Malibu Rising: A Novel - Taylor Reid (top 10 motivational books .TXT) 📗

Well, that’s what people had thought of her until she met Bridger. Now she was the girl who left him at the altar.

“It was exactly a year ago that you two met, right?” Rafael asked.

Tuesday nodded. “This very party. On this very night. One year ago.”

Rafael took a hit. Tuesday watched a pop star and an MTV Veejay hang out by the barbecue and pretend they weren’t going to screw later. But everyone already knew they were screwing. Tuesday laughed as it occurred to her. This whole town was just people who weren’t screwing pretending they were and people who were screwing pretending they weren’t.

“This is basically the anniversary of my very own hell,” she added.

Rafael frowned at her. “The whole world thinks that guy is a saint.”

“The whole world thinks I’m the daughter of a doomed astronaut who builds a time machine in order to visit him before he leaves for the moon.”

Rafael laughed. “That’s your fault. Next time don’t be so convincing you win an Oscar at sixteen.”

“Seventeen,” Tuesday said.

Rafael raised his eyebrow at her. Tuesday watched the party begin to fill up. She smiled at people. She smoked her spliff. She checked her watch. She had told herself she’d stay for an hour. Just so everyone knew she wasn’t afraid to see Bridger’s face.

Twenty more minutes. And then she could go.

But then she heard a commotion behind her. And she heard Bridger’s booming action-movie voice. That voice was fake. His real voice was higher pitched and nasal. Tuesday knew this because when he spoke in his sleep, the real voice came out. But even with her, even when it had just been the two of them eating takeout on the couch, he’d always used the fake voice.

“Hey, man, how’s it hanging?” Bridger said to someone in the doorway.

Tuesday could feel him mere feet away now. She turned to Rafael, not wanting to look behind her. “He’s coming up behind me, isn’t he?” Her pulse started racing. Here was the problem: What she didn’t want everyone to think about her was actually true. She was afraid to see his face.

She didn’t think she could stand looking at him pretend to be hurt by her. She couldn’t bear one more minute of his brilliant poor-me routine. He had crafted such a perfect performance as a victim that it unnerved the shit out of her.

Yes, she’d left him on the day of their wedding. And yes, she could have handled it better. And yes, she had owed him a heartfelt apology.

Which she had given him, in the bridal suite, in her wedding dress, ten minutes before they were both due to go out there.

She had said, “I think we are doing this for the wrong reasons.”

And he’d said, “We don’t have to be madly in love or anything. But we complement each other. Everyone loves us. And I do love you. I think you’re the greatest actress of our generation.”

“Bridge,” Tuesday had said. “I want to marry the love of my life. I want to wait for someone that feels like my soulmate.”

And Bridger had said, “C’mon. You of all people know the difference between real life and movies.”

Tuesday had let go of his hands and begun to take off her wedding dress. “I just can’t do this. I’m sorry. I can’t marry you. I thought I could. I thought I wanted the magazine cover but … I can’t do it.”

“Tuesday, put your dress back on, the show starts in ten minutes.”

Tuesday had shaken her head. “I’m not doing it. And I’m sorry.”

She got her assistant to signal her parents, who were waiting for her in the first row. The three of them ran to her car and drove away.

Bridger went out to the chapel and pretended he expected Tuesday any minute. He started crying at the altar. And then sold the story to Now This.

That was four months ago. Tuesday had not seen him since.

And, just as she heard him coming closer, she decided she did not want to see him tonight either.

“Raf, God help me, I can’t do it,” she said and she started running again, this time toward the tennis courts. But when she got to the gate, she noticed she wasn’t alone. Rafael had run with her.

“Quick!” he said, pulling the gate open. “Before the fucker sees us!”

Tuesday slipped in and Rafael followed her and then he locked the gate behind them. The two of them laughing.

Suddenly, they were alone, on Brandon Randall’s tennis court, beachside in Malibu, a thousand stars in the sky.

Tuesday emptied her pockets, showing Rafael the weed she’d brought. He nodded and emptied his own. Quaaludes and LSD.

“I think we’re supposed to ‘Just Say No,’” Tuesday said with a smirk.

“Say whatever you want,” Rafael said. “But then let’s get fucked up.”

Suddenly, Tuesday’s night didn’t seem quite so bad after all.

The party was alive.

No one was counting but there were twenty-seven people in the formal living room, including Hud. There were twenty people milling around the kitchen, including Kit, and thirty-two people in the backyard, including Jay. There were couples and small groups migrating toward the family room, the dining room, the study.

There were seven people in the five bathrooms of the house. Two were peeing, three were snorting lines, two were making out.

Jay had been pretending to have a good time by the pool, talking to a few of his surf buddies from up in Ventura County. And then he pretended to have a good time in the living room, talking to a couple soap actresses, and then he pretended to have a good time absolutely everywhere else at the party, talking to anyone he could find. But, in fact, he was doing two specific things: watching the door and checking his watch.

When would Lara arrive?

Jay watched yet another group of people that did not contain Lara enter the house. He got frustrated and decided to go upstairs