by Mae, Amelia
***
The night of the party, I pad around my room considering my wardrobe options. Of course, the green dress that Kelvin suggested lies on the bed alongside a jeans and tee shirt option as well as shorts and a tank top. Clearly, my life doesn’t involve me getting dressed up all that much.
Also, I just don’t own much clothing.
I change out of my sweats and wiggle into the green dress. Typical Irish cliche maybe, but deep emerald green is my favorite color. With my auburn hair and green eyes, the dress makes me look like the walking poster child for my homeland, but it does look really nice. I add some heels and light makeup.
I decide I look okay. Maybe even better than okay. Maybe even good enough to strut into a glamorous party and turn a few heads.
But then what if I’m the only one this dressed up and I look like I’m trying too hard and people are whispering about me and look at the overdressed girl with the accent. She’s so done up, she thinks the party is about her.
I immediately change out of it. No dress, not tonight.
Ugh, my inner voice of self-doubt gives me headaches sometimes.
I put on the jeans, which fit tightly, and borrow the tank top from outfit number three, which is lacy and a little bit sexy. I put on flat sandals and leave the house before I can let myself spend any more time fretting over my outfit.
Before arriving at the party, I text Kelvin to let him know that I’m a few minutes away and get a reply instantly.
Kelvin: Come on up. It’s just me, Dean and his cousin.
Jane: Am I too early? I can wait.
Kelvin: Don’t be ridiculous. Come up.
Dean’s cousin, who apparently lives here, buzzes me in and I wave hello to the doorman on my way to the elevator. He looks at me strangely but doesn’t say anything.
I press the button for the appropriate floor, realizing that I’m going to the very top of the building. Great, Dean’s cousin is both rich and flashy. Maybe I can stand in the corner and get ignored by some heiresses or trust fund children or something.
Still, my heart is in my throat as I knock on the door.
It’s just three people in there, Jane, I remind myself. Just Kelvin, Dean and one other guy. You’re going to be fine.
Kelvin opens the door and wraps me up into a big Kelvin hug.
“You came,” he shouts.
“Did you think I would bail?”
“Yes.”
“Well…”
He has a point.
“Don’t I always show up for you?” I ask.
He smiles.Because I’ll always show up for him.
“Come in,” he urges, leading me into the spacious living room.
It’s rather tasteful for a single, rich guy. I pictured the stereotypical black leather furniture and trashy pseudo-art of bachelor pads on television. Maybe even a naked lady painting over the fireplace.
But this room is quite nice, actually. The furniture is suede and wood. There are a few guitars mounted to the wall. And the place actually looks like it’s been lived in. Not all sterile and lonely.
“Hi, Dean,” I say with a little wave.
Dean barrels into me and wraps his arms around me much like Kelvin had. It’s fine, but it does catch me a little off guard, and I end up kind of smushed against this chest with my arms in front of me in a way that can’t be comfortable for either of us.
“Want something to drink?” he asks. “Kelvin told me that you’re a hard cider person, so we’ve got Magners and Angry Orchard.”
“Magners would be wonderful, please.”
Dean heads to the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I call after him.
Kelvin lets out a deep sigh, looking at me. I wonder if he’s disappointed that I didn’t dress up more, but looking at his own designer jeans and fitted tee shirt, I decide that I’m probably okay.
“I’m so glad you came tonight,” he tells me.
“Of course,” I say. I look around. “How many people you think are coming?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a couple dozen. But they’ll all be arriving fashionably late.”
“Ah,” I say. “Glamorous Los Angeles types, I see.”
Kelvin looks at me rather forlornly. He’s the only one who knows that I used to secretly dream of being a glamorous Los Angeles type.
“Gives us time to catch up,” he says.
Dean returns with drinks for all of us, and we sit down on the suede sectional.
“So this is your cousin’s place?” I ask as Dean sips his drink.
“Yes.”
“He must do well for himself.”
“He does,” Dean supplies. “He’s a musician.”
“Oh. Interesting. What kind of musician?”
Kelvin, for whatever reason, starts laughing uncontrollably.
“I don’t get it. What’s so funny?” I wonder.
“Jane, there’s something that we didn’t mention about Dean’s cousin,” he answers.
Just then, I hear someone opening the front door.
A man lets himself into the apartment. A tall man. With wheat blonde hair, reddish scruff on his face, a muscular frame and big blue eyes I’d know anywhere.
Dylan motherfucking Cotter.
Oh, fuck.
I think I might vomit. My legs don’t work, and I’m starting to feel like I’m going to pass out.
My head hammers. Breathing is becoming a chore. I start to feel dizzy and lightheaded. All the tell-tale signs.
I’m having a panic attack.
I take shallow breaths and try to focus on Kelvin. On my cider. Anything but Dylan Cotter.
“Dylan, this is my best friend, Jane,” Kelvin says.
Or at least that’s what I think he says as I now feel like we’ve all moved underwater, moving in slow motion and speaking like the teacher in those Charlie Brown cartoons.
“Jane?” Dean asks. “Jane, this is Dylan.”
