-9-
The Oscars
My hands are sweating, twisting themselves over each other as we wait for my dad in his office. He has no idea I’m here, and definitely no clue that so is Jagger. But more, he hasn’t a single inkling what we are planning to tell him, or the fact that it’s a complete lie.
Ah, there’s the guilt.
It’s been four days since I told Jagger of my plan, four days since he accepted. As per his request, I called him later and asked if Thursday would be okay. My parents would be getting back from their trip on Wednesday, and since I know my father never schedules meetings until he’s settled back into his routine, I figured it would be our best bet. It also would come within a day before his deal with Jagger would be up.
And today is that day.
Jagger got here twenty minutes ago, parking his car by the guest house. I asked that he come a little early so that we could get our facts straight, make sure our stories line up with precision. Like how we changed our minds, the reason why, blah, blah, blah. Now all we have to do is wait and hope that our performance is Oscar worthy, because that is what it’s going to take to fool my father at this point.
The notorious squeak of his office door opening has us both standing up, turning around to see the stunned look on my father’s face. He pauses in the doorway, hand still frozen on the brass handle. He looks between the two of us within a two second span, suddenly pushing himself back into businessman mode. He straightens out the dark blue blazer of his three-piece suit before walking up to Jagger and shaking his hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Wells.”
“You too, sir. I trust you had an excellent trip?” His grip is firm, his eyes unswerving as they stare into my father’s. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. There aren’t a lot of men that can look my father in the eye, much less act as though they are his equal.
“Yes, it was a nice break from the rain,” he says, eyes subconsciously going to the window behind his desk, looking out onto the mountains behind our house. Fat water droplets fall from the gutters, washing the window in a continual stream. My father has never cared for New York’s spring or winter weather. He and Mom usually escape to somewhere exotic at the first sign of dark clouds. That’s why we had been at our vacation home in France for a good month, trying to escape the harsh snowfall of the east coast.
Looking back at the two of us, his eyes lingering on me, my father motions for us to sit down.
We oblige.
Taking his seat behind the large, commanding desk my mother got him as a birthday present a few years ago, he folds his hands together, his fingers interlocking in a tight grip; eyes searching when he says, “So, may I ask what this surprise visit is all about?”
Jagger looks at me, smile easy when he asks, almost coyly, “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”
Knowing the role I have to play, I mirror his relaxed expression as best I can, saying, “I think I should. Do you mind?”
He shakes his head, lips pulled up in a half smile. “Not at all.”
I start into the mostly false story of how we met up at the doll ball and got to talking, learning more and more about each other, and how he offered to take me home. In this version I say that we talked for hours, and somehow formed a friendship that we could see turning into something more. “I confessed that I wanted to go to college, and he was very supportive,” I say, resting easy that at least that’s not a lie. I look back at Jagger now, filling my eyes with as much affection as possible, while at the same time trying not to lay it on too thick. My dad would never believe I fell for him so easily, especially with the circumstances and how I had been so averse to them. It has to seem like this was a surprise, even for me.
“We agreed that it couldn’t hurt to try, and see where things go,” he says, adding onto the story we had concocted earlier. “You were just too stubborn to see it the first time,” he teases, and his smoky eyes soften around the edges, looking my face over with a gentleness I haven’t experienced before.
The room goes quiet as I stare at him, wondering how he’s doing this so well. I had worried that he would slip, say something that would incriminate us. Or that it would appear so fake that we wouldn’t get past the first ten minutes, but he’s surprised me. In more ways than one.
And when I look back, I think that was the moment my father lost the incredulous and suspicious attitude, seeing how Jagger looked at me, and how I looked at him in response. To him, it wasn’t the kind of look you could fake, but I knew better.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, still watching the gray of his eyes swirl into multiple shades, reminding me of the clouds hanging low outside. “I guess I was.”
Another pause, and then my father is asking me, “Cyvil, is this really what you want? Are you agreeing to the terms?”
