be perfectly hard and smooth no matter how many crunches I do—and that's not good enough. Not for my dear mother who wants the perfect daughter at all cost. My life is filled with verbal lashings and it's just so good to be around someone who likes me the way I am.
Jonathan seems to enjoy my company just as much as I'm enjoying his. Although there's this easy way about him, I know there's a wall between us. Secrets, failures, and insecurities erected it, and it towers over us. I don't know what his story is, but it seems like his ego is as fragile as mine. He overcompensates in the same ways, throwing barbed words out when I say something that hits too close to home—just like I do. I know that play and have done the same thing too many times to count. I wonder what he's hiding behind those beautiful blue eyes and the fake smile that's always plastered across his face.
And that's when things take an unexpected turn. We're in a middle state, where we are sort of friends, but still cautious of one another. We eat breakfast and then find something to do until Robyn gets off work. The three of us make dinner and hang out until Aunt Paula comes home. It's easy and feels normal even though it's totally weird if you stop and think about it. I mean, there's a billionaire hanging out in a trailer because he wants to.
We're sitting at Aunt Paula's little table eating breakfast. The house is completely quiet, which makes my chewing sound horsey-loud. It's very sexy. I try to quiet my chomping, but it's no use.
Jonathan looks up at me and smiles. "I don't care how loud you chew. You're parents really messed you up, you know that?"
I avert my eyes, chomp quickly, and swallow my food. We know each other a little better now. Months of breakfast together will do that. It's impossible not to talk about my neurotic thoughts when half of them were inflicted by my mother. "Me? What about you? What'd you do that they banished you down here, anyway?"
Jonathan's smile fades slightly, before it resumes at full blast. If I hadn't been watching him, I wouldn't have noticed. Whatever he did to get himself sent down here was major. I looked through the papers to try and figure out what he could have possibly done, but there was nothing. His mother must have taken care of it before it hit the press.
"So," Jonathan shoves the last of his egg sandwich in his mouth, and says, "this art exhibit is opening soon, and I have an in with the curator. We can look at the exhibition before everyone else, while they finish setting it up. You want to go?"
"Nice dodge. Very subtle." I watch him for a second, wondering if he ever drops that damn mask he's wearing. It's always there—a perfect smile on a perfect face—guarding his thoughts like a German Shepard.
I lean back in my chair and ask, "So, you like art?" I'm surprised. I probably shouldn't be, but I am. Picturing Jonathan playing football and liking things that are fast and fun is easier. Art isn't like that. It's pensive and pure.
Nodding, he leans back in his chair. "Yeah, and you shouldn't sound surprised. Rich people like art, remember?"
I have trouble imagining him in a mansion, especially since I keep seeing him in an old mobile home. Smiling, I reply, "Okay, so where is this show and whose is it?"
"Ah, that's a surprise, but we do have to haul ass and look sort of presentable." He glances at my cut-offs and my tank top.
"I get it. You want me to change."
"It's an art show, babe, not a barbeque."
"Ha ha. Give me a few minutes. I'll be right back." Before I forget, I turn abruptly and lightly smack the back of his head. "And stop calling me babe."
He chuckles as I run down the dark, narrow hall to my room and dig through my clothes looking for a dress. I brought a church dress, in case Aunt Paula wanted to go, and a clubbing dress in case Robyn wanted to be adventurous one night. Neither is quite right. It's possible that I can make do and tone down the clubbing dress. The neckline is a
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