Parallel Read online

  “The best part is, Yale doesn’t have course requirements,” Caitlin is saying, “so I can basically take whatever I want. Today I shopped Statistical Thermodynamics and Intro to Relativistic Astrophysics, both of which were awesome. I’d love to take them both, but they overlap by fifteen minutes. Plus, IRA has a prereq . . . which I could probably get them to waive . . . but I dunno. I think I’m leaning toward Thermo.”

  Only Caitlin would be this excited about classes with names like “Statistical Thermodynamics” and “Relativistic Astrophysics.” I mean, seriously. What do those words even mean?

  “Although it’s not like I have to make a decision today,” she adds, finally pausing for a breath. “I have till the end of the week to decide.”

  “Didn’t classes start last week?”

  “Yeah, but we get two weeks to finalize our schedules,” Caitlin explains. “They call it shopping period. You can visit any class you want, and your schedule isn’t final until it’s over. Did I mention how much I love this place?” As if there were any doubt; Caitlin has wanted to go to Yale since elementary school.

  “Life should have a shopping period,” I muse. “It’d keep people from getting stuck with life-altering decisions they didn’t really want to make.”

  “Ab—”

  “How are things with Tyler?” I ask, steering the conversation toward happier ground. Three weeks ago, our best guy friend stood up on a chair at a packed party and proclaimed his love for Caitlin, call-and-answer-style (I’m not exactly clear on the mechanics, but apparently, there were some cheerleaders at the party who assisted with the effort). With my being gone for the summer, Caitlin and Tyler had spent nearly every day together. She had to have known how Tyler felt about her, but Caitlin says she was too busy pretending things hadn’t changed to see how much they had. To be fair, I don’t think Caitlin was quite as shocked by the big announcement as Ilana was. I’m not sure which shocked her more—that I stole her part or that Caitlin stole her boyfriend.

  After waiting four days to go on their first date (Caitlin wanted there to be a “respectable gap” between the end of Tyler’s relationship with Ilana and the beginning of his relationship with her, plus, although she’d never tell Tyler this, she was totally weirded out by the idea of kissing him, an issue Tyler resolved three minutes into their first date when he parked his mom’s minivan on the gravel part of Kent Road and pulled Caitlin into the backseat), my two best friends proceeded to have a seventeen-day, completely intense fling.

  They were inseparable until they both left for school, Caitlin to Yale and Tyler to Michigan, without ever defining the relationship. Caitlin is refusing to call him her boyfriend, despite the fact that they talk on the phone every night and aren’t seeing other people. Tyler, on the other hand, is using the G word and the L word every chance he gets. Playing it cool is apparently not in Tyler’s game plan for this particular relationship. Last night, he left me a two-minute-and-forty-six-second voicemail in which he belted out the lyrics to a Caitlin-inspired rendition of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.”

  “Things with Ty are good,” Caitlin says. “He wants to come visit at the end of the month, but I told him that’s too early . . . it’s too early, right?”

  Before I can answer, there’s a loud knock at my door. I peer through the peephole, expecting the maid. But Bret Woodward is standing in the hallway, wearing a blazer and holding flowers. He’s the A-list actor who’s generating all the buzz about our movie, the one whose face is on the cover of nearly every major magazine this month, promoting the other eighty-million-dollar action flick he’s in, which opens this Friday. And he’s at my door. With flowers.

  “Crap!” I whisper violently into the phone. “Crap, crap, crap!”

  “What?” Caitlin whispers back.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Sorry.” Normal voice again. “Who’s at the door?”

  There’s another knock.

  “Abby. Who’s at the door?”

  “Bret,” I manage to choke out.

  “Bret Woodward?!?”

  “Shhhh,” I hiss. “I’m pretending I’m not here.”

  “Hey, Super Stealth,” comes Bret’s voice from the hallway. “I can see your feet under the door.” My eyes drop to the floor: There’s a three-inch crack between the door and the hardwood floor. Damn old hotel.

