“That is the stupidest threat ever.”
She shoves the whole thing into her mouth. “This is what you get for not giving me details,” she says, crumbs flying in every direction.
“You’re using this as an excuse to cheat on your triathlon diet.”
Katie grimaces, her face pinched like she might start crying any second. “I totally am.”
My phone buzzes.
“Is it him?” she asks, still trying to choke down the cornbread.
It is. Seeing his name on the screen sends a jolt of nerves through me.
Gabe: Are you telling me no?
Me: Did you send me another text? I missed the question.
Gabe: The charity banquet.
Gabe: Do I need to find another date? It’s sort of short notice.
“You tell him yes, right now. Or I will do it for you.” She reaches for my phone, but I have the height advantage.
Me: Yes.
Gabe: Yes, I need to find another date? Or yes, you’ll come with me?
It might be my imagination, but I swear he sounds a little frantic. There’s a naughty part of my brain that wants to keep playing with him.
Me: Yes
Long pause. The three little dots start to cycle, but I send a follow-up message.
Me: I’ll go with you.
Katie cheers and then steals my macaroni and cheese. “So what are you going to wear?”
“Oh crap.” I put my hand to my forehead. “I need a dress.”
Katie grins, one cheek still full of noodles. “You need the dress.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
WITH GABE IN NEW YORK FOR A GAME AND THE AUTOMATED system up and running, I have the whole weekend off. Sort of.
Early Saturday morning, Emma drags me out of bed for a fancy brunch at Mortar & Pestle, which seems wrong because I’d rather not go dress shopping with a food baby. That doesn’t stop me from eating a huge plate of brioche French toast with the creamiest custard in history. Em seems to be enjoying our outing as well. She’s buzzy and happy and talking almost as fast as I do.
“Did you have a chance to talk to Gabe before he flew to New York?” She doesn’t look up from her plate of blueberry pancakes, but it doesn’t feel like a passing question.
“I didn’t, but I will when he gets back.”
“You need to. Geoff will be at the banquet on Friday night and is expecting to speak with him.”
My happy feeling evaporates. “I don’t think Gabe will go if he knows Geoff is going to be there.”
“Contractually, Gabe has to be there.”
I put down a forkful of powdered-sugar deliciousness. “Have contracts stopped Gabe from doing stupid stuff in the past?”
Em lets out an irritated huff. “If Gabe will just sit down and talk to Geoff, they’ll work it out. Gabe can’t burn bridges like this and expect to succeed.”
I know she’s right, but I also wonder how she can be so willing to help out her ex-husband. It sort of makes me wonder what’s in it for her besides being professional. A secret bonus? A promotion? Or maybe something more personal? Whatever it is, I can’t imagine that Geoff and Gabe would ever be a good fit as coach and player.
Sort of like me and the Smacker—the ancient ballet teacher that some of the parents at our studio loved because she got great results out of their kids. I was used to getting yelled at by my coaches. Sometimes they even physically corrected an arm or leg placement, but this lady got so frustrated with me that she slapped my thigh to get me to move it. From that point on, I was terrified of screwing up in her class. Instead of the fear making me better, I messed up worse. Finally, I quit ballet and was so much happier for it.
I don’t want Gabe to end up hating soccer, but I also don’t know that he would hate playing for Geoff.
Emma peeks at her phone and jumps. “Put down that fork. We’ve got to leave right now or we’ll be late for our appointment.”
“Appointment for what?”
She beams at me, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’ll see.”
WE GET OUT OF THE TOWN CAR IN FRONT OF A STORE I’D NEVER imagined shopping in. I recognize two of the dresses in the window from the tabloids.
I stop on the curb and shake my head. “Em, no. I can’t shop here. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“But I do.”
“I could never pay you back.”
“I’m not asking for that. All I need is for you to show up at the gala properly attired with a very happy, very reasonable Gabriel Fortunato on your arm.”
