Bitter Exes Page 7

  “You forbid it?” I spit it out with disdain. “How about I forbid you from seeing Carrie anymore?” It took way more willpower than I have not to call her a ditz. I’m betting the residual effects from those tranquilizers they doped me up with are still running strong.

  His features soften, and his shoulders sag a moment. “I mean it.” He takes a seat on the edge of my bed, and the mattress depresses, right along with my heart. It’s not like I want Lane back, but I certainly don’t want Wen dictating who I can and can’t see. “Look”—he winces hard, and it actually looks as if he’s in excruciating pain—“I spoke with Lane. I told him this goes nowhere. And he’s good with it.”

  My stomach sinks right down all three stories of Canterbury Hall. “He’s good with it?” I balk. If my foot weren’t in quasi-traction, I’d track him down and shove this boot down his throat. That boy held me like nobody’s business last night. I was warm and safe, and it felt deliciously familiar. I hate how easily my body caved to his demands. It’s always been that way around Lane.

  “Yeah”—Wen tucks the covers around my sides as if I were five—“he’s just going along with it until this social setup is over. He understands the fact that there is someone special out there for you, and it’s not him.”

  A quick flash of heat spears through me. “Oh—right. Got it.” I glance to my mother and father, both with their mouths agape still. “I’m sorry you had to witness that entire nightmare. I wish I never got mixed up in any of that to begin with.”

  “Sweetheart”—Dad bows down and gifts me a kiss on the nose—“life is all about ups and downs. You’re just in a downswing right now, that’s all. It sounds like things will pick up again once this experiment you’ve gotten yourself into wraps up. Maybe if you tell them you’re not able to proceed with things they’ll let you off the hook?” He motions to my foot currently elevated on three pillows. Lane made sure I was comfortable as soon as I woke up.

  Dad gives a wistful shake of the head. “We can always threaten them with legal action.” His chin juts out the way it’s prone to do when he’s serious. Dad and Wen are like carbon copies of one another, same slight hook on the nose, same sinewy muscular frame, same dark hair and evergreen eyes. That’s where I got my green eyes from, too—my father. Dad has never sued a single soul in all his life, nor has he been a part of any legal action against him. Once someone threatened to lawyer-up after Dad unknowingly overcharged them for his freelance advertising services, and he ended up giving them the entire project for free. Now he works for a mega advertising firm in Denver, just a hop and skip from Snow Valley. After my parents split, he purchased a condo near the slopes. He said he appreciated the fact he could ski from his front door to the lift. I’ll admit, it is a pretty cool feature.

  “We can’t sue,” I lament. Not that I’d want to. “I signed my life away. I could get killed during one of their daredevil dates, and my life would be worth zilch financially. They’ve covered themselves with an ironclad agreement. Anything that goes wrong goes straight to arbitration.”

  Mom shakes her strawberry blonde hair. That’s where I get my crimson locks from, although Mom has been steadily adding peroxide to lighten hers for as long as I can remember. Even though she owns the Cut ’n Curl, she doesn’t bother with expensive procedures when it comes to her own hair. Instead, she washes it with the hydrogen peroxide they sell at the drugstore for fifty cents, and she swears that it not only softens her tresses it brings them to the exact shade she desires them to be, time and time again. Ironically, Mom does charge an arm and a leg for a color procedure at her shop, so she swore me to secrecy when she filled me in on that tidbit. Mom and Lane’s mother, Laura, are great friends. They weren’t always close, but once Lane and I started dating, they really hit it off. Ironically, they are still together. Lane’s mom will always be Mrs. Cooper to me, my high school guidance counselor. It was weird sitting in the office with her discussing AP classes while secretly lusting after her son all those years. Laura and her husband, Dane, combined their first names in order to gift their one and only son with his beloved moniker—Lane. I always thought that was a fun little tidbit. Although the fact he was an only child did make me a little sad.

  Mom holds up a hand. “Have either of you bothered to ask Vi what she wants?” Her powder blue eyes land over mine. “Honey, are you going to keep up with this mess you’ve gotten yourself into, or are you going to put every damn one of us out of our misery?”

