The Standout Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Contents

  Part I: Robin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part II: Ted

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part III: Robin

  Chapter 38

  Part IV: Zelda

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Part V

  Chapter 62: Robin

  Chapter 63: Robin

  Chapter 64: Zelda

  Chapter 65: Ted

  Chapter 66: Robin

  Chapter 67: Ted

  Chapter 68: Zelda

  Chapter 69: Robin

  Chapter 70: Zelda

  Chapter 71: Robin

  Chapter 72: Zelda

  Chapter 73: Robin

  Chapter 74: Robin

  Chapter 75: Robin

  Chapter 76: Ted

  Chapter 77: Zelda

  Chapter 78: Robin

  Chapter 79: Robin

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Laurel Osterkamp

  Preview: The Holdout

  Part I: Robin

  Chapter 1

  I wanted to jump but I didn’t have the guts.

  It was one of those moments that I knew would never leave me. I was clinging to the trunk of a solid elm, praying that the rickety old tree house underneath my feet wouldn’t collapse. “You whore!” Clara screamed, her face as red as her hair. I looked to Robert, fruitlessly hoping he might help, but all I saw was his backside, just a pair of khaki shorts and a blue Polo jersey retreating through the freshly mowed back yard. I was paralyzed in equal parts by fear and guilt, wishing I could take it all back, wishing I could be someone else, wishing I could jump.

  It started innocently enough. I met Clara in a fashion design class at a community college that was like a strip mall with classrooms. The arts building was big and stretched out, with lots of lounges and study areas, and there was a coffee shop at the north end that had a fireplace against a picture window.

  On the first day I was early, so I stopped to buy a latte, and I noticed a guy noticing me. You know the type: tall, dark hair, sparkling eyes, well-built. I couldn’t even a find a slight, personality-defining imperfection, like a crooked nose or a chipped tooth, to give his face an endearing dose of uniqueness.

  I gave him a half-smile, secured a cardboard sleeve around my coffee cup, and went on my way to class.

  Before the second class, I stopped for coffee again, and Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome sat in the same spot as before. This time he had an architecture textbook and a sketch pad, and every few seconds he would absently draw something. Then he looked up, met my eyes, and grinned like he knew me.

  I smiled back. With a flick of his head he gestured me over and I responded.

  “What’s your name?” He asked.

  “Robin.”

  “Really? That's so funny. My name is Robert. It's like we're the same.”

  That was the beginning. Before every class I would get coffee, and Robert would always be there, studying architecture, and we would always say hello. One night he asked me out and I said yes. There was no ring on his finger, after all. He seemed put-together, driven, and interesting. I’d thought I hit the jackpot.

  And for a while, it was like I had.

  He didn’t ask much of me. His schedule was busy and mine was too. He had roommates, he said, so he always came to my place, but he never stayed the night. I enjoyed the reprieve from loneliness, but I wasn’t in love, so I didn’t question it.

  And then there was Clara. She was the star pupil in our little fashion design class but she should have been the teacher. I didn’t even know people with her sense of style existed in Des Moines. And with her lovely hair and slim frame, her clothes look fabulous on her. At first I was intimidated, jealous even. She’d come up with these incredible, couture-worthy designs, and I wanted to pick her brain. Perhaps, just by osmosis, I could absorb some of her brilliance.

  Yet she always left before class got out. “Sorry,” she said to the instructor the first time this happened. “My husband is waiting.” They took class at the same time but his got out sooner than hers did, so to accommodate him, she always left early.

  I talked to her every chance I got. “I really like what you did with the last assignment,” I said one time. “The collar is amazing. How you’d learn to create lines like that?”

  She blushed in pleasure, and told me how she’d learned from her grandmother, who used to work with Diane Von Furstenberg and who also owned a whole closet-full of wrap dresses.

  “God, I’d love to see them.”

  “You should!” She cried. “My husband is out of town this weekend. We should have a girl’s night. Come over and see my gramma’s dresses. It’s not just stuff by Diane Von Furstenberg. She was quite the fashion plate.”

  I brought two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates, and Clara’s gramma told us stories about living and designing in 1970’s NYC. Meanwhile we tried on dresses by Tomas Maier, Kenzo, and Halston. By the end of the evening we were giddy and tipsy. Clara's gramma had gone to bed, Clara was lying on the floor and I was on the couch.

  The room was spinning so I spoke to the ceiling. “When I grow up, I want to be your gramma.” If I could sit up and focus, I’d have looked again at all her photos: women with large sunglasses, holding cigarettes and emanating chic. Nothing in her apartment seemed post-1980, except for me and Clara.