Animated conversation. Beautiful breakfast. Couture shopping. Anybody smell a bribe? “Why does this feel like you’re trying to coerce me into doing something?”
“For heaven’s sake, Maddie.” She huffs in exasperation. “The gala is in six days. I had to pull all the strings to get this appointment, and they will not appreciate us being late.”
Em hooks her arm through mine and tows me toward the building. As she swings open the door, the breeze from the air conditioner pushes an amazing scent toward me. Apparently, this bribe smells like jasmine.
“Come on.” Her frustration gives way to a real, albeit slightly tired, smile. “This is something I’ve always dreamed about doing. Don’t spoil my fun.”
A woman in a gorgeous pantsuit greets Emma with a hug and two kisses, then ushers her toward a white leather chair in front of a wall of mirrors. She has a pompadour, giant diamond earrings, and perfectly winged eyeliner.
“Maddie, this is Thatcher Rouge. She is an absolute genius.” She gives me a little push in Thatcher’s direction.
“Lovely. Just lovely.” Thatcher puts her hands on her hips and walks around me in a circle. “You were right, Emma. Your color palette will not suit her.”
She leans close, squinting at my face, and I try not to lean away from her appraisal.
“Mmmm. I have the perfect thing.” She claps her hands sharply and starts walking away.
“Follow her,” Em whispers, as she accepts a flute of champagne from an assistant who materialized out of nowhere.
The dress is red like expensive cars, apples still on the tree, and the lipstick my mother would never let me wear. The wide neckline barely clings to my shoulders, showing off collarbones I sort of forgot I have, then it hugs my body to my knees before flaring out just enough for me to walk.
Thatcher makes it clear that because we’re in a time crunch that this is the dress. It won’t require much alteration, and with the right shoes it won’t even need to be hemmed. My mom always says, “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.” But if she saw the back of this dress—or the lack thereof—she’d throw a temper tantrum to rival the orangutan at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Pounding on glass and slinging poop would have nothing on Mom’s rage.
But standing in front of the full-length mirror, with my hair pulled back in a low, elegant bun that Thatcher held into place with a bobby pin that looks like a corkscrew, I’m certain I have made a mistake of epic proportions. This dress is red, and my back is bare all the way to my waist; knowing that people will see me makes my skin crawl.
Or maybe that’s the plastic, padded bra that’s stuck to my body with heavy-duty double stick tape.
“I don’t know, Em.” I lick my lips, which Thatcher painted with some lacquer the same shade as the dress. It burned like chili peppers and made my lips puff up. Which I guess was sort of the point. “Do you think it’s too much?”
“It’s exactly what you should wear to an event like this.” Thatcher huffs and tucks a strand of hair back into my bun. “Convince her,” she commands, before strutting away like a peacock in a tizzy.
Emma sets her champagne flute on the small side table and comes to stand next to me. “Forgive Thatcher. She’s not used to being questioned. But if you don’t like it or—”
“It’s not that I don’t like it.” I can’t look at myself anymore, fingers worrying the seam at my hip. “I just feel … visible. People are going
to notice me.”
She takes my hands in hers, and her bottom lip trembles a little bit. “So what if they do, Maddie? What are you so afraid they’ll see?”
A totally normal girl. An average girl. A girl stuffed in a fancy dress and in a place where she doesn’t belong.
Emma lifts my chin, and there’s no questioning the tears in her eyes. “I know you’ve never felt as smart or as talented as your brother. I know that was never your parents’ intention, because they were trying so hard not to compare you two to each other.”
Or more likely, they just didn’t think I was comparable.
“I need you to wipe all of that out of your head. Book smarts don’t come as easily to you as they do to Max. So what? You’re great with people. You have common sense. And you work hard for what you want. To me, those qualities are more important than just being smart.” One tear drips down her cheek, and her voice gets higher. “I love your brother. He’s wonderful. God knows I wish you kids were mine. But your parents haven’t done enough, in my opinion, to make you realize how valuable you are.” My eyes start to burn, and she gives a watery laugh. “Don’t cry. It’ll make Thatcher angry.”