I somehow manage not to grit my teeth at hearing him remind me that this is a contract, a business deal, and nothing more. It’s him winning the argument that his choice for my life trumps mine, and still, he seems to think he’s doing the right thing by backing me into a corner that just happens to have Jagger Wells in it.
Guilt gone.
I produce as real a smile as I can, deciding to look at Jagger rather than my father when I respond. It’s easier to bite the bullet when I see exactly why I’m doing it in the first place. Not just for myself, but for the innocent guy in the chair next to mine, just trying to do right by his family. This is for us, not my father.
“I am.”
This time, Jagger’s smile seems a little tighter.
My father doesn’t seem to notice. “Fine then. I’ll contact your father and inform him of the change of plans,” he says, his words aimed at my now fiancé. “And I think it would be a good idea if you told your mother yourself, Cyvil. She’s been quite upset lately. I think this would boost her spirits.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He stands from his leather chair, and we follow suit. Leaning over the desk, he holds out his hand to shake Jagger’s, to which he takes. “I’m so glad this worked out in the end. Make sure you take care of my daughter, son.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Nodding towards the door, Jagger says to me, “Should we tell your mother together?”
“Sure, I think she’d like that.”
Just as I’m about to follow him out the door, my father’s voice stops me.
“Cyvil, do you mind if I talk to you about something for a minute? I promise I won’t keep her for long, Jagger.”
For the first time since entering my dad’s office, Jagger’s aura is a little uncertain. But still, he says, voice light, “Of course. I’ll be waiting in the hall when you’re finished.” As he closes the door, our eyes connect for half a second, but it’s enough to let me know that he’s nervous. But honestly, I was expecting this. My father isn’t the type to just accept something so out of the blue without questions first. I’m prepared for this.
Turning back to face Lance Montae, I’m unsurprised to see that his pleased smile from just a moment ago is now gone, replaced by the business persona her wears like a second skin. This is a business deal after all.
I return the serious look.
Leaning back against the desk, he says evenly, “I know that this change of heart of yours is not just because the boy has charm and a pretty smile, Cyvil. You’re not the kind of woman to be so easily swayed.” His brow rises, eyes hard, searching. He’s looking for a crack in the armor, a weak link in the chain. “There is another reason, is there not?”
I fold my arms in front of me, meeting his eyes head on. I keep my expression calm, emotionless. Just like my father taught me. You never give away your cards. “There is.”
“Mind sharing it with me?”
I nod. “Yes. I’ve come to realize that you’re right.”
This seems to amuse him. His eyes crinkle in the corners. “Oh?”
“Life is about transactions, losing one thing to gain another. If I want to become something more than just a girl with a terrible past, then I need to accept that it comes with a cost. And that cost is Jagger.”
My forthrightness throws him off for the second he lets me see it. Clearing his throat, he continues to watch me. “And it’s one you’re willing to pay?”
No. “He’s a good man, someone I’ll be able to call a friend. And if marrying him means I get to go to school, and he saves his father’s business, then…I’m willing to do it.”
He has nothing to say about this for a while, but the silence is filled with the sound of rain hitting the stone walkway outside the window. Drip…drip…drip.
It sets my nerves on edge.
His posture remains rigid, stiff, like that of a statue. Whenever he’s thinking, he becomes still, as though motion is what distracts the mind from processing and planning. But eventually, the statue comes back to life.
“You really do have a need to save others,” he says thoughtfully, almost to himself.
“Yes, even at the expense of my own choices being taken away.”
With that, I turn around and leave his office, hoping that the burn will sting long after I’m gone.
Jagger
The entire time Cyvil is explaining the exciting news to her mother of our now on-again engagement, I watch her out of the corner of my eye, looking for a crack, a glitch, anything to suggest she’s having second thoughts, and I find none. Her personality is just the same as she tells the fake story of our creation, not pretending to be overly excited or falsely upbeat about the whole thing, making it seem more realistic for her mother. She’s perfectly herself, still with that wariness sitting deep behind her eyes. Even when she’s smiling.
