4
My father had no trouble finding our house in Los Angeles.
He made a few phone calls, and a month before we arrived, he did a first round trip from Paris for a day of viewings, then a second with my mother to show her our future home.
“Love at first sight guaranteed,” as he likes to tell to his clients.
An hour later, we had our new place, which I only saw for the first time when we arrived in the United States this summer.
The luxurious home is located just a short walk from the university, perfect for Basile and me.
It’s nestled in the chic Westwood neighborhood, which is ideal for my father.
It also came fully furnished and decorated in a classic, elegant, and timeless style—a dream for my mother. Only Lily found it “too bland.”
There are off-white walls in all the rooms and cream rugs on the bedroom floors.
A large family kitchen boasts dozens of white cabinets and a light central island made of wood.
The huge living room features sand-colored sofas and armchairs, as well as a taupe marble fireplace on solid oak flooring.
All the curtains and cushions, which Mom chose, are made from natural linen to create a lighter, airier feel—though she did wonder whether she should have gone with an eggshell shade instead.
The six bedrooms and three bathrooms are decorated in the same tones, with the exception of Lily’s, which is multicolored and customized by her. In mine, I just hung some string lights and put a few photos on the wall. Mr. Abrams would probably say this room has about as much personality as I do.
The darker tones are reserved for the large patio at the back of the house: chocolate rattan garden furniture, oversized terracotta planters, living walls, and tropical hardwood decking surrounding the impressive swimming pool.
This house is my mother’s pride and joy, but she always downplays it when the Wallaces walk in and start swooning.
As always, they arrive on time, with Timothy and their younger son Matthew, an exact copy of the first. Matthew is constantly doing his best to step out of his brother’s shadow.
He is fourteen years old and has his eye on my twelve-year-old sister, but Lily knows very well how to give someone the brush-off when she wants to.
We have drinks on the deck to make the most of the mild Californian fall.
Then, all nine of us sit down to dinner, while I keep an eye on my watch.
Tim compliments my navy-blue, sleeveless dress several times, and I wonder if I haven’t overdone it—both for the upcoming melodrama and the subsequent “date” that isn’t really a date.
As we start dessert, I see the hand of the large living room clock edging closer to the fateful hour of our planned phone call.
I try to control my nervous fidgeting, but without success.
My boyfriend discreetly plays footsie with me under the table, and my restless leg sends him the wrong signals.
He gives me a knowing smile, which I try to ignore.
At last, Clémentine calls. I answer and step away under my father’s disapproving eye.
“We’re eating, Alma. It can wait!”
“Something must be wrong with Clem, otherwise she wouldn’t be calling me at this hour.”
I act my part as best as I can, then hang up quickly. I return to the table and spill out my lie at breakneck speed just to get it over with. My nervousness at lying to them actually makes the scene more convincing. My mother looks sorry for both me and my friend.
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t let her spend the evening all alone in this state!”
“Tell her to come over. She can sleep here,” my father suggests.
“She doesn’t want to see anyone, let alone adults. I’ll just go to her place, then come back as soon as she feels a bit better.”
“Timothy will go with you.” Mr. Wallace says, shooting his son a pointed look.
“Oh, there’s no need. It’s not far at all. Finish your dinner in peace. I’ll be back in an hour, tops.”
“Are you sure, Alma? I don’t mind.”
“I’ll be fine, Tim. And I know how much you’re looking forward to that pavlova.”
I smile at the ideal boyfriend—according to everyone at the table—who has already gone back for seconds twice.
“Anyway, you know what Clémentine’s like. She doesn’t want to see anyone when she gets into a state like this.”
I slowly back toward the door, praying that my smooth talk is enough to convince them.
“Then hurry up. And take a cardigan. It must be chilly at this hour,” my mother whispers to me, worried not only about an interruption to the dinner she’s putting on, but also her daughter.
“Look both ways before you cross the street, Alma! And don’t talk to strangers!” Lily adds cheekily.
Her little comedy routine saves me. Everyone at the table smiles, and the two mothers launch into a discussion about parental worries and the difficulties of cutting the cord.
I take the opportunity to slip away after planting a kiss on Tim’s cheek.
He seems just a tiny bit suspicious—though not as much as my brother, who watches me closely, narrowing his eyes as he attempts to figure out what I’m up to.
I stride down the street, barely believing I pulled it off.
Then, as soon as the house is out of sight, I break into a sprint.
On the way to the Sunset, I call Clémentine, and between breaths I tell her what happened.
Giddily, she exclaims that she is proud of me and gives me her final instructions for the success of “Operation Russia.”
***
I find Vadim leaning against the bar and, intoxicated by all this excitement, I don’t think twice before going to tap on his leather-clad shoulder. He spins around, his dark hair whipping through the air. His eyes lock with mine.
“Right on time, Lancaster. So they let you out?”
“I can leave, you know, if you plan on making fun of me all evening.”
“Stay,” he says with a smile. “I didn’t think you would come.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“‘All evening’… Does that mean you’ve got a midnight curfew or something? Do you want to sit down? What do you want to drink?”
“Actually, I have forty-five minutes. That’s all.”
“Forty-five? You’re joking, right?”