  Caitlin cracks up. “I’ll call you back,” I mutter. I punch the end button and open the door.

  “Hiding from me?” Bret asks with a wink. Yes, a wink. The Sexiest Guy Alive is standing at my door, holding flowers and winking.

  “Hiding? HA! Why would I hide?” I hold up the phone. “I was just on the phone. My friend was in the middle of a story, and I didn’t want to interrupt.” I put on what I hope is an offhand, totally-at-ease smile. The opposite of how I’m feeling.

  Bret grins. “Good. Then these are for you.” He holds out the flowers. I take them, stepping back to let him inside the room.

  A brief word about my gentleman caller. Officially he just turned thirty-three, which means in real life he’s probably pushing forty. So, best-case scenario, the man has fifteen years on me. Worst case, he’s old enough to be my father. “So what’s the occasion?” I ask, admiring the eclectic bouquet. I’ll say one thing: The man has excellent taste in flowers.

  Bret rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

  “But my birthday’s not until tomorrow,” I point out.

  “I know that,” he says. “But the celebration starts now. So go change.”

  “Celebration?”

  “Yes. No arguing.” He walks over to my closet and opens it. It’s empty. Bret gives me a quizzical look. I point at my suitcase, jammed into a corner with clothes spilling out of it.

  “I haven’t exactly unpacked yet,” I say.

  “You haven’t unpacked? You’ve been here all summer!” Bret eyes the explosion of clothing. “How do you live like this?”

  “I don’t like to be tied down?” I offer. This isn’t even remotely true, but it sounds less lame than any of my real reasons—all of which have to do with my obsessive fixation with getting out of here so I can start college on time and proceed with my Plan. Bret nods knowingly.

  “I get that,” he says in a low tone, which I think is supposed to be his meaningful voice. “Permanence is suffocating.” I nod in what I hope is an equally meaningful way as Bret lifts my suitcase onto the bed and begins riffling through it, examining each article of clothing before folding it and setting it aside. Yes, folding. Bret Woodward is folding my clothes. “How about this?” he asks, holding up my black pajama top. I laugh. Bret doesn’t blink.

  Oh. Right. He’s serious.

  “Uh, okay . . . with what?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer. Bret tosses me the pajama top, then pulls a pair of cowboy boots out from under the bed.

  “With these,” he says, holding up the boots. “Now, go change,” he instructs, steering me toward the bathroom. “We have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes.”

  To Bret’s credit, the pajama top sort of looks like a dress. A really, really tiny dress. If only it weren’t a PAJAMA TOP. I contemplate telling Bret there’s no way I can go out in this, but then, something in me gives way. My eighteenth birthday is less than five hours away. After that many years of model child behavior, I’ve earned the right to bend the rules a little bit (in this particular case, the rule that says that a self-respecting girl should not go out in public wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots). And it’s L.A.; it’s not like I’ll be the most scantily clad girl on the street—not by a long shot. I strip out of my jeans, spritz on some perfume, say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I shaved my legs, and slide the pajam—er, dress—over my head.

  Even though I’ve worn this top to bed a zillion times, I’m not prepared for the reflection that greets me in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The “dress” is longer than I remembered, and it fits me in all the right places. Dressed like this, with my
dark waves blown straight and makeup still camera-ready, I barely recognize myself. For the first time since I arrived in L.A., I look like someone who belongs. Only my eyes—round and slightly panicked—give me away.

  “You almost ready?” Bret calls from the other side of the door. “We’re late.”

  “Just a sec!” I shout, gulping the contents of the travel-sized bottle of mouthwash by my sink.

  When we emerge from the hotel, the valet attendant is waiting with Bret’s car, a cherry-red Prius with imported calfskin seats. I wonder how much Bret paid to get the baby cow interior on his environmentally responsible ride. The attendant gets out of the car and hurries over to open the passenger-side door, but Bret beats him to it.

