie, but it wasn’t me.”

Stepping back, I shook my head, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, almost hoping I’d get dizzy and dislodge some secret trove of logic. For this did not compute. Jennifer was my Plan B. My back-up. My safety net. If not her, then...

“Who, then? The Easter Bunny? The Sandman? Old Saint Nick?”

Turning while wiping her hands on a dish towel, Jennifer laughed. “I think you could say it was the Tooth Fairy.”

My jaw dropped. Hard.

She nodded.

“My dad?” I managed. “
My dad
picked up my dry cleaning? How in the world...”

“Simple. I asked him.”

Chapter 12

Jennifer’s words boomeranged in my brain as I circled the high school stadium later in search of street parking.

She asked him.
She asked him
.

As if, all these years, if I’d just said pretty-please, my father would have put down his newspaper or golf club and gone to the grocery store or made a bed or a meal?
Really
?

I couldn’t remember a time when I had, in so many words, asked for his help. Still, you’d think the sight of his daughter burning grilled cheese sandwiches, on her hands and knees to find the outlet for the vacuum cleaner cord or having the ironing board collapse to the carpet would have been enough of a red flag waving. I mean, I knew my dad was raised by doting aunts, but it wasn’t like he’d been raised by wolves. Did I have to ask for everything I needed?

I made a right on red, mindlessly approaching the student parking lot again with its “Sorry, Closed” sign hanging on a chain, then brushed sudden moisture from the corners of my eyes.

While I supposed I should feel grateful that Jennifer—that someone—had been able to get my dad with the household program, deep down, her success rammed like a knee into my gut. She had pulled off what clearly I could not. Was I a loser or what?

“Yo, Courtney!” shouted a deep voice from the parking lot entryway. I looked to see a guy in an neon orange reflector vest doing a come-here wave at me.

I turned in and pulled up beside him. He looked familiar—probably the one who had called Randy away at Saffron’s party—but no way could I have come up with his name. I was impressed he knew mine.

“I saved a VIP couple spots,” he said, adjusting the brim of his visor. “You’re with Randy now, right?”

I nodded, pushing away a stab of guilt. For at least the next couple of days, it was true.

He pointed out a place in at the back, by the chain-linked fence, and waved me through. Without even charging me. Making me shake my head in astonishment. It was like I couldn’t have made a bigger, faster name for myself at S.B. High if I’d been abducted by aliens and returned with three eyes and horns. Of course, then, odds were slim I would have gotten a Homecoming date at all, let alone with the famous Randy Schiff.

I parked and flipped down the visor-mirror to get my “game face” on. Which meant some swipes under my eyes to combat tears and smears and some serious finger-combing since all I had with me was my wallet, keys and cell phone.