I buzz them in with a martyred sigh and head out onto the front steps to await their arrival. Music blasts from the rolled-down windows as they race up the driveway in a blur of bubblegum pink. The car is barely in park before they’re bounding toward me, platinum blonde bobs bouncing with every step. They strut up the front walk like they own the place. They’re dressed in matching neon bikinis and designer flip-flops, with sheer sarongs wrapped artfully around their willowy frames. Odette is carrying a beach bag with towels and sunscreen; Ophelia is toting a cooler that I know from experience contains all manner of alcoholic beverages.
“This is a surprise,” I say, holding open the door and allowing them inside. “Did I invite you over for a pool party and completely forget about it?”
“Nope. This is an ambush!” Odette informs me happily. “We had no choice. You’re not answering your phone.”
“It goes straight to voicemail,” her twin adds. “What is this, the Dark Ages? Are we supposed to send you a fax or something if we want to hang out?”
“Sorry.” I shrug. “It’s on silent-mode.”
“Why?”
“Dodging my parents calls.”
“We repeat — why?”
Oh, no reason… besides Oliver returning to Switzerland and promptly informing them about the broken engagement, not to mention my intent to attend Brown in the fall… thus eradicating everything they’ve ever wanted for me in a single crushing blow…
I woke this morning to the insistent vibrations of my cellphone on my nightstand. Even after I sent the call through to voicemail, it proceeded to buzz so many times, I thought it might dig its way down through the earth’s crust, all the way to the molten core. When I turned it off completely, like clockwork, the landline began to ring on five-minute intervals. I unplugged the damn thing, for lack of any better options.
Only a few more days,I console myself.Then I’m out of here.
“Hello?” Odette and Ophelia are blinking at me. “Anyone home in that head of yours?”
“Sorry.” I laugh. “Lately things in my life are… complicated.”
“Great! We love complicated. You can tell us all about it over frozen margaritas. Where’s your blender?” Ophelia doesn’t wait for an answer; she’s already headed for the kitchen.
“Go get your bikini on.” Odette bumps her shoulder against mine and pushes me lightly toward the staircase. “You look like you could use some sun. You’re pale as an old man’s inner thigh.”
“Thanks,” I say wryly.
“Oh, relax. I said, ‘You’re pale’ — not, ‘You look like you’ve been locked in your room watching reruns ofThe Great British Bake-Offfor the past week like a sad little loser who’s allergic to sunlight.’”
“Ouch! That was harsh.”
“Go.”
I turn and head upstairs to find a swimsuit, too tired to argue with her. Mostly because she’s sadly correct in her assumptions — I have, in fact, been locked in my room watching reruns ofThe Great British Bake-Offlike a sad little loser all morning. Something about watching strangers create delicious confections through a high-def screen has a calming effect.
My life may be spinning out of control, but damn, would you look at that beautiful five-layer buttercream cake?
In the kitchen, the sound of the blender flips on. I let the hum of crushing ice carry me down the hallway to my bedroom, and tug on the first bikini my hands land discover.
* * *
Over two rounds of frozen margaritas, the twins listen to my tale of woe. I tell them everything about Oliver’s proposal and my parents deception. I even tell them about Archer. By the time I’m done talking, the ice in my margarita has turned to water beneath the scorching midday sun and both of them are looking at me with fascination.
“Sorry,” I murmur, sipping the watery drink. The sugared rim of the glass hits my tastebuds with lip-smacking sweetness. “You guys came here to hang out and instead I’ve just spent an hour talking your ears off.“
“Oh my god, donotapologize.” Ophelia grins. “Your life is always so much more interesting than anyone else we know.”
“Seriously,” Odette adds. “You could have, like, your own reality show.”
I shudder at the thought of a camera crew following me around, documenting my every move. “Introvert, remember? That’s my version of Hell.”
“Lame.” Ophelia sighs. “We’d make great guest stars. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Oooh, yes!” Odette giggles. “The fabulous BFFs who sweep in to dispense advice about boys.”