Good For You
My sister slipped on an invisible spot on a slick hospital floor. The doctors explained that she’d hit her head in the exact location with the exact amount of force that could cause the sort of damage she’d sustained. Caution and cause the sort of damage she’d sustained. Caution and risk aversion had done nothing for Deb. No such thing as fate. No such thing as miracles, either, or my sister would have earned one and fal en on her butt—embarrassed, but stil herself.
Tonight I want to stand on the side of a cliff and look down, dare the wind to gust and knock me off. Everyone thinks that fal ing to your death is the worst thing that can happen. But that’s a lie. The worst thing is to be alive for no reason.
Chapter 36
REID
Earlier this week, the film wrapped up and I said goodbye to Vancouver and goodbye to Olaf for at least a week, because John began insisting that I say goodbye to my moral high ground.
“I get the whole abstinence makes the heart fonder thing,” he said last night, and I thought What? “But come on
—you’re home now.”
I wondered if John was attempting a play on words, but maybe he was right. Maybe abstinence does make the heart grow fonder. Other than leaping from the wagon that one night with Tadd and Rob, I’d been clean the whole time I was in Vancouver, and I stil couldn’t forget her.
“There’s this party—” he began.
“Real y? A party? I’m not familiar…”
“Shut up. Jorge and Daniel are coming, too. We’l hit a couple of the clubs near UCLA, grab a few col ege girls who wil be swayed by my buttload of charm and your passable looks and il ustrious celebrity status.”
“Ah, buttload of charm,” I laughed. God, I’d missed John.
He’s such a jackass. “That’l have them lining up.” When four guys in a Hummer limo pul up in front of a nightclub—three trust fund babies and one celebrity—there is no standing in line. John, Daniel and Jorge fal in behind me, and it’s as though I never left this life. Once we’re inside, I lean to John. “You guys gather whoever you want to bring with us. I’m getting a few shots in before I decide to ditch this whole night.”
He narrows his eyes. “No ditching al owed. It’s like riding a bike, Reid. Jump on and pedal like hel , man.” I shrug. “Whatever. I’l be at the bar. And, uh, don’t mention my name to any of them, okay? I’m not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood for sex?” He looks appal ed.
“Not in the mood for some chick who just wants to have sex with Reid Alexander. Find me a cute girl who has no idea who I am, and I’l consider it.”
He shakes his head, dark hair fal ing into his eyes. “You, son, are il , and we’re going to get you the cure tonight if it kil s me. Or you.”
I sigh. “Give me enough time to get a little numb first, wil ya?”
*** *** ***
Dori
I’ve avoided the LA club scene for years, while most of my friends were doing anything to get in. The music is so loud that I almost can’t hear it. I feel it, though. Kayla did my makeup and styled my hair in long waves, and Aimee dressed me in a black miniskirt and fuchsia tank so tight that I feel claustrophobic. I’m teetering on heels that could give me a nosebleed.
Holding Deb’s driver’s license, I try to appear like a confident 26-year-old. Kayla and Aimee swear that despite the age difference, Deb and I look (looked) similar enough
—same coloring, height, bone structure—and that using her ID is better than trying to sneak a fake past a bouncer. I hope the intimidating guy at the door doesn’t examine it too closely. Any direct interrogation and I’l col apse into a heap and start confessing.
He inspects the license itself more closely than he examines me. Three cover charges later, we’re through the door, Aimee with her cousin’s license and Kayla with a fake from Arizona that cost a fortune.
Step One—get in—was easier than I thought it would be.
Step Two: drink until I stop thinking about Deb. Stop thinking about Reid. Stop thinking about the future I can no longer clearly see, and the faith I no longer feel.
***
“I haven’t seen you here before, beautiful girl.” I’ve danced with at least a dozen guys, and here’s lucky number thirteen.
I’m not used to strangers standing so close. Or cal ing me beautiful. Leaning one elbow on the table in interested nonchalance, I sip the drink in my hand, which looks like a coke and tastes like a coke with a side of ingestible flames. I think it’s my third, maybe fourth. Over the rim of the glass I see blondish hair and bluish eyes. The eyes regard me in the lazy manner of a predator sizing up dinner, and al of my instincts say run. Which is exactly why I do the opposite. Because my instincts are overly protective and useless.
A tilt of my head and a little smile back, and he’s moved even closer.
“Let’s dance,” he says. Here we go again.
I put the drink down, glance at Kayla (who gives me an eyebrow waggle and a thumbs up) and Aimee (whose eyes are wandering over tonight’s selection of hot guys), and slip from the barstool into this stranger’s arms. He slides an arm around my waist as I balance myself. As we move towards the dance floor, I could swear I hear Aimee say,
“Oh my God. Kayla, look—have I had too many shots of tequila or is that Reid—”
I don’t catch the end of her sentence before I’m out of earshot. She can’t mean who I think she means, even if she did say his name, which is debatable, as difficult as it is to hear anything over the music. I glance around, but everything is a whirl of color and noise and then this guy’s hands are on my hips, and we’re grinding into each other, fol owing the beat. Closing my eyes, I hook my arms around his neck.