Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  She clears her throat delicately. “I hate to break it to you, honey, but no one really knows that much about him. He was a bit of a playboy when he was younger, but what heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune wouldn’t be? Lots of girls, lots of parties, from what I remember. He was always getting into scuffles with the paparazzi, arrested for DUIs, stuff like that.” She’s staring at me, eyes wide. “But he’s been MIA for the past five years. No one really knows where he went or why he left. There was some kind of scandal with his family, but I don’t think the details were ever made public.”

  Hmm.

  “He’s been out of the country, as far as anyone knows. Tonight at the game was one of his first public appearances since he left when he was twenty-five.”

  “He’s only thirty?” I ask, surprised.

  “I think so.”

  “Yep,” Mark concurs, staring intently at his smartphone screen. “At least, according to Wikipedia.”

  “Oh, honey, let me see!” Chrissy demands, holding out her hand for his phone. Instead of simply passing it to her, he stands up, rounds the coffee table, and squeezes in directly beside her, so they’re sharing a single cushion. Within seconds, he’s settled her back against his chest and wrapped his arms around her so she can see the screen. Her hands rest gently on her rounded stomach as she snuggles back against him.

  I snort. “God, you two are disgustingly cute.”

  They grin in unison and it’s so adorable I want to vomit on the spot.

  “You never told us how you ended up soaking wet on our doorstep,” Chrissy says pointedly. “Or what happened after he kissed you.”

  I grimace. “Ralph happened.”

  A dark look replaces Mark’s typically unruffled expression. “I bet that toolbag was—”

  “Mark!” Chrissy gasps.

  “What?” he retorts. “He is a toolbag. No offense, Gemma.”

  “None taken,” I repeat for the second time tonight.

  “So?” Chrissy prompts, gesturing for me to continue.

  I launch back in, telling them about the intense moment between Green Eyes — Chase — and Ralph, followed by my Cinderella-esque escape out into the rainy night. When I get to the part about the town car pulling up beside me at the curb, Chrissy’s eyes go wide as saucers and she leans back into her husband’s chest.

  “He drove you here?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “You got in the car with a stranger?” Mark’s expression darkens further.

  “Did he kiss you again?” Chrissy demands, before I can answer.

  Looking from husband to wife, I give another hesitant nod.

  Mark mutters, “Not smart,” at the same instant a loud, “OHMIGOD!” explodes from Chrissy’s mouth.

  It takes her a few minutes to calm down, but when she does, I tell them the rest.

  How he called my name.

  How I stopped on the stairs.

  How he walked over to me.

  How he brushed the hair from my face.

  How he kissed me until I couldn’t even feel the rain anymore. Until all I felt was him, his lips on mine, his hands in my hair. Drenched with water, filled with fire, we were soaking wet and burning up all at once.

  “Ohmigod. Ohmigodohmigodohmigod,” Chrissy repeats in a dazed mantra, her eyes unfocused.

  If she’s this unhinged by just a kiss, I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the bet I made… and the way my night almost ended – wearing nothing but my birthday suit in Chase Croft’s apartment.

  “I think what my wife means to say is, ‘Then what happened, Gemma?’” Mark offers, rolling his eyes.

  I laugh lightly. “Then he left.”

  “What!” Chrissy yells, her eyes flying back to mine. “What do you mean he left?”

  “I mean he left. He stared into my eyes for a moment, walked away, and climbed back into his town car.”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “No,” I lie. “But it doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’m giving up men. All men. Billionaires included.”

  Mark’s eyebrows go up.

  “What?” Chrissy squeals.

  “No more men. These lady parts are officially closed for business,” I say decidedly, crossing one leg over the other to punctuate my words.

  “Oh,” Chrissy says, relieved. “I thought you were serious!”

  “I am serious.” My eyes narrow. “Men are rat bastards. Love doesn’t exist — not for me, anyway. And I’m done trying. I’m going to get a dozen or so cats, several high-quality vibrators, enough batteries to last the next decade, and then call it a day.”

