The Starter Boyfriend Read Free Page A

I couldn’t shake the thought that she was only putting up with Madison and me because we were a package deal.
    For now.
    “Big party,” Flea’s words rushed out. “Parents gone and everything.”
    “Great,” I managed, trying to hide my throbbing panic that this party slight was not only intentional, but personal. Not because it was my fault that Saffron had had to shave her head last spring—she’d taken that remarkably well—and not just because I thought maybe she wanted to steal my best friend. But because of my other fear, that my Just Say No stance was labeling me un-party-worthy. Un-friend-worthy. Your basic leachy loser.
    “I’m sure Saffron is expecting you,” Flea said, her voice knife-cutting into my daymare. “And will be royally pissed if you don’t show, you know?”
    I uttered a sound that I hoped she took the right way. Whatever right was these days. Ever since Madison’s boyfriend had turned twenty-one and become the team’s ready alcohol supplier, I’d felt about as connected to my friends as a benched player during a ninth inning. They didn’t get that I didn’t want to drink; I didn’t get why they did.
    “You are coming tonight, right, Courtney? I mean, it’s been a long time since you’ve shown up at anything...and well, it’d just be good, you know?”
    I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. What I was hearing from Flea was that I’d missed too many parties, and was in danger of no longer being missed.
    Not that I’d already been cut out. There was still time, if I got my butt in gear.
    “Sure, Flea, I’ll be there,” I said, with probably too much pep.
    She must have been satisfied because she started talking about running into her ex at the mall. I feigned outrage and all the heated emotions I knew she wanted to hear, while still trying to get my head around this party. That I hadn’t been invited to. But definitely had to attend.
    I couldn’t help wondering how far I might have already sunk in people’s eyes, and how far I might have to go to make sure I stayed alive in my own life.
     
    * * *
     
    The scent of sausage and peppers met me at the front door of our townhouse, luring me toward the kitchen. At the stove, my father’s fiancée, Jennifer Ronay, stood shaking oregano into her fry pan concoction.
    “ Ciao, Bella !” she cried upon seeing me, flashing a smile so bright I considered UV protection.
    “Smells great,” I said, sticking with our native English.
    See, Jennifer didn’t actually speak any another languages. She was all about creating the right atmosphere. The aroma and greeting told me tonight’s fare was Italiano . Grilled fish meant plastic leis and fruit punch served in coconut shells. Tacos were served to the strains of mariachi music. And speaking of music, when she announced she felt like dancing, you wanted to dive into a doorway and hold on before she let “Brick House” loose.
    All of which made her a bizarre choice for my dad, William P. Walsh, D.D.S., who was a skillful dentist, but didn’t know a pepper flake from a frosted one. Getting him to pitch in with housework was like, uh, pulling teeth. My mom had once told me that he’d been raised by doting aunts to believe that men should bring home the bacon and women should fry it up in the pan.
    Which was maybe one of the major reasons why she left. Or maybe why he put up with her for so long.
    All I knew was in my last month of eighth grade, Myra Walsh took her martini shaker and hit the road. Leaving her car in the garage with a dented front fender and keys in the ignition, and a me a note that started with “Sorry, Courtney,” and ended with “Take care of your father.” Plus a bunch of crap in the middle, and which had smacked on so many levels, including the obvious: who was going to take care of me?
    Soon I’d stopped my sniveling to learn about washer spin cycles, fat content in ground beef and toilet bowl cleansers. Not because my mother had told me to. (