  “Right on schedule,” he says as I slide past him into the car, cringing as the slinky fabric slides up my thigh.

  “But a few minutes ago you said we were late,” I say when Bret joins me in the car.

  “Necessary exaggeration,” Bret replies, flashing an impish smile. “I find that women move more quickly when there’s time pressure.” He guns the accelerator, and we speed away from the curb. Women. I think of the parade of females Bret has been linked with in the past: actresses, models, and most recently, a fashion designer. These women are, well, women. Suddenly, the fact that my not-yet-eighteen-year-old virgin self has just gotten into a car with this allegedly-thirty-three-but-probably-more-like-forty-year-old (wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots, mind you) seems like a really, really bad idea.

  Bret glances over at me as we whiz down Venice Boulevard. “What are you thinking right now?” he asks. “You have a funny look on your face.” He slows long enough for us to turn, then speeds up again.

  “I just can’t believe I’m gonna be eighteen in a couple hours,” I say, drawing out the word. “I still feel so young, you know?”

  Bret just laughs. “You are young.” He turns the wheel sharply and slams on the brakes. “We’re here.”

  We’re parked in a narrow alleyway next to a windowless black brick building with an electric-blue door. A restaurant? At first I think so, but there’s no sign, no awning, no menu out front. Nothing to indicate what’s inside.

  Oh, God. This isn’t a restaurant. It’s some weird sex club.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Bret says, leaning across me to push open the passenger door. “Everything on the menu is amazing.” Not a weird sex club! I am elated. Bret grins at me. “Welcome to your birthday party, Birthday Girl.”

  To my surprise, there are about twenty people waiting for us inside, exactly enough to fill the restaurant’s private cellar. I recognize most of them, all from the movie. Bret steps away to talk to our server, and someone hands me a glass of champagne. I down it like I’m used to being handed glasses of champagne in super-swanky back rooms, hoping it’ll help take the awkward edge off the evening.

  “Abby!” Kirby, the youngest (and from the looks of it, drunkest) member of the cast beelines over to me, teetering in four-inch heels. “Can you believe this?” she breathes, clutching my shoulder for balance. Whoa. Hello, vodka. I see you’ve met Kirby. “This is, like, ohmyGodlikeTHEplacerightnow,” she gushes in a heavy Boston accent I didn’t know she had. “You, like, can’t even get a reservation unless you’re somebody.”

  “Wow.” I glance over at Bret, who’s busy giving one of the servers detailed instructions. He catches me watching him and winks.

  “We need cocktails,” Kirby announces, letting go of my shoulder and grabbing my elbow. She drags me toward the bottle-laden table in the corner of the room and pours herself a Red Bull and vodka. I watch as she downs it, then immediately pours herself another. “RBV?” she asks, waving the vodka bottle in my face.

  “No, thanks.” I’m already feeling the champagne.

  “Whatever.” She shrugs, then ambles off, taking the bottle with her.

  “So how’d I do, Birthday Girl?” I hear Bret ask, his voice at my ear. I turn to face him, immediately aware of how close his lips are to mine. “You know, you’re not an easy read,” he murmurs, brushing the hair off my face. “Not that I’m complaining.” As his finger dances down my jaw, tiny beads of sweat prickle above my upper lip. I fight the urge to lick them away.

  The moment is gaining intensity by the millisecond, but I can’t bring myself to look away. Bret’s eyes are SO BLUE (colored contacts, no doubt), and he smells ridiculously good. How have I never noticed this before? I tilt my head forward to get a better whiff. Bret, decidedly less tipsy than me and thus still operating in the realm of normal behavior, assumes I’m leaning in for a kiss. Because, really, who leans in for a smell? The crazy girl in pajamas and boots, that’s who.

  So he kisses me. It’s more of a prelude to a kiss, actually. His lips barely graze mine, and then it’s over. A second later, I hear the distinct click of a camera phone. I don’t even have to look to know whose it is. RBV #3 in one hand, cell phone in the other.