“Why?” I stammer.
“Huh?” he asks.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your cousin was… famous?” I choke out.
“That was the funny part, Jane,” Kelvin says. “We didn’t tell you he was in Say Yes because we know you hate that band so much.” Kelvin turns to Dylan and adds, “No offense.”
“None taken,” Dylan says.
I say nothing. I just stare at him. For a long fucking time.
He stares back.
“Hi Jane,” Dylan finally says.
“I… I don’t hate your band.”
I’m totally lightheaded and the sip of cider I’ve taken churns in my stomach.
“I’m sorry.” I stand up and head toward what I assume is the bathroom. “I’m… sorry.”
I rush to the nearest room and shut myself inside, slinking down to the floor and taking in breaths as quickly as I possibly can. I feel the tears pool in the corners of my eyes, but I fight them back.
“Should I go talk to her?” I hear Dylan ask.
“No, let me,” Kelvin says. “She gets like this sometimes.”
Then I hear a knock at the door. I’m apparently in some kind of linen closet. Great. What a great first impression.
“Jane, let me in,” Kelvin whispers softly. “Please.”
I open the door, and Kelvin sits on the floor of the linen closet next to me. He gives me a sympathetic look.
“I thought you were doing better with those,” he whispers, taking my hand.
“I was. I haven’t had a full-on panic attack like this in years.”
“So what’s going on?” he asks.
“Ugh, I’m so sorry, Kelvin,” I whisper. “You’ll be okay if I fuck off home, yeah?”
“If that’s what you need to do,” he says. “I’ll drive you back. But would you at least tell me what happened out there? I mean, I know you don’t like his music but Dylan’s actually a pretty nice guy. Kind of a looker too, I mean… God…”
“I slept with Dylan.”
Kelvin blinks. He looks like his eyes
are about to bug out of his head.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then…
“What?”
“I hooked up with Dylan Cotter,” I tell him. “It was, like, seven or something years ago. He came into that bar I was working at in the valley one night, and he hit on me. I don’t know. One thing led to another, and I took him home.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
Kelvin looks shocked, but also a little impressed.
“How have you never told me that you fucked Dylan Cotter?” he exclaims. “Seriously, I thought you told me everything.”
“I never told anybody.”
“Holy shitballs. What happened then?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I answer. “I woke up and he was gone. No number or note or anything. He just ran out before I woke up.”
Kelvin opens his arms to me and lets me lean against his shoulder.
“Then a while later, that fucking song came out,” I say.
“As she closes down the bar,” Kelvin says, repeating the famous lyric.
Then he gets it.
Kelvin looks like he’s fighting a laugh.
“Fuck you,” I snap at him. “What’s so funny, asshole?”
He snorts. “Just… how many girls sit in your bar and are like, ‘Oh, this song is about me,’ and… God, they’d probably all fucking die to be you right now.”
“Yeah. Having a panic attack in Dylan Cotter’s linen closet,” I lament. “I’m sure they’re positively green with envy.”
Kelvin quiets down.
“How are you feeling now?” he asks, worried. “I mean, you look a little less pale.”
I laugh. I’ll never not look pale.
“I mean…”
“I know what you mean,” I say with a laugh. It feels good to laugh. And to breathe normally.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks. “I’ll drive you home.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let me see how many people are out there. Maybe I can make it a little longer here.”
Kelvin smiles.
“Maybe. I make no promises.”
Kelvin helps me to my feet and leads me back into the living room.
4
Dylan
“Wow, the powers of celebrity, I guess,” Dean jokes.
It doesn’t land.
“Jane’s a sweetheart, but she’s a little odd,” he continues.
“She’s not odd, she’s having a panic attack,” I argue. “I’m going to see if she needs water or something.”
I’m about to head to the kitchen when the closet door opens and Kelvin leads out a shaky redhead with pretty green eyes and a Nightmare Before Christmas tattoo.
Jane. My Jane.
Christ, I can’t believe that after all this time, Jane wanders into my apartment. I’m still a little stunned.
I’ve barely noticed that a few more guests have trickled in including Ian and Cora, who come up to greet me.
“What’s the matter, Dylan?” Cora asks. “You look a little shell-shocked.”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
I watch as, across the room, Kelvin leads Jane to the kitchen. Ian, his arms still around his wife, follows my gaze to see what I’m looking at.
“She’s cute,” he says.
“Yeah.”
Ian starts talking about Cora or the upcoming release of our fourth album or something, but I block him out. I watch Kelvin and Jane in the kitchen. She helps herself to a glass of water, and Kelvin watches over her protectively. I’d be concerned about his intentions if I didn’t know that Kelvin wasn’t into women.
That’s when I realize that I’m jealous. Like, horribly jealous.
And I’m kind of mad at myself about it. I mean, Jane locked me out that morning after all. Shouldn’t I be the one panicking about seeing her again? She rejected me after all.
“And then the entire audience turned into the cast of the Muppets and the building exploded,” Ian concludes.
“What?”
“You haven’t heard a word I said, did you?”
