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  Good On Paper

  Jennifer Millikin

  Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Millikin

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  JNM, LLC

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7326587-1-4

  www.jennifermillikinwrites.com

  To Luke.

  You call yourself analytical, but I think you may be a romantic after all.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Natalie

  2. Aidan

  3. Natalie

  4. Aidan

  5. Natalie

  6. Aidan

  7. Natalie

  8. Aidan

  9. Natalie

  10. Aidan

  11. Natalie

  12. Natalie

  13. Aidan

  14. Natalie

  15. Aidan

  16. Natalie

  17. Aidan

  18. Natalie

  19. Natalie

  20. Aidan

  21. Natalie

  22. Aidan

  23. Natalie

  24. Aidan

  Epilogue

  Also by Jennifer Millikin

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Tomorrow I’m going to tell that jackass, Vincent D’Onofrio, that Natalie Maxwell asked me to come to her house to study. I mean, yeah, Mrs. Orson made us partners for this project on Ancient Greece. And, okay, there’s no way she’d have asked me otherwise. Natalie is on the dance team and sits with the cool kids at lunch. She has a lot of dark hair that she tosses around while she laughs with her friends. And then there’s me. I exist somewhere in the murky middle. I’m smart, but not enough to be in advanced classes. I’m athletic, but not enough to be on a team. I’m good-looking enough to get dates, but not confident enough to go for a girl like Natalie Maxwell. I’m Aidan Costa, the guy who blends into whatever structure he happens to be walking past.

  Until today. In fourth period history, Mrs. Orson announced who our partners are, and my stomach flipped. How could I have gotten so lucky?

  After class, Natalie marched up to my desk as I gathered my things and asked me to come over to her house so we can get started on the project. That’s right about when I stopped being aware of my own body. Did I even have a stomach anymore? And where did my bones disappear to? I felt like goo held together by skin. Gross, but true.

  Now I’m walking through neighborhoods, going in the opposite direction of my house, with Natalie Maxwell by my side. Her forearm has bumped mine twice. Twice. I know it’s not on purpose, but a guy can dream.

  “So,” I start, unsure of what to say. Natalie told me it would take ten minutes to walk to her place, and I used up the first four silently begging my underarms to stop sweating. “What’s it like to be a preacher’s kid?”

  Natalie glances at me, then back to the sidewalk. She grips the straps of her backpack in each fist so that her elbows stick out behind her. She tips her head, and the sun hits her at just the right angle to make her hair shimmer. It's almost the exact same shade as mine, but a million times shinier.

  “PK,” she says, looking back up at me for just a second.

  “What?” I ask. I must’ve heard her wrong.

  A smile slips from the side of her mouth at my obvious lack of knowledge. I like this smile. It’s different from all her other ones. It’s not like I stalk her (I’m not a creep), but it’s hard not to notice these things from the bleachers when she and eleven other girls are jumping up and down, pom-poms shaking.

  “PK,” she repeats. “Preacher’s kid.”

  “Oh. Right.” I fall silent, not sure what to say next.

  Her smile vanishes and her face looks sad. But not an open kind of sad. More like a hidden sadness, the kind that goes deep down like a well.

  “It’s not great. People expect more from a preacher’s kid. Do the right thing. Get good grades. Always be nice. Never be anything less than pleasant.” She laughs, but the sound is hollow. “Basically, PKs aren’t allowed to be human. Sometimes I just want to scream.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” She stops and looks at me, surprise widening her eyes. I pause too and shove my hands in my pockets.

  Natalie must not have heard the rumors. I don’t think they can be called rumors, because they’re true. I spent a few weeks hiding in the library at lunchtime until things died down.

  “My mom writes books. Her first book was a big deal romance novel about her and my dad. It’s based on their relationship. Last year some girls found out it was my mom who wrote it and blabbed.” I’ll never forget the looks on their faces. Like they couldn’t believe my parents could have a love story like that.

  “But aren’t you proud of your mom? Unless,” Natalie draws out the word as a flush creeps across her cheeks. “Unless it was one of those types of books. Like the kind my grandma keeps in her nightstand and thinks nobody knows about.” Natalie’s lips purse as she waits for my response.

  I shake my head. “No no no. Not like that.”

  Natalie’s doing the sort of smile thing again, and the tips of my ears feel hot. To make it more difficult for her to spot my redness, I resume walking. Natalie follows. “It’s not the story,” I start, wondering how exactly to explain it all. “It’s what’s happened because of the story. It’s a lot of pressure to have parents with a famous romance.”

  “Like how?”

  I wish I could rewind five minutes and go back, then I wouldn’t have told Natalie I understood her plight as a PK. I have no desire to explain all this to her, but it’s too late for that now. “Girls expect me to be just like them. Or like my dad, I guess. They think I should make the best boyfriend in the world if I come from people like my parents. Flowers, chocolates, twittering birds forming a heart, yada yada.”