  “Smile!” Kirby calls in a singsong voice, snapping another picture. It dawns on me that there’s an excellent chance I’m going to end up in US Weekly, a notion that is both horrifying and thrilling. I grit my teeth and smile for the camera, already rehearsing rational explanations in my head. Oh, that. We were just rehearsing a scene for the movie, Dad. No, we don’t actually kiss in the movie, but the director wanted to see what it would look like if we did. . . . Yes, he does play my uncle, but the screenwriter was toying with an incest storyline. . . . CRAP.

  “Don’t be worried about the picture,” Bret says, putting his arm around me as Kirby keeps clicking away. “There’s no service in here, so she can’t send it to anyone until after we leave. And by that time, all incriminating photos will be long gone.” He nods at the guy next to Kirby. His biceps are the size of my thigh, but he can’t be older than twenty. “That’s Seth, my trainer. Every time we go out with Kirby, she goes camera crazy. So Seth’s been tasked with ‘borrowing’ her phone and deleting everything before she can do any damage.” Arm still around my shoulders, Bret steers me toward a plush couch at the other end of the room.

  “So you didn’t answer my question,” he says as we sit. “How’d I do?”

  “Are you kidding? This is great. Best birthday ever.”

  “But it’s not your birthday yet.” Bret points at his watch. “It’s only nine thirty.”

  “Hmm. Good point. So I guess this is the best day-before-my-birthday ever. Which sadly, doesn’t say much,” I tease.

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve saved the real fun for tomorrow,” says Bret with a mysterious smile.

  I raise my eyebrows. “These people barely know me, and you’re forcing them to celebrate my birthday twice?”

  “Tomorrow night it’s just you and me, kid. Dinner on the beach in Malibu.” He sips his champagne. “Unless, of course, you have other plans . . .” He trails off, taking another sip as he waits for me to jump in and assure him that I don’t. Expecting me to. But there is simply no way I am going to dinner with this guy. Sure, the idea of having an intimate dinner with the Sexiest Guy Alive is appealing, but he’s (a) too old for me, (b) too famous for me, and (c) too likely-to-seek-sex-on-the-first-date for me. Besides, I still have a firm enough grasp on reality to know that this—the Hollywood scene, thirtysomething celebrities, private cellars at trendy restaurants—isn’t my world. I am merely passing through.

  Bret is still waiting for my response when the first course arrives. “I’m starving,” I announce, practically sprinting to the table.

  “Let’s eat!” Bret calls to the crowd, and everyone sits.

  Three hours, four courses, and one very delicious molten chocolate cake later, I’m sipping my fourth glass of champagne and marveling at the difference between this birthday and my last. A year ago, I celebrated the big day with a Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake and dinner with Caitlin and my parents. Now here I am, all the way across the country, partying with celebrities and drinking Cristal. Beside me, Bret Woodward—the Bret Woodward—is talking co
llege football with the guy who plays my brother, his arm draped around the back of my chair as though it belongs there.

  “Hey, BW!” Seth calls to Bret from the other end of the table. “I think it’s time to put Hollywood Barbie to bed.” He points at Kirby, slumped down in her seat and snoring. “Mind if we take one of the cars?” Seth asks. At the word “bed,” I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion. I’ve been up for twenty-one hours after having slept for only four.

  “Do you mind if I go with them?” I ask Bret, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of my eyelids. “I’ve got a six a.m. call time tomorrow.”

  “We’ll all go,” he says, fixing his blue eyes on my sleepy gray ones. I flush under his gaze but don’t look away, emboldened by all the sugar, alcohol, and endorphins. For a second, I let myself imagine kissing him—really kissing him. “Just say you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night,” I hear him say.

  “I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow night.”

  “Really?” For a guy who seemed so confident, he looks awfully surprised.