  Chrissy and Mark glance at each other, lock eyes, and, after a few seconds, burst into loud, cackling, simultaneous laughter.

  “I’m serious,” I grumble.

  It doesn’t matter. Neither of them is listening.

  ***

  It’s only later, long after Chrissy and Mark have tucked me in on their couch with a pile of blankets and retreated to their bedroom, that I allow myself to drop my man-hating facade and replay the final moments I shared with Chase in the rain — lingering over all the details I’d neglected to share with my friends when they asked about it, for reasons I wasn’t sure I could explain.

  His lips are on mine — consuming me — and I feel wanton, reckless, standing here kissing a total stranger. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, though. I couldn’t stop kissing him at this moment even if someone put a gun to my head and ordered me to walk away.

  My hands find his shoulders, sliding against the wet fabric of his t-shirt, and as soon as he feels the light touch of my fingers against him, his careful control seems to slip. A sound rattles in his chest, as though his restraint is being sorely tested, and his hands tighten around me, so I’m plastered against him. His grip is so fierce, it’s almost painful, but in the best way possible.

  For a few moments, we’re lost.

  In the moment, in the rain, in each other.

  I vaguely register the sound of a door opening nearby, but I for one have so little interest in the world outside his lips, Boston could sink into the damn ocean and I’d barely bat an eye.

  Apparently, he doesn’t feel the same, because suddenly he tears his mouth from mine and steps backward, creating a careful distance between us.

  “Gemma,” he says again in that intense way that makes my name alone hold more weight than a thousand pointless words from careless lips.

  I just stare at him, breathless. Waiting for him to speak.

  For a long moment, there’s silence. When he finally shatters it, his voice is halting.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My eyebrows lift in confusion. “What are you sorry for?”

  “Kissing you.”

  I ignore the flash of hurt that jolts through me. “Don’t ever apologize to a girl for kissing her,” I say in a light voice, echoing his earlier words in the car, hoping to make him laugh.

  His lips twitch a little, but his eyes are serious as he stares searchingly at my face. Before I can say another word, he leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss to the tip of my nose. Then, he turns and walks away.

  I watch as he climbs back into the car and the door slams closed behind him.

  And for a long time after his taillights have disappeared down the street, I stand frozen on the steps in the rain, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Chapter Eight

  Miss Mystery

  The sound of insistent buzzing wakes me from a deep sleep. I groan as I roll over and fumble blindly for my phone, my fingers skidding along the coffee table in the dark apartment. My eyes are still fused shut when I finally pull it beneath the blanket and lift the speaker to my ear.

  “Hello?” I mumble groggily.

  “Gemma! What the hell is going on?!” Shelby’s voice blasts through the receiver.

  “What time is it?” I groan.

  “5:30.”

  A moan of displeasure rumbles from my mouth.

  “
Never mind that!” she continues. “I was about to head out on my run when I saw it. Gemma, how could you not tell me?”

  “Shelbs, my brain isn’t awake yet. I have no freaking clue what you’re talking about.”

  “The kiss! The Chase-Freaking-Croft kiss!”

  My eyes snap open and all the moisture evaporates from my mouth in an instant. “What did you just say?”

  “Gemma, it’s all over the internet. There are, like, a million YouTube videos and the local news channels are eating it up! I’d bet my left tit that by noon, it’ll hit the national circuit, if it hasn’t already.”

  I sit up so fast, my blankets go flying in a blur of fabric.

  “They’re calling you Chase’s Cinderella!” Shelby squeals happily. “You’re famous!”

  Dread sinks into my stomach like a stone. “Do they know who I am?”

  “Well, I don’t think they have your name yet, but they definitely have your picture.”

  “No, this isn’t happening,” I say, shaking my head in denial. “No, this can’t happen.”

  “Sorry, doll, but it already happened. Everyone wants to know the story. Myself included, you bitch.” She huffs in exasperation. “I can’t believe I had to hear about this on freaking Facebook instead of from my best friend.”

  “But…but…” I swallow. “But, it was just a kiss!”