  Natalie’s hands wrap around her backpack straps again. “Are you saying you’re a bad boyfriend?”

  “No.” The word rushes from my lips. “I don’t really know what I’m saying. Just that I understand, is all.”

  The hand closest to Natalie, the one dangling between us, suddenly feels warmer than it did a few seconds ago. I look down, watching her fingers snake through mine.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. I never knew what a grateful smile looked like until this moment. On Natalie, it’s closed lip, both sides slightly upturned, and softness in her eyes.

  She drops my hand and turns left at the end of the street. I follow her, letting my thoughts fill the quiet that has overtaken us. It’s not that I’m a bad boyfriend or a particularly good one. I’m not boyfriend material at all. I might have a crush on Natalie, but I would never act on it. She doesn’t deserve someone with a secret like the one I’m keeping. It’s not the secret that’s the problem. It’s the fact that I’m keeping it. That I have to keep it. How could I be in a relationship and keep a secret this big? By not getting into a relationship in the first place.

  “My parents aren’t home.” Natalie’s relieved voice breaks into my thoughts. She stops, scans the street, and walks up to a two-story white house. Is she telling me this for a reason? Does she want to mess around? I may not be boyfriend material, but I’m not opposed to messing around with the girl I’ve been crushing on for what feels like forever. Not that Natalie would be into me, but I certainly wouldn’t turn her down if she lost her min
d and decided I’m the lucky guy.

  Pulling a key from her backpack, Natalie unlocks the door and opens it. “Come in,” she says, beckoning me with a wave of her hand.

  She leads me through the living room and into the kitchen. The first thing I notice is how clean the house is. Everything looks like it has been placed there on purpose, not a stray book or tissue in sight.

  “Nice house,” I tell her, sitting on a stool Natalie has pulled out for me.

  “Thanks.” She steps into the pantry, pointing above her head as she steps through. I look up and read the words as she recites them. “This house runs on love and Jesus. If the sign says it, then it must be true.” Sarcasm stains her tone.

  Natalie backs out of the pantry holding sandwich cookies, the kind where one side is vanilla and the other chocolate. “These okay?” she asks.

  The truth is, I’d eat them even if they were covered in moth dust. My mom never buys cookies like that. She’s always on a diet, and the cookies she buys taste like cardboard.

  “Uh huh,” I nod, fighting the urge to grab them from her hand and eat them Cookie Monster style.

  “Let’s go out back. It’s nice out.” Natalie picks up her backpack from the kitchen floor where she dropped it and passes me. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I follow her lead to a sliding glass door. Her arms are full, so I reach out and open it for her.

  “Leave it open,” she tells me. “The house needs some fresh air.”

  We settle at the table on the patio, both of us tossing our backpacks on top and digging through them for our stuff.

  “I brought my laptop,” I tell her, sliding the silver computer from my bag.

  “Lucky,” Natalie says. “We have one computer, and it belongs to the family.”

  In the next forty-five minutes, I learn two things about Natalie: she’s way more creative than me, and her tongue pokes out of the side of her mouth when she’s focusing.

  “I think we’re almost there,” Natalie says, tapping the end of her pen against the table.

  “We just have to—” I stop short when I hear voices.

  “I don’t understand why you do that. You knew I was having a luncheon for the staff today. This is the kind of shit you pull.”

  The voice is coming from inside Natalie’s house. I look at her, but she’s looking away, her eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth moves, but there is no sound. Please don’t do this right now, she says, the silent words overflowing with her plea.

  “Me?” A second voice, this one screeching. Natalie’s mom? “I went to the church to bring you lunch. I’m sorry for being a good wife.”

  “I’m going to go,” I tell Natalie, moving to stand. She opens her eyes and looks at me, her expression unfathomable. The voices inside continue, growing louder and more fierce. I shove my stuff in my backpack and hope there’s a side gate I can sneak out of. I don’t want to walk in on whatever is happening inside Natalie’s house.

  Our heads turn at the sound of a loud crash, then two slammed doors.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Natalie whispers. Her face is redder than my ears on our walk here.

  Pointing inside, I say, “I don’t know about going in there right now.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s in her bedroom. He’s in his office.”

  So this is normal? It happens often enough that a pattern has developed? I follow Natalie through the house, retracing our steps from an hour ago. We walk back through the living room, only now there is something new about it. The pristine room sports a fist-sized hole in the wall. Pastor Maxwell has a temper.

  I pause in the door Natalie has held open for me. I can’t stand the thought of her staying here in this place. “Come with me,” I say, my tone urgent.

  “Where?”

  “To a place where you can scream.”

  Natalie casts a look into the house, then back to me. She steps out and closes the door behind her. Taking her hand, I hurry her back down the street, all the way to school, and straight to my car.

  She stops when I open the passenger door. “You have a car?”