No.
“I’m sorry, I need to step outside,” I tell them, excusing myself from my own party.
I take the elevator all the way to the ground floor and wave to the doorman as I step outside onto the street.
It’s been a brutally hot summer, but there’s a nice little breeze tonight. I lean against the building, just taking in the cool night air. There are a number of clubs and bars nearby and Friday nights are usually pretty loud around here. But tonight, I hear nothing.
Suddenly, the door opens behind me.
“Thank you for coming,” I hear Kelvin say. “Is your Lyft here yet?”
“I haven’t called it.”
That’s Jane answering.
“I just needed a minute outside first,” she says.
“Call now. I’ll wait with you.”
“Go back to the party, Kelvin,” she says. “It’s a busy night here. I’m not alone and it’s still pretty early. I’ll just catch my breath and I’ll call for a ride when I’m ready. Please go have fun.”
Kelvin sighs. “Okay.”
I watch them hug. He kisses her on the forehead, and she smiles.
“Call me and let me know you got home okay, yeah?” he orders.
She nods and watches him head back inside.
I’m pretty sure that she still doesn’t see me I wonder if I should say something so that I don’t startle her, but then her voice snaps me out of my internal debate.
“I see you there,” she says. “Hello, Dylan.”
God that voice. I remember everything about that night we spent together, but the one thing that I remember most was her voice. The tinny little trill sound she made on her Ls. The hoarse, ragged way she cried out my name.
“Jane,” I say.
And then I just stare at her. She looks the same, really. Same deep red hair and fine smattering of freckles. She’s added to her tattoo sleeve. Her eyes are wearier, but still that brilliant shade of seafoam green.
Still fucking beautiful.
She’s wearing a sleeveless top and tight jeans in muted colors that she probably thinks help her blend into the crowd, but they don’t. Jane could wear a paper bag and stop traffic. I don’t think she realizes it, though.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I didn’t mean to react like that…”
“I’ll drive you home,” I blurt out suddenly. Tactlessly. Before I can control it. “I overheard you talking about a ride share.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I tell her. “I’m in the garage, if that’s okay.”
“Dylan, you have a party going on upstairs.”
I still love the way she says my name.
“Fuck that. Let’s go.”
I lead Jane back inside and to the elevator where we silently ride to the garage level. I open the door to my car for her and help her into the passenger seat.
Still, we’re quiet.
We’re on the road and on our way into the valley when I realize…
“Wait,” I start, “where do you live now?”
She laughs a little. It makes me smile.
“Van Nuys,” she says. “Not far from where I used to be.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You actually remember where I used to live?”
I don’t answer. Yes, I do, though.
I pretend to be concentrating hard on driving as I turn to get onto the freeway. There’s very little traffic going our way, and for the first time since I moved to Los Angeles, I’m actually ungrateful for the clear roads. I have so many things that I want to say to Jane and I need more time to phrase them the right way. I could use some rush hour bumper-to-bumper to buy me some time.
“Jane?” I finally ask.
She looks over.
“Why do you hate my band so much?”
I’m teasing, but I don’t think she realizes it.
<
br /> “I don’t hate your band,” she whispers.
“Really?”
“No,” she replies.
Then she’s quiet.
“Just that one song,” she finally admits.
I play dumb. “Which song?”
She rewards me with the eye roll of the century.
“The one about you?” I ask, more seriously.
“Oh, it’s about me?” she asks, trying to play dumb too. But she’s even worse at it than I am, and I tell her so.
She just shrugs.
“I didn’t know,” she says dryly. “I mean, I hear it all the time, but I’ve never really listened to the words.
“You’re a terrible liar, Jane.”
We’re silent for a while. Until she suddenly pipes up again.
“At least you picked someone pretty to play me in the video,” she says, still staring straight ahead. “Even though she looked nothing like me.”
“Yeah. She did a good job, though,” I state. “That was Ian’s wife by the way. Cora.”
“You dated Ian’s wife?” she blurts out.
“You pay attention to who I date?” I ask, calling her on her bullshit.
“No,” she snaps.
“Then how do you know about me and Cora?” I ask.
“Um… gossip rag. Maybe Kelvin mentioned it.”
“We weren’t that famous at the time, Jane,” I point out. “If you knew who I was dating, it was because you made a genuine effort to know.”
Jane gets quiet, knowing I’ve caught her in a lie.
“And, for the record, Cora and I weren’t really dating,” I tell her. “We were just faking it for the cameras. She was totally in love with Ian the entire time.”
“So you weren’t as broken hearted as TMZ made you out to be?”
I have to laugh. Jane, despite trying to remain stoic, actually looks relieved.
“No,” I tell her, “I was beyond relieved that we could stop pretending. In the beginning, they were pretty good at sneaking around when the cameras weren’t on them. But, you know, when they started falling even harder for each other, there was a lot of jealousy. Ian even punched me in the face once. Then the whole charade became way more difficult to keep up.”
“I see.”
“Plus, the last thing I wanted to do was keep two people apart who clearly belong together.”