  “No.” I can practically hear Shelby shaking her head. “It was the kiss, with the most elusive, uncatchable bachelor in the country, at one of the most widely broadcasted sporting events of the year.”

  I feel myself starting to panic.

  “This isn’t going to change anything though, right?” I ask naively. “I mean, in a few days, it’ll all blow over.”

  I try not to take offense when Shelby bursts into loud, unapologetic cackles that mock me through the line. “Oh, doll,” she gasps, when she’s finally regained some control over herself. “I’m sorry to break it to you but this is going to change everything.”

  ***

  As soon as I hang up with Shelby, I head for the coffee machine and start a fresh pot — there’s no way I can handle a crisis like this without caffeine. While it’s brewing, I snatch Chrissy’s laptop off the breakfast bar, hop onto a barstool, and log onto the internet. With hesitant, horrified keystrokes, I type CHASE CROFT, CELTICS into the search bar and, before I can talk myself out of it, push the ENTER key with my face screwed up in a grimace of foreboding.

  Half a second later, the screen is full of video clips, news stories, and stills of the man whose star power my best friends clearly did not exaggerate in their descriptions. I hit the image-filter and begin to scroll down the page. Picture after picture assaults my eyes, each depicting various views of the same thing: an insanely attractive man holding a girl in his arms on a basketball court, their mouths fused together.

  Holy. Shit.

  I click on one image, and immediately see it’s attached to a news article from the USA TODAY website. Another is credited to PEOPLE. Then there’s ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. And THE BOSTON GLOBE. Oh, and who could miss the absurdly large headline stamped across the TMZ photo of my semi-terrified face, caught unawares as I fled the stadium?

  MISS MYSTERY! Who is Chase Croft’s Secret Lover?

  I soon see it isn’t even the worst of the headlines. In fact, they’re all pretty terrible. The more I read, the more I want to slam the laptop closed, give up the lease on my apartment, and move to a secluded cabin by a pond in the wilderness, without internet or cellphone cameras or gossip magazines or billionaires with really freaking awesome kissing skills.

  Thoreau did it. Why not me?

  KISS-CAM! Billionaire CHASE CROFT Returns to Boston with a Bang!

  ALL ABOUT THE CHASE: Playboy at the Playoffs!

  CHASE-ING SOME TAIL! CROFT’s New Girl!

  CELTICS Score! (and so does CROFT): See the Exclusive Photos!

  They go on and on and on.

  For the most part, they have minimal details about me, which makes me breathe a little easier. Nearly all of them are focused on Chase’s abrupt return to the States after his five-year absence, and offer no more than speculation about who the “mystery woman” he kissed last night might be. A few of them are outright fabrications.

  For instance, according to Perez Hilton, I’m an exotic dancer named Bethany Sinclair, who frequently attends NBA games in the hopes of landing a rich player as my husband. On the other hand, Mario Lopez thinks I’m an ex-Celtics cheerleader named Shareena Troiani, who was injured two seasons ago but still gets team benefits from time to time. And the Fashion Police, god bless them, just want to know why on earth I’d wear a cocktail dress and Chuck Taylors to a basketball game.

  I admit, that last one makes me smile.

  I’ve just started to relax a little, when one particular headline jumps out at me.

  CROFT’S Courtside Cinderella: Who She is and Why She Ran — We Have the Scoop!

  I click on it, a flutter of unease ribboning through my stomach.

  When I see the story source is the KXL - BOSTON website, I nearly fall off my barstool.

  This can’t be good.

  And it isn’t. Because KXL, the bastards, have capitalized on the fact that the tickets they provided are what led to such a sensational new story. And they’ve all too eagerly given up the name of the woman who won those courtside seats on the radio yesterday.

  My name.

  In big, bold letters, scrawled across the top of the page.

  FROM CALLER 100 TO KISSING CROFT, GEMMA SUMMERS MAKES THE MOST OF HER KXL WIN!

  Holy. Freaking. Shit.