  I nod.

  “Why did we walk to my house?” she asks, getting in and looking up at me.

  “I don’t know,” I answer, then close her door. I’m prepared for her to demand a better response, but when I open my door and slide in, she doesn’t say anything.

  I drive Natalie to a place where she can scream until her throat hurts.

  “Hey, Lisa.” I wave at the woman behind the desk. “This is Natalie.”

  Natalie waves and Lisa smiles. She turns back to me. “What do you need, Aidan?”

  I make prayer hands and hope I look pathetic enough. “The recording studio for, like, twenty minutes.”

  Lisa gives me a look. “Come on,” I plead.

  Lisa sighs but points behind herself with one thumb. “Studio B. Twenty minutes.”

  Grabbing Natalie’s hand, I waste no time getting back there. There are flips and switches everywhere, but we won’t need any of those. The room is divided nearly in half by a glass wall and a door. I lead Natalie through the door and into the studio.

  “Here,” I say, patting the top of a stool the way Natalie did for me in her kitchen earlier. She sits tentatively, looking at me with uncertainty.

  “I can’t do this,” she half-whispers.

  “Nobody will hear you.”

  “Just you.”

  “I’ll leave.” Without waiting for her to tell me, I turn around and walk out, closing the door behind me. Glancing back through the glass wall, our eyes meet, and I read her lips. Thank you.

  I smile tightly and turn around, leaving the room altogether and going to wait in the hallway.

  The preacher’s daughter is nothing like I thought she would be.

  1

  Natalie

  Sign it.

  Such a simple task. Pick up the pen and sign your name on the line. A few strokes and my name will join his.

  Paper bound us, and paper will cement our ending.

  Three years ago, on our paper anniversary, Henry handed me a roll of toilet paper. On it, he’d written I love the shit out of you in brown Sharpie.

  “Mrs. Shay? Do you need a moment?” The attorney we chose has a voice like gravel and kind eyes. That had surprised me. Before him I thought all divorce attorneys were callous, hardened to the emotion spilling out in front of them. My parents’ attorneys had dull, lifeless eyes. I assumed years of client theatrics had immunized them to personal anguish.

  A deep breath fills my chest, passing slowly through my lips on its way out. I look up into eyes crinkled at the corners. Mr. Rosenstein, our attorney, is dressed in a starched white shirt, navy suit, and plaid bow tie. He may work in New York City, but his outfit says genteel Southerner.

  Clearing my throat, I manage to push words past the lump that has formed. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

  I pick up the pen, its coldness a sharp contrast to my heated palm. My thumb extends, covering the end, and I both hear and feel the click. The sound is thunderous, somehow louder in volume than any of our fights.

  How did it come to this?

  It’s a silly question. I know just how it happened. Epic showdowns decreased in ferocity until the air between us held only silence. Hearts that beat red faded into an unassuming, neutral shade. Eventually we became spectators in the demise of our marriage.

  The pen scratches across the paper, my hand making the familiar loops. I dot my i and cross my t, imagining it as a headline.

  Natalie Shay has just signed her divorce papers.

  This was a monumentally bad idea.

  I should’ve said no when Henry suggested it, but of course not. Isn’t that one of the reasons I left him? His personality was so big, so overwhelming, so infiltrating that I lost my voice. It’s hard to stand up and breathe when waves are keeping you down, and that’s what Henry became. Wave after wave, big ideas and thoughts and criticisms, rolling over me incessantly. I was choking on my desire to be mysel
f. It was either stay and die, or run. I chose.

  Out of habit, or maybe guilt, I agreed to meet him after I signed the papers. My hand dips into my purse, closing around the small box. I’ve done that at least a hundred times since I placed it there this morning. For four years I wore the contents of the box on my left hand and I didn’t touch it this much.

  Henry is late. He’s probably mentally preparing for this moment. He’ll come in swinging, expecting recrimination of all the ways our divorce is his fault. He’s a natural-born arguer. I used to joke that he missed his calling as a litigator. In every joke there is an element of truth, and what I was really saying hid behind the jest. Please stop arguing with everything I say. Please stop listing the reasons why acupuncture is a sham when I just told you how good it makes me feel. Please stop trying to make me feel small.

  My eyes are on the door when Henry walks in. We’ve been separated for five months, and still my heart jumps up, settling into my throat. He looks good. Softness settled into his middle a couple years ago, but it’s gone now. My departure kick-started a new fitness regimen. Out of boredom? Or is there already someone new? The thought makes me uncomfortable.

  Henry scans the small coffeehouse, spots me, and though his eyes light up in recognition, he doesn’t smile. He comes my way, saying excuse me over and over as he squeezes his large, tall frame through tables of seated people.

  When he reaches me, I open my mouth to say hello, but his words are faster. “Did you choose a table at the back just to watch me bump into people?”