He's Come Undone Page 3

  “Do you run?” Charlotte asked.

  “No.”

  “Julian runs,” she said. “He’s on the cross-country team.”

  “I’ve trotted to the bus when it was raining. Does that count?”

  All three girls rolled their eyes.

  Throughout the day I’d tried to keep it light, but they were dead serious about everything. At no time did any of them as much as smile at one of my jokes. Maybe that’s why Julian dumped them. Oh, mean. That was mean.

  “You’re going to have to take up jogging,” Paige told me. “I’ll give you his routes. His favorite is down River Road to Ford Parkway, past Minnehaha Falls, then Lake Harriet and Lake of the Isles, then back to his house in Prospect Park.”

  “That’s like twelve or fifteen miles.”

  “You could just jog back and forth on a section of the trail, like maybe near Weisman Art Museum, or Washington Avenue Bridge. Just so you run into each other.”

  I could do that.

  “Do you bowl? He also bowls.”

  I started to crank up a smartass comment, then gave up. Not my audience. “I bowled a few times when I was little…”

  “Maybe I’ll take you and we can bowl some games. He’s not a pro or anything, but just so you know how to play. But actually…” Paige tapped a finger to her chin and tilted her head. “It might be good if you don’t know much. Then maybe he could help you. Then there are classes. Most of his classes are big, so just crash them. Nobody’ll know. You can bump into him and talk about lessons.”

  I didn’t tell them I’d already done some spy stuff that hadn’t gone all that well. But next time I’d have the goods, the goods being hair and cleavage.

  A few more shops and I was exhausted by the time we reached Charlotte’s dorm for the makeup application. They pushed me down into a chair while Paige and Charlotte transformed me. Beba sat on the bed watching and chewing the skin around her fingernails, and I got the idea she wasn’t totally on board with this.

  I’d never worn much makeup, not even before the stuff with my mom. Some mascara. Maybe a little lip-gloss. Occasionally I got really crazy and did the glam red lipstick thing because I was a fan of noir.

  They hovered over me, doing my hair and makeup while I sat there unconcerned, giving no input. This had been my life years ago, a life I’d left behind. The feeling of familiarity startled me.

  Guess I hadn’t slammed that door as tightly as I’d thought.

  When they finished with the makeup, I looked in the oval mirror above the bench dresser. It was like looking at a stranger. They’d even bought color contacts for me, and my normally boring hazel eyes were almost purple.

  Once my nails were dry, it was time to slip into a dress.

  “Let’s do this one.” Paige held up a red number.

  All three of them stood there waiting for me to strip. I wasn’t a prude, but I didn’t like the three-to-one thing. “Some privacy would be nice,” I said.

  “Oh, good idea. We should be surprised.”

  All three of them scurried from the room. Once the door was closed, I wiggled into the red dress, adjusting my breasts the way the woman at Victoria’s Secret had demonstrated, then slipped on the black heels.

  “Ready!” I shouted.

  A flurry of noise, then the door burst open.

  That crash was followed by silence. The kind of silence that precipitated bad news. They were all three staring at me.

  “Well?” I prodded.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  That was from Beba.

  “Is it bad?”

  I turned, trying to see myself in the mirror above the dresser. I couldn’t get the full view, just waist up. I giggled, then pressed a hand to my mouth. “It’s bad, isn’t it? The hair. The makeup. It’s too much.” I felt like a cross between an expensive hooker and the school slut.

  “I can tone this down. Get rid of some of the makeup.” I spotted a box of tissue, grabbed a sheet, and was poised to wipe off some of the foundation when Charlotte dove at me.

  “Don’t touch anything!”

  I turned away from the mirror. They were all still staring at me, mouths hanging open. “What?”

  Finally Paige spoke. “You’re gorgeous. Like crazy gorgeous.”

  “Like drive-men-crazy gorgeous,” Beba added. All three nodded.

  “That face,” Charlotte said.

  “That body,” Paige added.

