Emma wishes him good morning—reminding me that we’re not alone—and congratulates him on the team’s last two victories. He does exactly as he’s been trained and comments on his teammates’ hard work and their accomplishments, and how well his opponents played. It’s polite and to the point, but a little too on the nose. She asks him a few questions from the list Good Morning America sent over. It’s all the same—canned answers. No personality. No charm. It’s like he’s reading lines.
“They’ve set up an open-air studio near Buckingham Fountain,” Em explains, leaning forward slightly in her seat. “You’ll film the piano piece first and then the interview.”
He nods without looking back at either of us.
Em gives me a questioning glance and mouths, “Nervous?”
“He’ll warm up,” I respond, hoping it’s true.
When we reach Grant Park, a white tent is set up on the gravel that surrounds the giant wedding cake—style fountain. Behind that a temporary awning provides shade to the camera crew and anchors without blocking the cityscape rising over the dancing spray. The water reflects the sunrise, gilding the verdigris seahorses at the base. I can see why they chose this location. It’s gorgeous.
We’re greeted by one of the producers, then whisked into the tent, which is cooled by industrial-sized fans. Emma and I stand off to the side while the hair and makeup crew fawn over Gabe. He turns on the charm under their attention, and the stylist takes extra long fixing his already perfect hair. I’m pretty sure it’s an excuse to stay close to him. Jealousy prickles on the back of my arms, but I ignore it.
Finally, they move on to the next guest because, honestly, how much work can you do on a guy who looks like that? Emma is off in the corner talking to someone she knows. Gabe and I are relatively alone for the first time in a week. I slide up beside the tall studio chair they’ve given him. His right ring finger taps against the chair’s arm like that first day in the conference room. It’s his tell. He is nervous.
I touch the back of his hand, stilling the tapping finger.
His real grin appears—it’s sweeter than the one he’d given the makeup artists—and I know it’s for me.
“Stop fidgeting. You’re going to be brilliant.”
“I’m always brilliant.”
I roll my eyes at his confidence, but I’m also glad he has it. At some level he struggles with insecurity—just like me, just like anyone—but deep down, I know that Gabriel Fortunato truly believes in himself, in his hard work, in his skill. And, I remind myself, that he’ll never achieve his dreams if his insecurities keep him in MLS.
Encouraging him to meet with Geoff is the right thing, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy for him to hear. “Speaking of your brilliance, Emma and Scott really want you to think about playing for Arsenal.”
“Madeline—”
“Hold up. Just hear me out.” I slip my fingers between his and hold tight. “I know you have reasons to hate Geoff, but meeting with him, maybe playing for him for one season, could be your chance at getting back to European soccer. It could open other doors for you.”
He closes his eyes like he’s trying to block me out.
“I know you don’t want to be here. In Chicago. In MLS. But I don’t want you to give up on your passion. You love the game so much. You want to play somewhere big, somewhere competitive. So please.” I squeeze his hand again but get nothing in return. “Just consider it.”
Gabe lets out a long breath before pulling his hand free from mine. “I don’t. Want. To think about it.” His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to draw the closest hair and makeup team’s attention. He notices and stands up, squaring himself in front of me. “I will never consider it. Please don’t bring it up again.”
I look into his eyes and see resolve and a little bit of hurt. Hurt that I caused. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, touching his jacket sleeve. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“Then trust me when I say that Geoff isn’t it.” He walks toward the refreshment table, but it feels like he’s walking away from me.
Emma snags him before he picks up a pastry. “You’re up next. This audience is going to eat this up! Everyone is going to absolutely love you.”
“Because that’s what’s important, right?”
She ignores the acid in his voice, brushes lint off his shoulder, and smiles. “Yes, it is. Especially when you’re a public figure.”
He says nothing, allowing the producers to usher him to the piano, where we snap dozens of still photos of him standing between two of the female hosts. His smile is fake, but I don’t think anyone will notice that when I post the pictures as a teaser. Hopefully thousands of people will watch his segment the moment it goes live.
Because that’s what we want. Isn’t it?
Gabe sits down, wipes his palms on his pants, and begins to play a song from The Greatest Showman, but it’s not straight off the sheet music. He’s mixed in something from a British band I can’t name. It’s phenomenal. He is such a gifted musician. And athlete.
Both anchors are stunned by his talent and a little bit giggly. They do not stick to the preselected questions we prepped Gabe for.
The dark-haired host leans over the side of the piano, elbow propped dreamily on the side, and says, “Tell me: Is there some lucky girl in your life? Someone who gets to watch you play soccer during the day and fall asleep to music like that at night?”
Gabe gives her his practiced smile, the one that’s just a little too dashing to be authentic. “Are you auditioning?”
Everyone laughs. Everyone but me. I stand behind the cameras, watching Gabe play these anchors like he did the piano. He turns up the accent—it usually isn’t this heavy—for their benefit. It’s another tool in his arsenal of charm. These two older women fall for it and all over themselves for a boy who’s barely legal.
I think back to every conversation I had with Gabe, every text, every hand touch and smile, and I wonder if maybe I didn’t fall for it too.