After her mother goes on and on about possible wedding plans, Cyvil somehow manages to drag us away when she’s not looking. When we get to the front door, the heavens still crying in a steady downpour out the window, she asks, “Want to make a mad dash for it, or risk getting caught by my mother again?”
Not waiting for me to answer, she swings open the door and runs like hell for the guest house.
A high-pitched shriek of laugher follows after her.
I’m not left with much of a choice.
Feeling the cold rain slip down my back, making the hair stand on my neck, I jog a little faster to keep up, running in behind her when she opens the door, shutting it quickly behind us. She’s still laughing, her hair soaked from the short journey, falling over her shoulders in a long auburn curtain. She makes her way to the back of the small cottage, disappearing behind a door before reappearing a minute later, two ivory towels sitting in her hands. She passes me one before she attempts to ring out her hair with the other. Our clothes are completely soaked.
“Okay, so maybe I should have looked for an umbrella first,” she says on second thought.
“You think?” I give a short laugh, shaking my head to get rid of the excess water. She grumbles when some hits her.
“Baahhhhhh.”
“Holy sh–” Looking down at where the sound came from, I nearly trip on the damn goat circling my feet, its small body popping up out of nowhere.
“It’s okay, Grim. He’s friend now, not foe.” Cyvil bends down to pet the all black goat behind its tall ears, its head nudging further into her hand, green eyes closed. She gives it a wide smile.
“Grim?” I ask, still staring at the thing, almost having forgotten she had it. “What kind of a name is that for a goat?”
Picking it up now, the goat (weighing no more than ten pounds I’d estimate) fits perfectly in her arms as she looks at me, still petting its head. “It was the look on my mother’s face when I brought her home,” she says, being dead serious. “Why, what kind of name should a goat have?”
“I – Well, I don’t – it’s not – you have a goat in your house,” I stumble, still staring at the ball of black wiry fur, its long limbs hanging freely in Cyvil’s arms. When it sees me watching it, it baaahhhhhs angrily at me again.
She snickers.
“How exactly did you come into position of owning such a thing?” I ask, deciding to try and get dry again with the towel she had given me, all while giving Grim the goat some serious side eye.
“The newspaper,” she says in answer. “My mom wouldn’t let me get a cat or a dog, but she never said anything about goats. And when I saw the ad saying that they had abandoned pigmies that needed homes upstate, I went with Hanna to see them.” She stares down at the tiny goat, smiling as it tries to nibble her finger. “She was the smallest of the five they had, the runt. She ran right up to me the second I entered the pen, and I knew she was my mine.”
“And your parents let you keep it?” I can’t see Lance Montae allowing a goat to run through his house.
“My mom doesn’t care for animals, and neither does my dad, really. But I think he would have let me have a camel if I wanted one. He was impressed that I had found a way around the system.” She snorts, still watching Grim. When she starts to cry again, she places her back on the ground, her little hooves taking her over to the water bowl in the corner. She laps at it happily.
“A goat. In your house.” I shake my head, placing the now drenched towel on the counter. “Only you, Cyvil Montae.”
As Grim continues to hydrate, she remains silent, face blank. I’m wondering if I offended her with the comment when she asks, looking at Grim instead of me, “How much of my conversation with my father did you hear?”
I release a breath, already missing the light conversation of goat ownership with her. It was a nice distraction from our reality. “Most of it,” I admit, watching Grim as well. She baaaahhhhs once before going back to drinking again.
“I’m sorry.”
I wave away her concern. “Don’t be. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
She pauses, the rain hitting harder on the roof. “Isn’t there?”
She turns to look at me now, hair still wet, but slightly curling at the ends, the layers framing her face like a picture. The caramel of her eyes looks even brighter against her pale, wet skin – the flush of her cheeks. Her scar just barely peeks out the side of her forehead, the majority covered by her tangled hair. Again, the longing to know what caused it and the many others plagues me. I wonder if I’ll ever know their story.