  “She’s had quite the life,” Clara responded. “Lots of lovers, lots of adventure, and she was always well dressed.”

  “How did she end up in Des Moines?”

  “She met my grandfather. He convinced her to marry h
im and he brought her out here for work. Then he screwed everything in sight while she grew bored and depressed.”

  My buzz started to dissipate. “Why didn’t she leave him?”

  Clara let out a loud sigh. “It’s harder than you think, to leave your husband when he’s cheating on you.”

  I turned my head towards her. Her neck was arched, her hair was fanned out, and she looked like Sleeping Beauty. What prince wouldn’t value her? “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just a feeling, I suppose.”

  And we left it at that. Eventually, she got up and slept in the bed with her gramma while I slept on the couch, blissfully drunk and unable to think too hard.

  Because I could have put two and two together. Instead, I remained willfully oblivious while my friendship with Clara grew strong and my fling with Robert grew stale. Then, Easter came and Clara invited me to eat with her family. The day was lovely and warm. Clara’s gramma was napping, her mother didn’t need help in the kitchen, and Clara’s husband was yet to arrive to the celebration.

  “Come outside," said Clara. We went out onto the porch. I thought we would sit on the patio chairs and absorb the sun's rays, but Clara was too squirrely to be still. "Look!" she pointed to her tree house. "My dad built that for me when I was seven. When Bobby and I have kids, I want him to build one. Tree houses are, like, a requirement for childhood, don't you think?"

  “Sure,” I replied, though I’d never had a tree house and I’d never actually wanted one.

  “Let’s climb it right now!” Clara, who seemed to operate at extremes, ran towards the trunk with its rickety steps. “Come on,” she cried, and I followed even though I could already taste fear on my tongue.

  I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid of heights. Sure, I feel nauseous and dizzy whenever I’m up high without a barrier to prevent me from falling to my death, but who doesn’t get that way sometimes? So I climbed the half-rotted wooden steps of Clara’s tree house that was built in the early nineties, and I silently repeated the mantra, “You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe,” while we sat up among the branches.

  Then we heard him call. “Clara? Babe, are you up there?”

  And Clara answered, “Hey Bobby! Here we are!”

  I didn’t want to look down but I had to. There he was, freshly showered after his tennis match, looking up while his face fell. Robert was Clara’s husband, and the horrible knowledge of our situation pulsed like a living thing between us.

  “Robert?” I uttered, before I could censor myself, before I thought better of admitting to knowing him.

  Robert was mute. He stood below, his mouth gaping wide and his cheeks flaming red. Clara looked back and forth between us. “What’s going on?” She demanded. “Do you two know each other?”

  Neither of us answered, but Clara was not okay with silence. “Bobby! Is she the reason you’ve been so busy lately?”

  I should have put Clara’s feelings first. I should have stayed silent. But the betrayal was too fresh.

  “You lied to me the entire time?” I said to Robert. “How could you do that?”

  Robert muttered something about not wanting to hurt anyone.

  “No!” Clara cried. “Bobby! Tell me you didn’t fuck her.”

  Instead of answering he just walked off, and Clara turned to me with tears in her eyes.

  “It didn’t mean anything,” I said. “He doesn’t have real feelings for me. Maybe you can talk this through. . .”

  “You whore!” she cried, her face changing from wounded doe to angry wolf. She grabbed the planks of the tree house and started shaking them.

  “Clara, please stop.” I pictured falling, landing in a heap of broken wood, my head hitting the ground, my body as fractured as the tree house would be.

  “You bitch! You man-stealing slut! You pretend to be my friend while you’re screwing my husband!”

  She continued to shake the tree house and I wrapped my arms around the trunk, certain that I’d tumble down, lose my breath and die. Nobody would think I didn’t deserve it.

  “I’m sorry Clara, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I could barely get the words out; they were little more than whispered pleas. Clara kept on shaking the tree house and calling me names, yelling accusations, and instead of jumping to safety, I screamed so loud that her father came out and told her to stop.

  “And I’d never felt worse about myself,” I tell Nick now. He’s on the couch with his feet in my lap, listening to my awful tale.

  “You didn’t even know he was married,” Nick answers. His voice is low and gravelly, and he barely flinches as I recount all the details.

  “But I should have known.” I tug on his big toe, which is safely ensconced in a hole-free sock. “So yeah, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Seriously?” His voice squeaks in question. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  I scan my brain over a litany of parking tickets, overdue library books, and botched Secret-Santa gift exchanges. None of it compares to the shemozzle I just described. “I’m afraid so.”