Em fans my face, and I can’t stop the snort-laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for, but my point is that it’s okay to be seen. Let Gabe and the team and whoever else is at that gala see how funny and smart and delightful you are.”
Funny and smart and delightful. I can be that. I smooth the fabric of my dress over my hips. “I do look good.”
A hard “Ha!” bursts out of her mouth. “You’re going to be fine, and once people start getting drunk—not you and Gabe obviously—you can disappear. Gabe needs to make an appearance, look happy and sober, and smile for the cameras. Then, you can both leave.”
I know she’s right. So as long as I don’t trip on my entrance or knock over a table or spill a drink on someone, everything is going to be just fine.
She turns me back to face the mirror. “You are so beautiful. Don’t be afraid to own it.”
I look at my reflection and stand a little straighter. “All right,” I say. “I guess we’ll take it.”
“Hallelujah!” Thatcher shouts, as she rounds the mirrored wall where she must have been listening in. “Don’t cry. It’ll leave drip marks on the material.”
Emma and I look at each other and laugh.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
THE ENERGY IN VELOCITY IS FRENETIC. WITH THE GALA ON Friday, there are so many tiny details to attend to: name tags, seating charts, printing the forms for the silent auction, putting together the boxes that will hold the raffle tickets, and on and on and on. There are details that I’d never even considered. Like assigning Table Captains—people who are well versed enough in the team’s charity to be able to speak about it passionately and coherently.
Gabe doesn’t get back until Monday and has practice and team meetings on Tuesday, but we plan to have dinner together on Wednesday at Moretti’s.
Just before noon, I get an email that the office is providing lunch in the Lakeside conference room. I expect to poke my head in, grab a box, and go somewhere to eat. When Katie and I open the door, there’s no food and the entire staff is crowded around the table. Arman, Javi, and Mara stand along the window. Arman waves, but Javi and Mara are whispering intensely to each other and don’t acknowledge us.
I wedge myself between Katie and the suspiciously empty sideboard. “Is this a meeting?” I whisper. “Is the food not here yet?”
“I don’t know, but I’m starving.” Katie wraps her arms around her middle. “I feel like we’re being held hostage.”
“From who?”
“From our food.”
I have to stifle a laugh as Aunt Emma walks to the head of the table. “I called this lunch meeting today to celebrate something remarkable.” She nods to William, who turns on the video projector. A still image of Gabe at the piano fills the whiteboard. Em grabs a red marker from the tray and draws a big circle around the hit count. “This video is officially viral! It’s gotten more than 5.4 million hits in the first seven days. And perhaps the most amazing part is that it was conceived, shot, and edited by one of our interns—Maddie McPherson!”
The staff applauds. From across the room, Arman cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Good job, Maddie!”
And I stand there frozen, cheeks burning, barely feeling Katie’s hands pushing me toward the front of the room.
I stumble toward my aunt, who pulls me into a tight hug, and then leaves her arm around my shoulders. “Because of this video’s success on multiple platforms, Mr. Fortunato has been invited to play on Good Morning America’s Summer Road Trip series, which will be in Chicago on Thursday!”
My mouth drops open in shock as the Velocity staff cheers again. Pride shoots through my veins. I’ve totally done something right. For once in my life, I set out to do a good thing and everything went according to plan.
“At Velocity, we believe in celebrating each other’s victories,” Aunt Emma continues, as Patty rolls in a catering cart laden with boxes from the fancy restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel. “Please, eat and enjoy, before we all have to get back to work.”
Everyone laughs and then the junior and senior executives—who have mostly only thanked me for their coffee—come up to shake my hand and tell me what a fabulous job I’ve done this summer. One even asks if I plan to come back next year.
“Congrats, Mads.” Emma pulls me into another hug. “I’ve already run everything past Gabe, and he’s looking forward to it.”