  A groan comes from deep within me, and I don’t bother hiding the fact I’m annoyed. My mother has always cut to the chase without using a filter, so I don’t know why I expected anything different this time.

  “I’m going to go on with it.” I glare over at Wen a moment for bursting all romantic notions I might have had concerning the fact that Lane Cooper was secretly pining for me. “And yes, there is someone special out there for me. Who knows? Maybe all the publicity the show gets will land me straight in his arms.”

  Dad grunts, “If it does happen, I want to be the last to know about any of the details. But introduce him to me first.”

  Wen nods in agreement. “Bring him around,” he says it like a dare.

  “Oh, you two!” Mom tosses her hands in the air with great exaggeration, and I wish she had expended her energy far more wisely by conducting a double smackdown. “Violet is a grown woman who can make decisions all by her lonesome. Especially when it comes to love.” She gets that sky look on her face like she does when she’s up to no good. “Marty McNeal’s son, Jenson, is back in Snow Valley.” She leans in with unmitigated glee. “And he’s a dentist! Marty says he’s single and ready to mingle.” Her shoulder does an awkward little dance. “She even brought you up in conversation about going for coffee with him sometime.” Marty is one of my mother’s friends from her naughty book club. I’ve heard one too many Marty stories for me to know the woman is dicey.

  “A dentist.” I nod as if accepting my fate.

  Mom claps up a storm as if I had just agreed to an engagement. “Oh, this is so exciting! I’ll have to tell Marty right away. She’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but Mom and Dad are already involved in a conversation about auto insurance and something about not setting the pipes right for winter, and before I know it, they’re talking about hitting the Underground for burgers as they whiz out the door.

  “I’ll call you every day!” Mom blows me a kiss, and Dad does the same as the door closes softly behind them.

  “I hate it when she threatens me like that.” I make a face at Wen. I’m only partially kidding. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl at Leland who is still required to do a nightly check-in with her mother. Thank God my father is way more laid-back. He only requires a text.

  “You really sure you want to go through with this thing?” Wen frowns as if the distress of The Social Experiment were his to shoulder. “I’ll head to Dexter Houston’s office right now.”

  “Good luck with that. He’s a ghost. I’m starting to think he’s a publicity stunt himself.” That’s not entirely true. I’ve seen Dexter a handful of times. I just know that Sophie and Rowen tried their hardest to get in touch with him when things were falling to shit in their world, and he was nearly impossible to track down. I’m sure he plans it that way. I think on it for a minute. All of our lives, Wendell has come around cleaning up my messes without me asking him to. The time I was in fourth grade and a couple of sixth graders were harassing me for my lunch money? Wendell to the rescue. You’ve never seen two twelve-year-old girls cry like little bitches so hard and run so fast in all your life. And the time I drove myself insane to try to grow the world’s biggest squash so I could enter it into the county fair—and then it went suspiciously missing and seemingly turned up on Harriet Lubbock’s table as her own? Wendell went to bat for me, and the judges disqualified her. I could go on and on. It seems every time there’s been an injustice done to me, it’s been Super Wen to the rescue. But I’m ol
der now, and I should be able to clean up my own dung heaps. “On second thought, no,” I say it sharply as I meet up with my brother’s surprised eyes. “You do not have my permission to speak with Dexter. If I want out, I’ll handle it myself. And if you must know, I’m pissed at you for speaking to Lane.”

  His eyes grow twice their size. “I’m always speaking to Lane. I speak to Lane more than I speak to you some weeks.”

  I cringe at the thought. A thousand different memories from last year crawl to the surface, and I’m quick to repress them. “And I wish it were reversed. Look, I know he’s your friend, but I’m your sister. Please don’t have any conversations regarding me when the two of you are together. I forbid it.” There. Let’s see how much he loves someone throwing his own gag-worthy medicine right back at him.

  He smacks his lips, looking every bit guilty. “I don’t know what to tell you. If you come up, you come up. But how’s this—I won’t be the one to initiate the conversation.” He gives my leg a gentle pat, and I wince. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I should have never followed him up to that lift.”