“That’s not a straight answer,” the blond one teases. “You’ve been linked to dozens of models and designers and heiresses. Is there someone like that in your life?”
My breath catches in my throat, and I wait on pins and needles with the rest of the world to hear his response.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, but his eyes land on me. “There’s no one like that.”
My brain tells me he only said it because he protects his privacy and the people he cares about. But a little corner of my heart—maybe pinched by my own insecurities—is telling me that this is his way of saying there’s nothing between us.
AFTER THE SEGMENT ENDS, I RUSH TOWARD THE PARKING LOT, tapping on my phone, cutting and pasting the text that had already been approved for this post. When the car pulls up, I climb inside before the driver comes around to open the door. Gabe must have been right on my heels because he ducks in after me, so I have no choice except to slide across the seat or end up with him on my lap.
Should I ask him what he meant, or would that make me seem stupid? Or clingy? Or needy? I don’t want to be any of those things. I just want a clear answer.
But before I can formulate a question, he asks, “How do you think it went?”
Right. Of course he’s worried about that. “Good. Really good.”
“Good.” He nods once, then focuses on his phone.
I wait, hoping for an explanation because this is a perfect opportunity. The driver is outside waiting for Emma; we’re alone. When the silence stretches, I guess I have my answer. He’s ignoring me in favor of his phone, which makes it pretty obvious that he doesn’t want to talk. I turn to face the car window, so I don’t have to look at him, so I don’t have to notice how his suit jacket makes his eyes more green than hazel. I don’t want to think about the night on the roof. I don’t want to think about his skin against mine or the way my heart races every time I hear his voice.
Emma climbs in, completely oblivious to the tens
ion in the car. She’s thrilled the interview went so well and that both anchors were so charmed by him. “You really have a gift with people. You make everyone believe they’re someone special.”
That is an understatement.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
I PICK UP MY PHONE A THOUSAND TIMES ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, thumb sliding over the keys, drafting an apology to Gabe, then a fake question, then just a hello, but I don’t send anything at all. And I don’t hear from him, which is worse in all of the ways.
My brain—my relentless, cruel brain—has our entire interaction in the Good Morning America tent on repeat. Listening to him tell the anchors there was no one in his life is tied for most mental views with the betrayal on his face when I brought up Geoff.
Friday morning at Velocity is shot. We’re all frantically double-checking last-minute details before we shuttle over to the conservatory. Which is sort of a gift because I’m only left alone with my thoughts on the way over. I try to pretend the weight in my chest is heartburn from a Danish pastry I snarfed down instead of heartache. Which is totally ridiculous, anyway. We kissed one time. Did I actually expect it to mean something to him?
Yes.
When we pull up in front of the Garfield Park Conservatory, I’m momentarily stunned. I visited the conservatory when I was little, but the only thing I remember was goats. One managed to put its head through the fence, bite my shirt, and refuse to let go. I tugged and fought with it before finally calling for help. My mom was busy with infant Cube, and my dad had run off to chase Max, so no one noticed that I was being eaten alive by a demon creature. Eventually, a lady with a preschool group helped free me from the jaws of the horrible beast and delivered me to my mother with the hem of my shirt gnawed to rags.
There’s nothing in my memory about a massive oblong greenhouse that showcases the sky or lush plants with heady fragrances and an intricate mosaic fountain in all my favorite colors. Nope, Little CalaMaddie was so scarred by the goat encounter that she blocked out the gorgeous immensity of two acres of gardens under glass.
The whole building is open for the guests to tour—including the Fern Room, the Desert House, the Aroid House (which I learn means it’s full of flowering plants)—but the auction will be held in the Show House, under a multicolored dome of stained glass. Dinner will be in the attached Horticulture Hall.
The catering company has handled the majority of the heavy lifting, but it takes a while to get the table assignments arranged, the auction laid out, and the intricate details that will make this event something special. By the time we’re finished, Mara, Katie, and I have to hustle to get ready in what I think is the bride’s room when the conservatory is used for weddings.
“Holy Hot Mama!” Katie catcalls me as I walk out from behind the little partition that was set up for privacy. “Are you taped into the dress?”
“No. Well, not really. It’s got these silicon strips that stop it from gaping open on my back.”
I catch Mara’s eyes in the floor-length mirror. “Did your aunt hook you up with that, too?”
Pretending not the hear the accusation in her tone, I open the little jewelry box that holds my earrings and bracelets. “It was a gift.”
“That sounds about right. Your aunt loves to give you things you really don’t deserve.” The bottom of Mara’s full-skirted black dress swishes as she heads toward the door.
I have taken so much of her crap without fighting back, without calling her on it. Anger rolls through my body in a hot wave. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She whirls to face me. “Seriously? You think you deserved to work on the Fortunato account?”
“That was—”
“This is my third year interning. If anyone earned the right to work on that account, it was me. I did my time getting coffee and making copies and learning from the executives.” She grips the door handle so hard I can see her knuckles go white. “And I have enough self-respect to not throw myself at clients so I had some excuse to get on their account.”