  “That skin,” Beba finished. “Holy freakin’ cow. So glad you talked us out of the spray tan.”

  “You guys can’t be serious.” Once again I wondered if I was being punked. Like the longest episode of Punk’d ever. I kept expecting Ashton Kutcher or some University of Minnesota equivalent to step into the room.

  “You know who you look like?” Paige said. “Scarlett Johansson.”

  That was funny, because I felt like somebody in drag.

  “Oh, my God. She does,” Charlotte said. “But better than Scarlett, which really doesn’t seem possible.”

  They must have picked up on my extreme doubt, because Charlotte added: “You don’t believe us? Let’s go for a walk. Just down to the coffee shop and back. Students hang out there between classes.”

  We did, and it was like a sitcom. Guys stared and didn’t even try to hide the staring. One young hipster in skinny jeans and a velvet jacket picked up his coffee from the counter, turned, and half-tripped over a chair before catching himself.

  In my real life, my bag-lady life, guys didn’t look at me, and I’d never thought of myself as attractive or sexy. Never thought of myself as ugly either. I just kind of was. As a kid, back when I was doing Mad Maddy, I’d picked up the persona of an enfant terrible, a smartass always cracking jokes, and I think that kind of bled into my own personality.

  Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe the writers had written to my actual personality. It wasn’t something a kid would even think about, but as an adult looking back on that formative time of my life I wondered which came first, the smartass or the kid.

  Paige smiled. “See?”

  “I think you were right about toning down,” Charlotte said once we got back to the dorm room. “You’re too gorgeous. He’ll think you’re way out of his league.” Her thoughts jumped. “And nobody even looked at us. Not a single guy looked at us. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me.” She didn’t sound resentful, just astounded.

  “That’s okay,” Paige said. “Even better. She can play hard-to-get, and he’ll follow her around like some panting puppy.”

  They all laughed and did that semi-silent group handclap.

  One thing I was sure of, there was no chance Julian Dye would recognize me as the drab and awkward English girl from the bar.

  Chapter 6

  ~ Ellie ~

  My apartment was in the converted Pillsbury Building at St. Anthony Main located less than two miles from the University of Minnesota and only a bit further from Prospect Park, the neighborhood where Julian lived. Prospect Park was just outside the boundaries of campus, which meant it was within biking distance.

  I didn’t get why he didn’t live in the heart of university chaos since he was a freshman. First-year students normally lived on campus—although I’d gotten lucky. I’d been allowed to live off campus because of a waiting list for student housing. Maybe Julian had done the same thing.

  I shared the loft with two people, Carmen, a university student, and Devon, a stylist at an organic salon. My room was tiny, hardly more than a large closet, but I could shut the door and lock it, and if I played music I could block out any sounds that might drift from one space to the next.

  Since it was an old warehouse, everything was open, as in just walls, no false ceilings. Privacy could be an issue if you were a private person.

  The red dress had been a big hit, so it was my choice for the evening of my first attempt at actual contact with the target. I wore my hair loose with my chunky b
angs swept to the side. Foundation and eyeliner and mascara, along with red lipstick called Hollywood Dream. It came close to matching my dress.

  That was followed by the black heels. I topped everything off with a sparkly necklace that dropped between my breasts, and a light-blue coat with big black buttons and a wide collar. I actually liked the coat—a loaner from Paige. Not sure it went with the red dress, but I had no plans to freeze my ass off out there.

  I admired the sound my heels made as I walked across the loft’s wooden floor to the kitchen area where Devon stood in front of the open refrigerator, staring inside, a pick jabbed into his hair. He worked at The Beehive Salon, and was always changing his look. Recently he’d switched from dreads to a fluffy Afro that was still a work in progress.

  He shut the refrigerator door, then opened it again, as if hoping the scene would change. I could relate. He gave up, slammed the door and turned, spotting me.

