Good For You

He places a hand on top of one of mine, runs the other through his hair. “Man. That sucks.” He looks at me, exhales heavily. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.” My mouth turns up on one side, because somehow Reid has said the one weird, true thing no one else would think to say. “No. I think that sums it up pretty wel . Thanks.” Another uniformed housekeeper zooms into the room then, this one short and thin, so energetic that my head aches just trying to fol ow her with my eyes. “I have the sneakers and the thongs,” she says, and my face goes hot.

Reid clears his throat and leans closer to whisper, “Um, she means flip-flops. That’s, uh, what she cal s them. Can’t get her to stop.”

“I buy two or three sizes of each, just in case.” Oblivious to my red eyes, and without making me feel the slightest bit mortified wearing borrowed clothes, she pul s shoe boxes from two bags. Opening the lids, she reveals shoes wel out of my price range. For pete’s sake, there are Coach flip-flops in two of the boxes. I didn’t even know they made Coach flip-flops, but here they are. There are also running shoes, and these brands are even scarier.

“Thanks, Maya,” Reid says, and she smiles and zips out of the kitchen.

I lean closer to him even though we’re alone, thinking I could hyperventilate any moment, and wondering if he knows CPR. “I can’t accept these.”

Ignoring me, he pul s a pair of flip-flops from their box.

“Try these.” When I don’t take them, he leans over and puts them on my feet, his hand on my calf. Oh fudge. Fudge, fudge, fudge as his hand slides down my leg.

They fit perfectly. I am Cinderel a with no evil stepmother, no fairy godmother, and no royal destiny. Just a beautiful prince who places impractical footwear on my feet. “Okay, but I’m returning them with the clothes—”

“Why? They aren’t my size. And they’re so not my style.” He smirks. “Please. Keep them.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“No.”

***

“Hel o, Luis.” I’m blushing as I greet Reid’s driver, recognizing him from the only other time I was in this car, the night Reid and I went to dinner. Some people endure a walk of shame; I get a whole day of it. Luis smiles warmly and tips his chauffer hat.

Reid slides in next to me, his eyes invisible behind his mirrored sunglasses. Our fingers are inches apart on the seat, but he doesn’t close the distance. Other than carrying me to the shower, holding my hand while walking to the kitchen and comforting me when I talked about Deb, he’s kitchen and comforting me when I talked about Deb, he’s not touched me today.

On the way to UCLA, bits and pieces of last night come back. I don’t remember the guy Reid said I was about to leave with last night, but I remember Reid’s arm around me as he said, “John—you guys can take the Hummer.” That same guy—John?—supported me to a taxi and placed me into it. “So you’re Dori, huh?” he asked, scooting in but leaving the door ajar. Turning to the taxi driver, he said, “Hey dude, the guy leaving with her wil be here in a sec. We’re keeping her out of paparazzi pics, yeah?” I closed my eyes as the last drink I’d had hit me ful force, adding to the previous four. Or five. My hands gripped the seat. I was on a tilt-a-whirl and there was nothing I could do to ground myself. Flashes shone through my eyelids, like lightning in the distance, and then I heard Reid say,

“Thanks, man.” The seat shifted and sloped as he took his friend’s place in the back seat of the cab and pul ed the door shut. He reached for me as he gave the cabbie an address. I curled against his solid chest and held on, my eyes shut tight, the world stil twirling.

That’s al I remember until I woke up this morning.

I text Kayla to let her know I need to be let into her dorm.

She and Aimee left a dozen texts and voicemail messages on my phone between last night and this morning, horrified that something had happened to me because I’d disappeared. It turns out that when I gestured to Aimee that I was leaving, she thought I was complimenting her dancing.

I guess we need to establish better drunk hand signals, not that I want a repeat of last night ever again.

that I want a repeat of last night ever again.

They’re sitting on the steps of their building when the car pul s up. They can’t see the interior of the car and obviously don’t suspect that I’m the passenger, because they continue talking while casting surreptitious looks our way, waiting to see who’s being dropped off. “Thank you,” I say as Reid removes his sunglasses. “Where should I send the clothes?”

“I can’t talk you into keeping them?”

I shake my head.

He smirks, one corner of his mouth turning up. “I put my number in your phone. Cal or text me and we’l work something out.”

Before Luis opens my door, Reid takes my hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin between my thumb and forefinger. “Be more careful?” he says, sliding his sunglasses back on, and I nod, feeling like a naïve idiot.

And then, stil a bit hungover, I slip out of the car and walk up to my stunned friends, wearing a designer outfit and no underwear and carrying my clothes in a shoe store bag.

“Did you just get dropped off by a celebrity?” Kayla asks, ogling the car as it pul s away.

“Are those Coach flip-flops?” Aimee gasps, and then, pul ing the back of the shirt out and looking for the label,

“Ohmigod, is this top Versace?” Chapter 39