“I did not throw myself—”
“Aren’t you supposed to be out there right now, meeting your date? Because that’s what you are. Not a publicist. Not an intern. You’re the next bit of Gabriel Fortunato tabloid fodder. I hope you enjoy your very short time in the spotlight.”
With that, she storms out of the room. Katie and I stand in silence until the echo of the slamming door fades.
“You should file a harassment report with HR,” Katie says.
“It’s not harassment when she’s probably right.”
“Don’t say that. She’s a bully. Period. She wants what you have and is trying to make you feel bad about it.”
I give a pitiful-sounding laugh, then look down at my hands pressed against my thighs. They tremble a little, but not with anger. Somewhere in the middle of Mara’s tirade, I started to wonder if maybe she was right. I had no intention of stealing anything from her or anyone else, but it still happened.
“Just think about it.” Katie grabs the box with my shoes and hands it to me. “You better get moving. William will freak if you’re not out there soon.”
“Yeah.” I step into my gold stilettos, barely able to get the strap around my ankle between my shaking fingers and the cut of my dress.
Katie sees my struggle and helps me get the buckle latched. “She’s wrong, you know.” She gives me her fiercest grin. “You worked harder than any of us.”
“Thanks.” I try to find a smile for her, but it wavers.
“Now, go! Before William comes looking for you.”
AN ACTUAL RED CARPET HAS BEEN ROLLED OUT, LEADING TO THE entrance of the conservatory. Camera crews from the local news stations and the die-hard fan websites line the area beyond the security barrier.
William is just inside the lobby’s doors, pacing back and forth when I reach him. “Glad you decided to show up. Fortunato’s car is the third in line.” He pushes open the door for me. “If you join him as soon as he climbs out of the car, then everyone will assume you’re together.”
It’s too late to back out, too late to fake sick or break my ankle. Tonight, I’m just an intern learning how to handle red carpet events. I shove all my feelings into a tight little package, ignoring the jagged bits of hurt related to Gabe and the serrated corners of Mara’s words.
We edge through the reporters and photographers, then William lifts the barricade for me to step under right as the waiting valet opens Gabe’s car door.
He pauses to button his jacket and freezes. I watch the shock of my appearance hit him. He jolts like someone punched him in the stomach and he blinks a couple of times like he expects me to disappear.
Nope, the fairy godmother worked her magic.
Okay, fine. It was a favorite aunt with a black American Express card. Either way, I’m not going to poof into a pumpkin or a sooty servant before his eyes.
He holds out his hand. I slide close enough to take it. A camera flashes behind me, and he shakes off his momentary daze.
“I hate this,” he mutters.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. “You look nice, too.”
“Dio, Madeline. That’s not what I meant.” He steps in front of me, hands low on my waist, and I’m sure William is having a stroke on the sidelines. “You look beautiful.”
I try not to let his nearness affect my brain, but whatever pheromone Gabe emits is in overdrive. Hazel eyes, olive skin, slightly curly hair. And the suit. I went to school dances with boys in tuxes. This is a different stratosphere entirely: This isn’t the kind of ensemble you rent at the local strip mall, and he doesn’t smell like too much body spray. There is a hint of something woodsy and spicy blowing in my direction, but it’s unquantifiable and even more alluring. I want to press my nose into the side of his neck and breathe deep.
He’s just a client. I’m just tabloid fodder.
The words scrape against the inside of my brain, leaving furrows that instantly fill w
ith an angry sort of hurt.
“Don’t get too heavy-handed with the compliments,” I whisper, straightening his already perfect lapels. “I might get the wrong idea.”
William coughs to draw our attention. “Mr. Fortunato, if you’d please?”
Gabe and I walk a few steps, pose, repeat the process. Someone yells, “Hey, Gabe! Who’s your date?”
He turns toward the voice, smirk on his face. “She’s part of my publicity team. I have to hire people to keep me out of trouble.”
The crowd laughs, and I play along, pretending that he’s just so funny.
After maybe ten minutes, William herds us toward the lobby, then toward some potted ferns in a corner. I drop Gabe’s hand the instant we’re inside the door.
“The waiters are carrying around beverages, but none for either of you.” William straightens the tie of what is probably his nicest suit. It still seems a little worn for this particular crowd. “Just to be safe, I don’t want to see a glass in your hands. With your luck, someone will take a photo, and even though you’ll be drinking water, the media will assume it’s a cocktail.”
Gabe nods along, but I can tell he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “I could hide vodka in a water bottle.”
I bump Gabe with my elbow, but William ignores the quip. “You and Maddie will be seated at the dry table with the rest of the nondrinkers.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gabe asks, mock affronted.
“He’s teasing,” I tell William before he can go into cardiac arrest. “Gabe has promised to be on his best behavior.”
He turns to me, naughty-sexy grin in place. “Did I promise? I don’t remember that at all.”
“Coffee?” William snaps, expecting my confirmation.
“I’ve got it.” I loop my arm through Gabe’s, dragging him toward the entrance of the aptly named Palm House. Trees with narrow trunks and spiked branches scrape against the greenhouse’s roof. Once we’re out of earshot, I step away. “Why do you do that?”
Far From Normal Page 17