  I wanted to get his reaction, and this was better than anticipated. There was zero recognition in his eyes. Zero. And that wasn’t my only reward. As I stared back, his face slowly changed, going from surprise at finding a stranger in his house, to bafflement, then interest, then extreme interest, followed by the dropping open of his mouth, the closing of his mouth, then some stammering.

  “Hey. Hi,” he finally managed. “Are you a friend of… of… of…” I could see his brain sorting the few possibilities, wondering who’d brought me here. Carman or Ellie. Neither seemed probable, and he was coming up blank.

  Yeah, I no longer even looked like I’d hang out with myself.

  “Devon, it’s me.”

  He continued to stare without recognition or comprehension. Really, he was adorable with beautiful eyes that were huge right now.

  “Me. Ellie.”

  Blank.

  “Ellie Barlow. Your roommate.”

  Click.

  I was familiar. I was safe. He finally found his voice. “Good God. You are hot as hell. I’m not even sure your own mother would recognize you.”

  My face must have darkened, because he rushed on in an attempt to erase what he’d just said. Devon didn’t know my full story. He only knew the relationship I’d had with my mother hadn’t been good. “I don’t mean mother. Friend. Roommate. Forget I said mother.”

  I opened the black bag over my shoulder. No ratty backpacks for this girl. “I have rent money.” I placed five hundred-dollars bills on the island between us, not yet enough to catch me up on three missed payments. “I’ll get the rest to you soon.”

  Devon looked from the money to me. “What’s this all about, Ellie?” Wheels turned in his head, and the word hooker floated in the air between us. “I could have given you another month.”

  Ha! He said that now! Now that I’d signed a contract and sold my soul to a bunch of cheerleaders. Just a week ago he’d pulled me aside for a private conversation. “Rent by Friday or you’re going to have to move out.”

  But it didn’t matter. Even if he’d let it slide, and even if I kept trying to avoid him, I needed to pay up or get out.

  I had to admit the truth behind his assumption made me feel sick inside. I was a hooker, right? When you got down to it. Even if I didn’t have sex with Julian Dye, I was prostituting myself. I’d turned myself into an object of desire. Or was trying.

  “It’s an acting job,” I told him.

  “Where? West Bank?”

  “No, a smaller venue than that.” Much smaller.

  “What’s the gig? When’s the show? I’ll come see it.”

  I hated to lie, but the contract I’d signed swore me to secrecy. And even if I could tell Devon what was going on, I wouldn’t. For one thing, he was a guy and wouldn’t get it. For another, I might find myself agreeing with his argument. When I was with the girls—I always called them the girls now—when I was with them, it all made perfect sense. But once I was away for a while, I began to doubt myself.

  “It’s still in development,” I said. “Might happen, might not. Might end up in the Outsider Festival.”

  “Okay. Gotcha. The creative mind and all that.”

  Devon was a writer as well as a stylist. He totally got it.

  “But wow, Ellie.” He shook his head. “Wow. You know who you kinda look like?”

  “Scarlett Johansson?”

  “No.”

  “Amber Heard?”

  “Gwen Stefani.”

  It was just the lips, the eyebrows, and hair. Guys were so trickable. Oh, and the boobs. How had I forgotten the boobs?

  My phone vibrated and I pulled it from my coat pocket. A text from Charlotte.

  He’s at The Drink. I’ll pick you up! Be out front!

  The Drink. The place I spotted him two days ago.

  Normally I would have waited outside for her, but I felt self-conscious and chose to cling to the warehouse lobby until a white car pulled up and honked.

  Seconds later I plopped down in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and Charlotte sped off.

  “I’ve got a friend who sent me a text when Julian stepped into the bar,” she said.

  This was happening so fast. “How should I approach him?”

  “Don’t approach him. Not now, anyway. That was our mistake. See if you can get him to notice you somehow, then play hard-to-get. If hard-to-get doesn’t work, then you might have to make the first move.”

  “What did you do when you guys met?”

  We stopped at a light, and she looked over at me. “I asked him out.”

  “That was bold.”

