“Mom, this is Alice.”
Alice comes forward with an outstretched hand and a shy smile and an overwhelming amount of pride invades my chest. It catches me off guard. Then again, Alice has been catching me off guard since the moment I met her. And although I’m not sure yet how I feel about it, I do know that I’ve never felt like this before.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Dr. Reynolds. And thank you so much for having me. Your house is amazing.”
Dr. Deb, as Brian and I used to call her just to piss her off, offers her a brief smile and her hand a quick squeeze. “Nice to meet you too, Alice. Reagan seldom brings friends home so it’s a pleasure to have you.”
The subtext––my mother’s fishing for clarification. She’s hoping Alice is only a friend. I also note she didn’t tell Alice to call her Deborah the way she told Jordan.
Mom’s gaze focuses intently on Alice’s face. “You have beautiful skin.”
Alice grins widely. “Thank you. I wear sunscreen.”
Mom smiles back. “I know. I’m a dermatologist. Come in. The Richardsons are already here.” While Mom walks ahead of us, headed for the den, I take Alice’s hand in mine.
Alice’s smile turns into surprise and confusion, but I don’t have time to explain that the moment we stepped inside my house a sense of protectiveness came over me. That I feel responsible for having dragged her into a den of hungry wolves. Alice only has a vague idea of what my parents are capable of and it better stay that way.
“Your father is boring them to death with stories about work. Jordan is so excited to seen you, honey.”
Shit. My steps slow. Had my mother mentioned Jordan was coming, I would never have come. My mother walks into the den ahead of us, and I pull Alice back.
“What?” she whispers at my expression of pure frustration.
“Whatever I say in there––just go with it.”
“Go with what? Reagan?”
I enter the den tugging her along. My father and Steve Richardson are huddled by the television where the Cowboys are up on the Redskins by a field goal. Glancing over his shoulder, he glares at me. “Reagan, I thought I said four?” It’s only 4:20 but the old man never misses an opportunity to bust my balls.
“How’s the team doing?” Mr. Richardson calls out.
“Opening round of the NCAA tournament next Saturday,” I reply and he gives me a thumbs-up. My old man barely musters a smile.
“Rea!” Jordan gets up from the couch and closes the distance between us in seconds. My muscles stiffen automatically. All except for my dick of course. That’s a pretty good recap of our relationship. Hidden behind me, Alice tries to extricate her hand from mine and I tighten my hold.
Jordan, easily five-eleven in heels, throws her arms around my neck and pulls my head closer. She attempts to kiss me on the lips and I turn away in time to avoid it.
“Jordan. This is Alice, my girlfriend.” If my turning away from her doesn’t adjust her expectations, then my tone better.
Jordan’s smile disappears and there’s an audible gasp in the room. Not sure if it came from Alice, Jordan, or my mother. It’s a poorly designed plan, on the fly, and the best I can do on short notice. I won’t be ambushed, and I can see now it was the plan all along. Which is why my plan is to dine and ditch as quickly as possible.
One-handed, I pry Jordan’s wrist free from around my neck and drop it. Her sharp blue eyes shuttle between me and Alice who’s looking less and less comfortable with more and more attention on her.
“Girlfriend? You never mentioned a girlfriend.”
“We haven’t talked since the summer. Alice and I met at the start of the semester.”
Jordan’s attention shifts to Alice. “Hi, I’m Jordan. Reagan’s ex-girlfriend”––she holds out a hand––“but I’m sure he’s told you all about me.”
No. Not really. I mentioned having had a girlfriend in high school once, and only in passing after Alice told me she’d had a boyfriend in high school. I never spoke of Jordan by name.
Alice goes to shake it with a soft smile of her face. “Alice and yes, he did.” She lied to spare Jordan’s feelings. Damn, I am in deep with this girl. And getting a pressing urge to take her away from here and kiss her until she admits that she liked kissing me too. That she wasn’t as unaffected as she looked.
Regaining her footing, Jordan pushes her long brown hair off her shoulder and smiles.
“Well…” my mother interrupts. She smiles stiffly. It’s so forced it looks painful. I can’t decide if she looks disappointed because I blew up her carefully laid trap, or because she disapproves of Alice. “Let’s eat, shall we?”
Alice
“I’m ready to come home. I can’t take another Boston winter,” Jordan says as she cuts her asparagus into tiny child-friendly bites. She’s pretty. Tall and willowy with straight, brown hair. Seated across from me, next to her mother, her blue eyes have not left Reagan, who’s gone completely silent since we sat down an hour ago. They’ve all been speaking around me like I don’t exist. Which, in all fairness, I prefer.