The words crack like a wet towel across my back, chasing away my happiness with a sudden sting. “He’s looking forward to it? Really? I thought he’d be a little hesitant.”
“He knows it will be good for his image and his future.” She smiles and tilts her head toward me. “Plus, he knows it will be good for you.”
I WORK LATE ON WEDNESDAY AND RACE OUT OF THE BUILDING TO get to Moretti’s. It’s a beautiful day, the bus arrives thirty seconds after I do, and I get to see Gabe. All good things.
The bus is a little crowded, but even that doesn’t dampen my mood. If I were in a musical, I’d do some choreography down the aisle and swing around the pole.
When my phone rings and his name appears on the screen, I almost do.
“Hey! I’m on the bus. Do you think Maria will have risotto again tonight? It’s on the menu so I’m assuming she has it every night.”
He’s silent for a second too long. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t left my apartment yet.”
“That’s okay. I got out of work late.” It’s like a rain cloud is trying to blot out my sunshine, but I’m not going to let it. “Em told me about the whole Good Morning America thing.”
A piano key plunks in the background. “Yeah.” Then it’s painfully quiet. “Good news, right?”
“Do you think it is?”
“Scott and Emma and everyone think that it’s a great opportunity, so it must be.”
I readjust my grip on the overhead bar, thinking about the other big opportunity Scott and Emma think he should take. Now is definitely not the time to bring it up. “And yet, I’m not convinced that you’re convinced.”
He plays some chords in the background, and I can’t help but imagine him in his too-dark apartment with the phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder, posture curved with unhappiness. “I can’t figure out what to play.”
While I believe that’s part of it, I think he’s also worried what people—specifically his family—will say when they see it.
“I can get off the bus at the next stop, pick up some food, and bring it to you.” The bus jolts and a crew of people start to spill out. “We can figure it out together.”
“Madeline.” A hint of humor laces his tone. “If you come over here, I will not be able to focus on the piano.”
I flush all the way to my hairline. “That feels like a backhanded compliment.”<
br />
He laughs, and that heat meanders all the way to my toes. “Just a compliment.”
“Fine,” I say with a happy sigh. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Ci vediamo presto.”
I don’t know what that means in English, but it sounds like a promise.
WE HAVE TO BE AT THE STATION BY 5:30 A.M. EMMA AND I WILL PICK up Gabe on our way, so there’s no chance of him sleeping through his zombie apocalypse alarm clock or having his phone die or whatever possible excuse.
By some miracle, he’s leaning against the side of his building when we turn onto his street. With his navy pants, emerald green blazer, pin-striped shirt, and a pair of loafers that must be Italian, he looks exactly like a photo from a fashion magazine. Seeing him again sends an electric shock through my body, and all the butterflies in my chest scatter in a spastic flurry.
So much for trying to play it cool.
“Well,” Emma says, as she leans across me. “We won’t have to dress him for the occasion.”
“It’s just one more thing that he does well.”
Emma looks over at me, eyebrow cocked.
“I’m just saying that he’s good at a lot of things,” I correct myself, but it makes her bite her bottom lip to stop from smiling. “You know what, never mind.”
“Hmm.”
The car pulls into the half-circle driveway in front of Gabe’s apartment, and he climbs in the front passenger seat. I sort of wish he would have squeezed in the back with us, which is ridiculous. It would have been a tight fit, but it would have given me the perfect excuse to be pressed up against him, to brush my hand against his, to smell that faint woodsy cologne he wears.
I’m wearing a robin’s-egg blue sheath dress that makes me look more like a woman than a stick of celery. That was one of the comments from the WAGs Instagram account, and it’s unfortunately accurate. The dress hugs my nearly invisible curves. Yes, I wore it with the post in mind, hoping Gabe would notice.
When he looks over the back of the seat, I think he does. “Good morning,” is all he says, but the quirk of his lips, the way his eyes linger on me, make it seem like he said so much more.
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