  “Lane is the one who dragged you up Widow’s Peak?”

  “He may have led, but I sure as hell didn’t have to follow.” A heavy sigh comes from me because, quite frankly, the truth is exhausting. I glance to Wen a moment, and my stomach spikes with heat because he happens to know another far more damning truth. “I hate that I’m such a lemming.”

  He growls as if he were rabid. “He could have gotten you killed. Look, if you really want to be a ‘free thinker’ like you say you do”—how I loathe the label free thinker, especially when he says it with air quotes—“the next time those idiots who head up this social disaster ask you to do something, evaluate what it is beforehand, and if you deem it acceptable, not humiliating in any fashion, and for God’s sake, safe—then by all means, proceed. Will you at least promise me that?”

  “Deal.” I hold out my little finger, and we pinky shake on it.

  Wen takes off, and I think about those soul-crushing words he let out into the universe like a coven of angry bats.

  Lane is just going along with The Social Experiment until it’s over. He understands the fact that there is someone special out there for me, and it’s not him.

  Words I will grow to hate. But I’m not sure I could ever really hate Lane again—not after the kindness he extended me last night. I can still feel his ghostly arms wrapped around me.

  I wish they still were.

  * * *

  The week ambles by with Lane sending me strangely encouraging texts about getting on with life while my foot does its best impression of a fifty-pound bag of dog food. Honestly, it’s the only thing I can liken it to. It feels worse than dead weight in this stupid boot. The bruises have changed from red to purple to yellow, and according to the bruise chart Ember printed out for me, I’m well on my way to healing. Each time I had to go anywhere this week, Dexter’s minions showed up with a golf cart. So getting to and from classes has been a breeze. There’s far too much snow on the ground for me to ever be safe with crutches, but I’ve got about three beefy football players ready and willing to sacrifice their biceps to go along with that golf cart. Who knew an ankle injury could make all of my football fantasies come true? By the time Saturday rolls around, both Ember and Sophie help me get ready for my next social date with Lane. Seth emailed and said to dress warm but comfortable and to meet him at the base of the Tower at seven, and I do just that.

  “You look great,” Seth muses as he glances at me with a quick once-over. “Can you sit on the floor with that?” He shakes his head at my bloated footwear.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “It’s fine.” He looks to a small army of interns. “We’ll need the sofa. Lots of pillows. I need her comfortable.”

  “Oh, goody. Are we shooting the porno today? I haven’t shaved my legs in a week.” I can’t help but let the sarcasm fly. All this secrecy makes me nervous. Why does Seth need me comfortable? So many medieval scenarios, so little time.

  Seth barks out a laugh but doesn’t bother answering the question. Instead, I’m rushed through hair and makeup—touch-up and touch-up—and then hoisted into the elevator where I ride all the way to the top.

  Oh my God, I’m going to have a date at the top of the Tower with Lane Cooper! This really is going to be a porn video. Well, it would be if it were anyone else but Lane and me. I’m pretty sure I’m not hooking up with Lane for some ratings grab the TSE seems to think they need. They’re the top-listed new show according to Neilsen ratings, that and the per millions viewership leads me to believe they don’t need Lane or our faux hookup. In fact, if I injure another body part during tonight’s fiasco, I’m out of here. They’ll have to find another able-bodied fool willing to ride a golf cart for the rest of the semester.

  The elevator doors whoosh open, exposing us to a night sky filled with stars—also filled with the threat of a windstorm and possibly rain in the forecast, but the scent of warm vanilla fills the icy night air, and I’m immediately transported to some other realm where Lane and I aren’t visceral enemies. I’ve been to the top of the Tower before, and I can never get enough of the glittering city lights view this place affords. Although most students who traverse their way up here aren’t all that interested in the views as they are in becoming one. It’s a well-known fact that at any given time there are at least a half dozen high-powered telescopes trained on the building because of all the sexual rendezvous it’s hosted. It’s been free porn at its best for the last half a decade at least. Heck, the way some frat boys are prone to shout top of the Tower to one another you’d think it were a cordial greeting.