  “I know, I know.”

  She pulled up around the corner from the bar. It wasn’t easy getting out of the car in my tight dress, but it was dark and nobody was around. Upright, I gave her a wave and headed for the bar, my heart slamming in my chest.

  Chapter 7

  ~ Ellie ~

  The Drink had probably started as more of a neighborhood bar, but as the university grew it became one of those ironic spots where students and hipsters liked to hang out. The Budweiser sign with the circling horses still hung from the ceiling, yellow from years of nicotine stains, and the wood-paneled walls were lined with old advertisements. It even had a jukebox, which was currently blasting out a familiar song I couldn’t place.

  The “glory” days of my acting gigs were over, but I still considered myself a pro. I’d show up and hit my mark, no matter what. Rain or shine. Flu or famine or fear. So when I spotted Julian at the end of the bar in what I guessed must be his favorite spot, dressed in jeans and that black leather jacket, I crossed the room and wedged in beside him. Catching the bartender’s eye, I ordered a beer. New Glarus.

  “Beer, huh?” he asked as if I’d made a mistake. White shirt sleeves rolled up above tattooed forearms, the bartender gave off the aura of a sweet dude who could get tough really fast if the need arose. Older than most of the patrons, but not old old.

  “This is a bar, right?” I asked.

  “You just look like more of a mixed drink type, that’s all. Beer it is once I see some ID.”

  Throughout our interaction, I was aware of the guy to my right, and once or twice I even bumped him with my elbow. No reaction.

  As my drink was served and placed on the square card with the bar’s logo, Julian leaned forward, catching the bartender before he moved off to the next customer. “Have you seen a girl with an English accent in here?” he asked.

  I perked up and took a sip of beer.

  “She has dark, straight hair, about five-foot-six or seven.”

  “That could be anybody, man.”

  “She was a little… I don’t know… odd-looking and odd-acting.”

  I inhaled as I swallowed, gasped, then the coughing started.

  Now both guys were hovering, concerned, but not knowing what to do. I waved a hand in the air in a mimed attempt to indicate I was fine even though I was still coughing and tears were running down my cheeks. Not fine.

  In
desperation, I took another sip of beer—hair of the dog. That helped so I kept going.

  The bartender handed me a napkin. I set my glass aside and wiped my cheeks. The napkin came away black with mascara.

  Both men were still watching me.

  “I’m okay,” I croaked. “Went down the wrong pipe. I do that sometimes.”

  “Me too.”

  That came from Julian. The first words he spoke to me.

  So this was our meet. Our sexy meet. I hadn’t envisioned it like this, but I would try to improvise and go with the flow.

  “You were talking about a girl…” I offered, hoping he’d continue even though the bartender had moved away to wait on someone else.

  Julian shrugged. “Just somebody I met here a few days ago,” he said. “She forgot something. I wanted to give it back.”

  I nodded as if I completely got it. His gaze moved on, taking in the room behind me. It was time for the dress. And the breasts.

  I unbuttoned the blue coat and slipped it off, cool air rushing across my chest and arms. How did girls wear this kind of thing all the time? And it wasn’t even winter. What did they do in winter?

  He didn’t even look.

  He didn’t-even-look.

  So I looked. I glanced down at my own chest to make sure it was still doing what it was supposed to be doing. It was. I put my elbows on the bar and leaned forward, giving him a better view. Nothing. Then I finished my beer and ordered another one.

  Over the next hour I was able to engage him in reluctant conversation. I would start something, like the running topic, then the class topic, then, out of desperation, the bowling topic. Three beers in and feeling a strong buzz, I asked him if he’d mind watching my coat and bag while I went to the restroom. I think he said okay.

  As I walked the length of the bar, I experienced the same thing that had happened at the coffee shop. Faces turned like flowers following the sun as I moved toward the restroom. And some of the men had a look in their eyes that made me wish for my boring dark hair and torn tights and baggy coat. This was so odd. So creepy.

  So awful.