“No. Because like I said, neither of us chose this or each other. The truth of the matter doesn’t offend me. Would it bother you if I’d said the same to my father?”
Her eyes blink three times before she answers. “No. It’s just the truth. You’re right.” Looking back at Grim, she says, “I was thinking that we could come up with a schedule for the summer, get our events in order to make it seem more legitimate for our parents. My dad will be looking for inconsistencies, so we need to make sure we’re on at all times when he, or even his associates, are around.”
I nod before she’s finished talking, having had the same idea after our meeting at Serendipity. To look realistic, we’ll have to appear as though we are actually ‘dating’ to everyone else. “What did you have in mind?”
Cyvil
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask as I refill Grim’s water bowl in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder to see his reaction. It’s really unfair how much hotter he looks when drenched in rain water. Where I look like a drowning cat, he looks like he just walked off the set for Versace cologne for men. With eyes that look like the sky before a storm, and his ink black hair curling over his eyes, he looks…he looks…unattainable. Another wave of guilt washes over me.
And why, you ask? Because for the entire summer he’s going to have to look like he’s actually engaged to me. Going to charity events, holding hands, smiling like this relationship makes the most sense in the world while everyone else is going to be thinking what the hell did I do to get him. For him, this is going to be embarrassing, and for me, it’s also going to be embarrassing, but for a whole different reason.
I try to stamp down the self-degrading thoughts as he answers with a quick “Sure” before I put the bowl back down for Grim, wiping the excess water from my hands onto my jeans, which is pointless considering they’re wetter than my hands. Asking him to wait for a minute, I go to my room and quickly change out of my water-logged sweater and jeans, throwing on a long sleeve thermal Tee and cotton, loose fitting yoga pants that make me feel like I’m wearing air. With all of my scars, having clothing that doesn’t grate against the sensitive tissue is very important. That’s why I’m usually wearing shorts or tank tops when I’m by myself. But since I’m not alone right now, I go with the second best option.
Returning to the living room, I find Jagger sitting on the couch, Grim in the corner on her bed, the two of them staring at each other with unimpressed looks on their faces. Knowing he must be as wet as I was, I throw the large gray T-shirt at him, his arms quick to catch it once he notices I’ve rejoined him. He stares down at it, dark brows raised.
“My brother in-law left it here one night when he and my sister stayed over. I figured you’d like to put on something dry.” Thank heavens his shirt is the only thing that seems to be uncomfortably wet. I wouldn’t have had a spare pair of jeans for him to wear if his had gotten the same treatment as his shirt.
“Thanks,” he says, standing up. I’m about to tell him he can go change in the bathroom when he grabs the bottom of his water stained shirt and heaves it over his head, letting it slip to the floor as he takes Quincy’s T-shirt that has the logo for Star Trek on it and puts it on. But not before I get a good look at what’s hiding underneath.
I was right. He has a nice little six pack under there, glistening with water droplets and the shade of honeyed bronze, just like the rest of him. He’s got those weird, V-shaped lines going down the sides of his hips, the band of his Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans. No joke, his chest is sculpted like Captain America’s, and I wonder where his damn shield is, because he practically puts Chris Evans to shame with the width of his shoulders, the curved muscles of his back. My mouth goes dry just looking at him, almost dying inside of shame at how beautiful he really is. And just like that, my sister’s voice comes back to me.
“Why couldn’t Dad have made me marry a model?”
She’s right. It should have been her, not me.
A second later my view is cut short, the stupid nerd shirt taking it away from me without remorse. I try to swallow and find I have no saliva left. Forcing my eyes to stare at the floor, I say with a tight throat, “You could have used the bathroom, you know.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see the priceless look on your face.” He smirks as he straightens out the hem of his borrowed shirt, eyes full of amusement. I don’t know if the comment is meant as an insult, or he thought I would be shocked at his impropriety. Either way, it kind of stings.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen half naked men before,” I say, moving to the other end of the couch, placing the blue and gold throw pillow over my stomach. My fingers mess with the loose thread on the end that I haven’t gotten around to cutting yet.