  “Don’t worry”—Seth wraps a plaid blanket over my shoulders as if my foot injury qualified me to be cared for like a ninety-year-old granny—“you’ll be in the chamber this evening.” He nods behind me, and I turn to find an enormous white tent, glowing from the inside, with the flicker of what looks to be a thousand candles.

  “Wow, it’s so beautiful.” I marvel at the paper lantern magic of it all as he helps me to the entry, and I gasp at the sight of what waits inside. An entire Pottery Barn-esque living room appears with tons of throws and oversized pillows. There’s an easel set up, and dozens of paints in tiny little pots, and brushes blooming from vases. “Is this the part where he paints me in the nude?” It seems all of my references to the date lying in wait seem to be rife with sexual innuendo. Projecting much? I can’t help it, though. Lane is handsome as hell, and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t passed out cold last night, a part of me would have been tempted to pull both our pants down.

  Seth inches back with a laugh. “You do realize you’re miked up. Anything you say and do from this point forward can and will be held against you.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Seth helps me hop onto the navy velvet sofa, and it all feels so very surreal. A million candles are set around the periphery, adding a magical glow to an already enchanted evening, and the alarmist in me can’t help but note the fact I’ve been seated in the middle of a bonfire without the ability to run properly should the fiery need arise. God, if I end up in the burn unit, I’m really going to be pissed. Arbitration, my ass. Forget my father. I’ll be the one threatening legal.

  Seth and the interns do a disappearing act, and it’s just me and a couple of cameramen trying their best to blend in with the scenery. A moment bounces by and then another and finally someone whispers, “Where is he?”

  My stomach thuds. My body explodes with heat as I begin to panic. Oh my God, my worst nightmare was never me doing a cartwheel off the side of Widow’s Peak—it was being stood up in a public forum. And although it feels rather intimate in this Pottery Barn inspired tent, I’m pretty sure the three million plus viewers who will be gawking at me once this airs, count as a public forum.

  Petra appears at the opening of the tent and whispers something to Seth.

  Shit.
My instincts say tear the mic off and run for the elevator. Be the first to quit. Do not let him do this to you. Do not allow Lane Cooper to rip your heart out and stomp on it one more time. A mean shiver rides through me because I may have had something to do with our initial breakup as well.

  Both Petra and Seth look to the elevator at once, and I hold my breath as the worst thought possible comes to mind. Dexter Houston himself is on his way over to tell me that Lane is never coming back again. That after a thoughtful conversation with my idiotic brother, he’s come to the conclusion that he’s just not the one for me. Stupid, stupid Wendell.

  The frame of a man steps out of the shadows holding something behind his back. A Cheshire Cat’s grin is plastered on his heavily dimpled face, and it’s not Dexter Houston. It’s Lane Cooper looking every bit as swoon-worthy as ever.

  He whispers something to Petra and nods to Seth before making his way over.

  “Violet”—he pauses, drinking me down with thirsty eyes—“you look beautiful.” Lane is looking gorgeous himself in his red and blue checkered flannel, his dark inky jeans, and boots. This has always been my favorite look on him, sexy casual I called it, and he lapped it up every single time. He may not get those words to leave my lips tonight, but my eyes sure as hell have sung a chorus of them. He drops to one knee and grins, and for a second I think he’s going to propose. “These are for you.” He produces a huge bouquet of lavender roses, my favorite color and he knows it. “I had to go to two different florists before I found them. I needed to get it just right.” He leans in and brushes a kiss just past my ear. “It’s killed me not to see you.” He takes a seat on the sofa next to me, and I carefully take the flowers, burying my nose in the butter soft petals.

  “Thank you, Lane.” I look up at him, blinking back tears. “That was really nice of you to remember. You didn’t have to do this.” But the way my heart is slamming against my chest, it’s as if maybe he did. Romantic gestures like this have always meant a little too much to me, but I can’t help it. The fact he went to two different flower shops to make sure he got the color just right lets me know he cares. Wendell may not appreciate that fact, but I sure do.