Promise Me

She’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at her toes so I can’t read her expression, but I can sense her reluctance. “Come on.” As if it’s settled, I stand and hold out a hand to her. “Let me introduce you. There are only a few people in this world I can always count on, and these guys are two of the best. You should meet them. Get to know your neighbors.”

Finally she looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and there’s something so torn in their depths I almost look away.

“We’re not really neighbors, remember? I’m only here temporarily.”

“Kendall, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all only here temporarily. Wait…are you one of those people who’s afraid to leave the house? No problem. Sit tight. I’ll bring Matt and Dylan over here.”

She fights a smile now that I’ve called her on her shit. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come say hi,” she says just as my phone chimes with a notification. I pull it out of my pocket to find Becca has posted a picture of the two of us from a party a couple of weeks ago. In it, she’s rolling a joint on my bare stomach. What the ever-loving fuck does she think she’s doing? Yes, weed is legal in California, but it’s not legal across the whole damn country. The next host of America Rocks is not going to be a pothead.

“Everything okay?” Kendall asks, reminding me where I am. Then a horn blasts from my driveway. “Fuck. That’s my car.” I glance at my watch. “I’ve got a flight to Miami for a photo shoot happening tomorrow. And I need to take care of—”

“No worries.” She backs away. “You’re busy, which is totally cool. I’ll meet them another time.”

I nod, finish off the rest of my beer as I make my way across the yard, and call Becca to get her to delete the photo. She laughs in my ear, tells me to chill, until I point out it’s a bad look for both of us. The producers of this film she’s got a shot at probably don’t want to take on a party girl for a key role. That pushes the right button. She relents. Mission accomplished. Career implosion averted. I can live with losing out on America Rocks if I lose on my own merits. But to lose because of a stupid picture of a stupid joint? Not happening as long as I can head it off.

I haven’t been an out-of-control mess, but I haven’t been a choir boy, either. Are there more compromising photos on someone else’s camera roll? I don’t know, and it’s everything I don’t know that could put me at risk.

An inner voice that sounds ominously like my father points out, You don’t know Kendall.

Chapter Seven

Kendall

With the sun warming my back and the sparkling, chlorinated water of the swimming pool just a few feet away, I leaf through the pages of Cosmo, stopping on the article, “The Career Inside You—How to Find the Perfect Job for Your Personality.” Could it be that easy? Read a couple of pages and come to a realistic and more importantly, father-approved, occupation? (So far I’ve gotten zero response from the résumés I sent out.) I scan the bold type, searching for the magic words to help me discover what’s inside my head without breaking my dad’s heart. Not only am I following in his professional footsteps, I’m attending the same prestigious law school he did. More than one professor at the University of Chicago has my dad on speed dial. The dean knows stories about my father no one else does. And I’m already on the short list for Law School Musical, a group that puts on a law school parody every spring and was founded by a small group of students that included my father. It was video of my dad performing way back then that sparked my interest in theater. As a young child, I watched those annual performances over and over again, not exactly understanding the songs, but falling in love with the energy and spirit of the performers.

So it was no surprise, really, when I announced at six years old that I wanted to be an actress. TV, film, Broadway, I dreamed about doing all of it. When I was accepted to NYU, I knew I was that much closer to making my dreams a reality. Mason got accepted, too, into the film school, and aspired to be a director. We’d planned together, worked hard together, and were ready to take New York and our futures by storm. Together.

Until I ruined it.

That night changed my life forever. I gave up my dream of acting and stopped believing I could be anything I wanted to be. My so-called friends treated me like an outcast, talked about me behind my back, and looked at me with contempt. I’d wished so hard I could trade places with my boyfriend.

The magazine slips out of my hands at the thought. Wished, past tense. It took college, therapy, and an amazing friendship with Brit to help me like myself again. Turns out I’m not the only human being who’s made a horrible mistake, and knowing I wasn’t alone, that others got through the regret and shame and self-hatred, made living easier.

I reach over to grab the magazine then press up from my stomach so I’m sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair. A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my chest, sliding underneath my bikini top. This afternoon, I’ll resume my job search.

Dixie wanders into the backyard in nothing but miniscule black bikini bottoms, dark sunglasses, and a shimmering coat of sunscreen. She carries a large clear plastic tumbler full of some icy beverage and a notebook with a pen tucked into the spiral. A red-and-white striped beach towel I recognize from Aunt Sally’s stash drapes her neck. When she catches me looking, she says, “What’s a matter, princess? Never seen tits before?”

I ignore her

, as I should have done all along. Silence is our friend.

She, Amber, and I have reached an unspoken truce built on the understanding that we keep to ourselves. We each have our own bedroom and bath, Dixie taking the downstairs guest room rather than her usual room where a Jack and Jill bathroom links to Amber’s. Meals have been hit or miss with our own preferences for eating times. Three cars at our disposal mean we can come and go as we please. Without my aunt here to keep us connected, we’ve found it fairly easy to avoid one another in the six-thousand square foot space and vast city less than a mile down the road.

This afternoon, however, the only two lounge chairs in the backyard force Dixie and me into close proximity. I was here first, I remind myself. She can lug the free chair to the other side of the pool or skip the effort and go back inside the house.

Retreat’s not Dixie’s style, though. She settles herself on her stomach in the other chair. “You’re the only freak I know who keeps her top on while lying out alone in the backyard.”

“I happen to like tan lines and preserving the appearance of my skin on certain areas of my body. Especially these babies,” I say, cupping my boobs. I’m at least a full cup size up on Dixie and don’t mind rubbing it in.

“Bet that’s the most action they’ve gotten since you landed in Cali.”

I drop my arms. “Don’t burn your nipples,” I answer sarcastically.

“I won’t, but I appreciate the concern.”

At the mention of concern, my mind races to Vaughn. I’ve been the responsible one for four years—the friend who made breakfast for her hungover college roommates, cleared her day to help a classmate study, and stayed up all night to talk when boys behaved badly. It’s my comfort zone, being the one to take an interest in others. Not that I didn’t always like to take care of my friends. I did. But when you screw up so spectacularly, it becomes even more important. I want to give back a thousandfold, knowing it still will never make me even for my sin.

But last weekend, for the first time in forever, I felt deserving of a guy’s interest. I’d melted under Vaughn’s gentle touch and hard body when he draped the necklace around my neck. Craved more. I was relieved when he had to leave to catch his flight—but a small, long-dormant part of me was woken enough to register disappointment.