“I actually only have thirty-two minutes left, if I count the trip back.”
He narrows his eyes, looking displeased, then toys with his glass. Inside, the clear liquid swirls.
“So, you basically just came to tell me you couldn’t come.” His words come out in a growl.
“I did what I could. I came! And I’m still waiting to know why.”
“So, I managed to pique Little Miss Goody-Goody’s interest… You snuck out for me?”
I take his glass and slam it down on the counter.
“Alright, what do you want from me, Arcadi? Were you bored because you couldn’t line up a date for tonight? Or did you just want to humiliate me?”
Vadim turns to me. There’s no trace left of his arrogant smile. “I just wanted us to be able to talk. Without your belligerent bodyguard. Without your nosy friend. Without it being because Abrams forced us to.”
“Mr. Abrams thinks we make a good team. That we can bring out the best in each other, if only we—”
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks! He’s a loser who thinks I’m his protégé. And as for you, he just wants to—”
“No, he doesn’t. But… is that what you want?”
I don’t know what’s come over me. Vadim Arcadi turns me into a girl I don’t recognize. Someone impulsive and provocative. But my shyness quickly reasserts itself, and I blush, not knowing where to look.
“If we only have thirty minutes left, we’d better be quick,” he observes, amused.
“You wish. We’ve already wasted five minutes. If you don’t have anything more interesting for me, I’m leaving.”
“Or maybe you could not do what’s expected of you, for once.”
“Is that your new hobby, setting me challenges?”
“Yes. I bet you don’t have the guts to stay out tonight.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I don’t really want to.”
“Even if I happened to be Timothy Wallace?”
“Tim would never suggest such a thing. He’d bring me home right on time.”
Vadim rolls his eyes, then thinks for a moment.
“If I drop you off in my truck, it’ll will save you some time, right?”
“No way I’m riding in that hunk of junk.”
“Because it isn’t good enough for you or because you’re afraid of what might happen to you?”
I won’t let him fluster me. I’m not going to let him win.
“What makes you think I’m afraid of you, Arcadi?”
“I don’t. I think you’re afraid of yourself, Lancaster. Of what you might want to do. Anyway, why haven’t you left yet?”
For the first time, I catch a glimpse of his irresistible, seductive smile. Not the scornful, disdainful one. The one that promises the moon and the stars.
And my traitorous heart races.
I think I finally understand why no female student has ever been able to resist him.
He’s disarming, drop-dead gorgeous, and always ready with a comeback.
His mesmerizing, gray eyes are purity itself, but there is an undercurrent of danger in them.
And it’s hard not to be drawn in by the small, white scar that runs across his lower lip when he smiles.
“Alright, you can take me home. At least if you’re driving, I won’t have to look at that annoyingly smug smirk of yours. But no detours, no pretend breakdowns. We’re going straight to my place.”
“You know, I can’t control what my ‘hunk of junk’ does. It’s unpredictable.”
“Well, you know, I can’t always control what my pepper spray does either when it escapes from my Chanel bag…”
***
For the last hour, we’ve been talking nonstop about college and classes.
A lot about my life, a little about his, about the other freshmen—the ones he can’t stand and the ones he doesn’t mind—about Abrams and the project we still haven’t figured out, about movies he loves and the ones I do, which he often finds lame and clichéd.
And for the last hour, I’ve been telling him I need to go home, clutching my phone, which shows dozens of missed calls. From my parents, my brother, Tim, and Clémentine.
My cell phone continues to vibrate in the palm of my hand, lighting up the dark cab of the pickup. Vadim finds it amusing and challenges me again to stay. I tell him about the lie I cooked up with my best friend; he can’t stop laughing. I pretend to be offended, and he softens.
For the last hour, I’ve forgotten about everything.
My mother, who must be worried sick. My father, who is going to murder me.
My boyfriend, who is going to be mad at me.
Until now, I didn’t know what freedom tasted like.
The thrill of the forbidden. But I can already tell I’ve acquired a taste for it—and that there will be a price to pay.
And now, it really is time to go.
After getting out of the truck a few houses down from mine, I walk around to stand in front of the open window on the driver’s side. I nervously fidget with a button on my cardigan, just to give myself something to do. I’m having a hard time leaving him.
“Those were the longest thirty minutes of my life,” Vadim murmurs, looking at me.
“Sorry you had such a terrible evening.”
“A true ordeal. I’m relieved it’s over.”
You’re lying.
“Same here. I think I hate you even more than I thought.”
I’m lying, too.
“Good. We don’t need to do it again.”
“Agreed.”
“Perfect. See you tomorrow, Lancaster.”
“Good night, Arcadi.”
Through the window, he suddenly grabs the hem of my cardigan and pulls my face close to his.
My heart drums in my chest, and my legs can barely support me.
For a moment, his mouth hovers near mine, before drifting to my ear, where he whispers, “Bet you don’t have the guts to do this again tomorrow night.
” He brushes my cheek with his lips, lets me go, and then drives off without waiting for my answer.
What could I possibly have said anyhow?
I arrive home a full hour late.
My parents are there.
But my mind isn’t.
My father’s voice is already echoing throughout the house. It doesn’t bother me. The hour I just spent was worth every lousy moment to come.