  Nick sits up and kisses my cheek. “I can totally live with that.” His smile is big and I feel myself smiling back. “Okay,” he says, “my turn. I was fourteen, at summer camp for the first time. . .”

  Happily, I settle in and listen to his tale of lies, deceit, and stolen arts & crafts. Now he knows the worst of me. This intimacy thing isn’t so bad, after all.

  Chapter 2

  “So are you sorry you ordered the trout?”

  Nick’s eyes, which had been darting around the candle-lit dining room, restlessly settle on me. “Huh?”

  “You barely touched your meal,” I say. “Didn’t you like it? Maybe you should have gone with the steak.”

  Nick tugs absently on his dark brown necktie, which happens to match his hair and eyes perfectly. But underneath his normally tan complexion he’s sort of pale. “The trout was fine.” His answer sounds forced. “I just wasn’t that hungry.”

  “Then why did we come here tonight? It’s not like it’s a special occasion.”

  We’re at one of those low-lit steak houses, where people sip G&Ts while carving into huge hunks of meat. The only thing that makes this place unusual is that on weekends, Nick plays swanky lounge music to complete the posh atmosphere. “Besides,” I continue, “I would think you’d get enough of this place.”

  As he reaches to scratch his temple I notice that his hand is shaking. “I have to get up for a minute.” His voice cracks like he’s in puberty.

  “Are you okay?”

  Nick suddenly becomes serious, solemn almost: the calm before a storm. He blinks, widens his eyes and stares into me. “I’m fine. But forgive me, Rocky, for what I’m about to do.”

  “Huh?”

  He nods to someone; I turn and there’s a sound guy by the piano. Nick jumps up, strolls over in broad steps, and the sound guy hands Nick a microphone. Then the restaurant lights dim to practically black, except for one light, that’s turned up directly over Nick’s head. “Excuse me, please!” Nick’s voice is still raspy but he’s determined to command the room. “Excuse me! I need everyone’s attention.”

  The low murmur of dinner conversations diminishes and heads swivel towards Nick. “Thank you,” he says. “I hope you all don’t mind if I play just one song tonight. I’m not much of a singer, but you see. . ..” He gestures towards me and my jaw drops as a light comes on over my head. “. . .This beautiful woman here is my love, Robin. I like to call her Rocky.” He pauses and looks at me like we’re the only two people in the world. “Rocky, you once told me that you’re a sucker for a guy who can carry a tune, so this one’s for you.”

  Then he sits down and tickles the keys with a combination of joy, competence, and frenzy, and all the while his eyes are glued to me. In his lilting voice, he croons the classic Beatles song In My Life.

  I have heard this song many times but tonight Nick is reinventing it for me; heck,
tonight he’s reinventing music in general. When Nick reaches the song’s bridge he has to look down at the keys for a moment, and his dark head is bowed while his fingers both glide and pound out this beautiful, haunting melody that lodges itself in my heart. When he looks up I feel an electric jolt. His cheeks are flushed and his voice cracks on the high note as he declares his undying love. Then Nick abandons the piano, comes straight over, crouches down on one knee and takes out a ring.

  My heart’s in my throat.

  Time stands still. I want to memorize every single one of his laugh lines, the curve of his mouth, the way his hair slopes over his ears, the strength of his jaw and the warmth of his eyes. “So,” he mumbles, breaking the silence. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.” My cheeks are wet and I didn’t even know I’d been crying. Nick slips the ring over my finger, and we stand, wrapping our arms around each other, indulging in the sweetest of kisses. When the room erupts in spontaneous applause, I’m convinced: Cinderella has nothing on me, with her glass slipper and pumpkins at the stroke of midnight.

  I found my prince, and even if he’s sweaty from nerves, his body heat could keep me warm until the day I die.

  Chapter 3

  I suppose this sort of thing happens every day. People fall in love and decide to get married and it’s ordinary, expected even. So maybe it’s also ordinary and expected to believe that I am the only person who’s ever felt this way, to want to grab every stranger I pass on the street and dictate a list of Nick’s attributes. Said list would always end with, “and can you believe it? He’s in love with me.” But reciting the outward manifestations of Nick’s goodness still wouldn’t capture the contents of his heart, and this is how I know I am unique. I am the only person who has ever fallen in love with and gotten engaged to Nick Davies. Simply put, I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

  Somebody was filming Nick’s proposal and it went viral, even making the local news. Nick’s song was brilliant and sweet and adorable and everything he does is newsworthy, but he insists that we got coverage because of my stint on the survival reality-TV show, The Holdout. I have my doubts because I’m less than yesterday’s news; I’m last week’s news, now used to line someone’s bunny rabbit cage.