“I don’t doubt it.” He, too, returns to a sitting position, his right arm sprawling across the back of the couch, his body facing mine. “But people always have the best reactions when you take them by surprise.”
“And is that something you like doing,” I say before I can stop myself, “showing off?”
“What am I showing off exactly?”
His smile turns into a pleased grin the longer I stay silent, a sure sign he damn well knows what he’s flaunting, and I refuse to take the bait. “We were supposed to be talking about strategy,” I remind him.
“Yes, but this is so much more fun.”
I ignore this, too. “I think we should start with the Summer Blitz. That’s the next event on the roster.”
He snorts. “The roster? You have a roster for rich people events?”
“You haven’t gone to one of these things in a while, have you?” I say, knowing that had I seen him at one before, I would have remembered him. And with his lost-in-the-ocean look at the doll charity disaster, I’d say I’m right.
He shifts on the couch, looking something other than relaxed for once. “No.” He doesn’t divulge any further, and I don’t ask, why not?
“Well, there’s three major parties every year for the summer, along with smaller, less important events, like the Doll Ball; the first being the Summer Blitz at the beach, followed by the Tea Party at the Pierce’s house, and then the end of season finale with the Rindell Ball.” He gives me a horrified look as I list them all. I hold up a hand before he can panic. “It sounds awful, and it is, but it’s only three events. Other than that, all we have to do is keep up the charade when our parents are around, and then it can all end after December.” When put that way, it really does sound like a business arrangement, making my stomach slightly churn. I never thought I would have to sink to this, to pretend to love someone for my own selfish gain.
I try not to think about it as he says, dark gray pools watching me, “That easy, huh?”
I shrug, still feeling the uncomfortable ache in my gut. “To a degree.”
He stays silent for a minute, a crack of thunder echoing in the distance. Neither of us flinch. And then he says, “What about everything else?”
Everything else? “What do you mean?”
“If we’re really going to fool everyone, then I think we should know as much about each other as we can, in case someone asks us something trivial about the other, and we don’t know. That wouldn’t look too good now, would it?”
My shoulders tense at the idea of divulging any more information to him than I already have, but I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea. We have to look like a real couple, which means knowing each other as such.
I hold the pillow a little closer.
“What do you think we should know?”
He takes a second to think about it, his eyes straying to Grim’s. The Pigmy ignores him as she comes to jump on the couch, walking in a circle before finally resting at my side. I give her ears another scratch, and she rests her head on my lap.
“What was your favorite subject in school?” he decides should be his first question.
At least it wasn’t something overly personal. “Spanish and French.”
He looks surprised. “Really?”
“I like languages. It’s a fun challenge to learn one.” And also very helpful for when a foreign speaking patient comes in and you don’t have time for a translator to get there.
He laughs, almost to himself, and I find myself asking him cautiously, “What?”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “I should have guessed. Your file said you knew four of them.”
I pause, listening to the rain pattering on the roof. “My file?”
His face says he realizes he said the wrong thing. His hand tenses on the couch cushion. “Uh, yeah. I kind of figured after you knew who I was that you got one too.”
“I did,” I admit, kind of annoyed I didn’t assume he received one as well. “I just didn’t think…”
“Didn’t think that I’d want to know who I was marrying, too?”
I sigh, continuing to pet Grim. “No. I just didn’t think I would have enough information to even create a file for you.” I confess.
“Oh, much to the contrary. I think there’s more than enough, most of which wasn’t even mentioned in it.” At this he looks disgruntled.
“And what exactly have you discovered?” I’m almost afraid to ask the question.