“No Harvard Medical School for you?” Reagan’s dad asks, seated at the head of the table opposite his wife.
Talk about intimidating…he’s said a total of one sentence to me since I walked in. “Nice to meet you, Alice.” That’s it. He keeps giving me the suspicious side-eye, though. That’s been fun #houseofhorrors.
Reagan looks like his dad––tall, perfect bone structure––with the exception of his eyes. His father has blue eyes like Brian. The resemblance is kind of creeping me out because he’s like…Evil Reagan. If this were a Marvel movie, that’s who Pat Reynolds would be. By the way, the only reason I know his name is because Jordan addressed him as Dr. Reynolds and he insisted she call him Pat.
All this hidden under a carefully orchestrated disguise. His mother, who I know is in her mid fifties, looks not a day older than forty with her cute, punky haircut and her expensive, casual designer clothes. Same goes for his dad. His hair does not have a single gray hair, I suspect courtesy of a very expensive hairdresser. And his clothes––the slim-fitted pink dress shirt and flat-front slacks say, I’m an easygoing, hip guy. Yeah, no. Easygoing and hip are not even in his vocab.
“No,” Jordan answers.
“With your grades, you’ll have your pick,” Reagan’s father claims.
“UCLA is my first choice. I’m looking forward to being back home, close to Mom and Dad.” Jordan smiles at her father.
“Liz, you must be so proud.” Rea’s mom beams at her friend.
“Yes. We are.” Liz shares a satisfied smile with her husband. Then she aims her pointed interest at Rea. “What about you, Reagan? Made any decisions?”
“No,” Reagan answers without hesitation.
“UCLA. Surgery,” his father answers for him and I watch his grip on his utensils tighten.
Jordan grins broadly at Reagan. “That would be so much fun to have classes together again. Isn’t it strange how things come full circle? Almost like fate is playing a role in it.”
“It’s not fate. It’s my father not understanding what the hell the words I haven’t made a decision yet mean,” Reagan fires back.
All this hostility reminds me of what I’m missing out on. The screaming kids and the three dogs barking. The cat, the hamsters. All the food and laughter. My parents are, as usual, spending Thanksgiving at Uncle Joe’s, my stepmom’s brother’s house.
I feel so bad for Reagan I want to pull him into a hug and take him away from this awful place.
His father shoots him a warning glare, but stops short of arguing. Then, God help me, Dr. Reynolds’s pointed stare moves to me. “What about you, Alice? Any career plans or are you just going to wing it like the rest of your generation?”
Beside me, I feel every fiber of Reagan’s being drawing tight enough to pluck.
“I have a very clear career plan, actually,” I tell him with my chin held high. “I’m a film major with an emphasis on cinematography. I’m going to be a cinematographer.”
“Hollywood is a tough place for a woman. What’s your plan B?”
“Pat, things are changing,” his mom remarks.
“Not enough. For every ten men maybe one woman finds steady work. What kind of life is that?” he argues with his wife. “Unless she plans on living off her parents. I see a lot of that these days.” His frosty gaze is back on me. “What about your parents? How do they feel about you chasing this dream on their dime?”
Wow, okay, it’s the Spanish Inquisition. If this is what Brian and Reagan have had to fend off their entire lives, it’s a miracle they didn’t produce two sociopaths.
A tiny smile flirts on Jordan’s mouth. She’s enjoying this…the bitch.
“Dad, give it a rest,” Reagan drawls with a shake of his head. “She doesn’t have to justify her choices to you.”
“She’s not a child, Reagan. If she can’t answer a few harmless questions, how will she succeed in the Hollywood cesspool?”
“My parents have always been very supportive of my choices, Dr. Reynolds. And I’m not pursuing it on their dime. I have a scholarship and I’ve worked very hard to save up enough to finish my BA at Malibu.”
I squeeze Rea’s thigh under the table, reassuring him that I’ve got this. At least, I think I’ve got this. You need a whip and a chair to fend off these people. Reagan places his hand over mine and rubs.
Pat Reynolds nods. “What business are they in? Your parents?”
“My stepmom is an emergency room nurse, and my dad works for the US Postal Service.”
“Your parents are divorced?” Deborah Reynolds asks in a brisk tone.
“No, my mother died of cancer when I was five.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” No emotional reaction at all. Eyes cast down, she continues cutting her turkey breast as if I’d asked her to pass the salt. Wow, Dr. Deborah Reynolds’s bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.