He holds up a hand, ticking each one off on his long fingers. He starts with his index. “You have a house goat as a pet, for one. You don’t exist on the internet. You’re a secret ninja in your spare time, and you’re at your calmest when you’re helping people.” The last one gentles his eyes, his lips barely turning up at the corners, seemingly proud of his deduction.
I nearly choke when I ask, “Did you try to Google me?”
“Of course,” he says without guilt. “Did you not do the same?”
I shake my head. “No. But my sister did.”
He looks puzzled for a second, but then his expression evens out, and a lick of humor enters his eyes.
“What?” It seems like I’m always having to ask him that question.
He chortles, the vibration of it shaking the sofa. “I wondered why she said that Google images didn’t do me justice. Now I know.”
At the thought of my sister, I mutter, “I never did apologize for her, did I?”
A smile. “No, you didn’t. But then I didn’t say sorry on Moon or Rosy’s behalf, either.”
“Call it even?” I suggest, putting out my hand to him.
He nods, “Deal,” and takes it, holding it in his for a little too long, his eyes slowly latching onto the hatched scars in my fingers, the top of my knuckles and hand.
I pull it away as though he bit me.
He immediately looks remorseful, eyes darkening. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I lie, my throat thickening again. “Everyone does it. I’m used to it.”
Jagger hesitates, then says quietly, the rain still falling steadily above us, “You shouldn’t have to be.”
He’s right of course. I shouldn’t be used to the sinking of my heart when people stare at me like I did this to myself, as though I chose to look like a science experiment. But it’s how people are. They forget that you can see their faces, read the disgust in their eyes before they have a chance to wipe it away. It’s as though they think with the lessening of my looks, my feelings can’t hurt any more than my body already is. And that’s the biggest lie of all.
I shake it off and attempt to restart the conversation, this time in a better direction. “What’s your favorite movie?”
Recognizing what I’m doing, he kindly lets me proceed with it, answering my questions with honest, and sometimes hilarious, answers.
Me: Favorite movie?
Him: Mad Max. Worst fear?
Me: Spiders. You?
Him: Someone shaving my head.
Me: *trying not to laugh* What?
Him: Moon played a prank on me in school our Freshman year by shaving my head in my sleep. It took six months for me to grow it back, and the process was humiliating. I start shaking when I see electric razor commercials.
Me: Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. *still trying not to laugh, hand covering mouth now, picturing him in a bald cap*
Him: Yes, I can see it’s eating you up. *rolls eyes* Favorite dessert?
Me: Cheesecake. Happiest memory?
At this he stills, eyes losing their lightness, shoulders noticeably stiffening. His hand curls around the back of the sofa cushion, face tight. Trying to make up for it, he gives me a strangled smile. “Buying my first car.”
I stare at him for a while, my gut telling me he’s lying, but I don’t know why. Wouldn’t remembering something pleasant make you happy, not stressed?
“Yours?” he asks quickly before I can say anything about it.
I let him do it, saying, “Learning my sister was pregnant, and then when I found out I had gotten into my first choice school.”
He smiles at that, seeming to relax into himself again. “When is she due?”
“Next week,” I answer, feeling nervous just saying it. “I’m afraid she won’t be able to handle it.”
He leans back further, the sofa shrinking with him. “Why is that?”
I shake my head, grinning down at Grim who has now fallen asleep. “My sister has the lowest pain tolerance of anyone I’ve ever seen. She once cried for two hours when she bumped her arm against the cushioned arm of her couch.” Now that was a memory. I couldn’t stop laughing when she said she thought she should go to the emergency room.
He winces, also trying not to laugh. “That should be interesting then.”
I nod. “Extremely. I already feel bad for the nurses. She’s going to be a nightmare.”
We both laugh, and as the rain comes to an end and the sun slowly begins to shine behind the clouds, so does my mood. Maybe this thing with him isn’t going to be so bad. Perhaps my lie to my father won’t even be a lie at all. Maybe Jagger will actually become a friend to me.