  ***

  When Chrissy and Mark find me ten minutes later, I’ve started to hyperventilate. Mark hands me a paper bag and tells me to “breathe” which earns him a glare from both me and his wife, while Chrissy passes me a giant mug of coffee with not enough sugar and too much milk. I’m too distracted to be picky, at the moment, so I drink it anyway, barely tasting the hot liquid as it slides down my throat. As for the bag, I wad it into a ball and throw it at Mark’s head as soon as his back is turned.

  He just grins at me and heads to the nursery to get the baby, who’s begun making adorable gurgle-whimper noises to let the world know that he is, in fact, awake now and ready for some breakfast, thank you very much.

  “Look, it’s not so bad,” Chrissy says, reading over my shoulder. “Most of them haven’t put it together that it’s you yet.”

  “Mmm,” I hum cynically. “And how long is that going to last, exactly?”

  “At least another hour or so,” Mark says, walking back into the room with Winston in his arms.

  My eyes lock on the towheaded, tousle-haired one-year-old, who just so happens to be my godson, and I hold out my arms for him. “Gimme that baby.”

  “He has to eat first,” Chrissy objects.

  “It’s 6 a.m. and I’m already having the worst day of my life,” I point out. “I need a little baby therapy.”

  Mark laughs as he passes his still-sleepy son into my arms, and I immediately inhale that indescribably amazing baby smell as I hold him close.

  “Hi Winnie,” I coo, bouncing him up and down on my lap. His high-pitched giggle of joy instantly makes me feel better. “Who’s the best boy? You are! Yes, you are!”

  Mark and Chrissy roll their eyes, but allow me five full minutes of ignoring the world while I make funny faces at Winston and delight in every nonsensical noise that comes out of his tiny pink-bowed mouth — probably because they’ve found a link to the YouTube video, and are watching my Kiss Seen Round the World with rapt attention and pithy commentary.

  “Look, Mark! There she is!”

  “I see her, hon.”

  “Look, my bridesmaid dress! I picked great dresses. I was an awesome bride.”

  “I know, hon.”

  “I told her to wear that, you know.”

  “I was here, hon.”

  “Ohmigod! Look at that! He’s kissing her! With tongue!”


  “I could’ve lived without seeing that, hon.”

  “Oh, and look at that little weasel, Ralph! He’s so pissed. But he totally deserves it. He’s a weasel — don’t you agree, Mark?”

  “I agree, hon.”

  And on and on it goes.

  When Mark finally reclaims his son, I turn back to the screen with a dejected huff.

  “Oh, look!” Chrissy says. “They’ve also linked the recording from your radio call! We have to listen.”

  I groan and drop my forehead into my hands. “I don’t have to listen, I was there, remember?”

  “Well, we weren’t!” She clicks a button to queue the audio before I can stop her, and suddenly the KXL host’s voice is booming through the speakers.

  “Congratulations, you’re our lucky 100th caller! Give us your name!”

  I wince when my own voice, tinny and far too nasally, fills the room.

  “Gemma. Gemma Summers.”

  “From?”

  “Cambridge.”

  “Well, Gemma Summers from Cambridge, you’ve just scored two courtside seats to tonight’s playoff game!”

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Why, oh, why had I given them my last name? And why couldn’t I have lied and told them I was from some ridiculous Massachusetts town, where they’d never be able to find me? Like Marblehead. Or Swampscott. Or Sandwich.

  They’d never track down Gemma from Sandwich.

  Mark’s voice cuts into my mental ramblings. “So, remember how I said you had at least an hour or so before they put it together that you’re the mystery girl?” he asks, looking at me with a regretful expression from across the room.

  I gulp. “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’m guessing you have more like ten minutes, now.”

  “Damn.” My forehead drops to rest against the cool granite countertop as all hope flees my system. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Canary

  A half hour later, life as I knew it is over.

  Dressed in a borrowed pair of Chrissy’s too-long jeans, which I had to cuff three times at the bottom, and a boxy, oversized sweater that makes me look like a spokesperson for The Gap, I manage to fly under the radar for the entirety of my twenty-minute subway ride across the river to Cambridge. No one looks at me twice, even as I walk the three blocks from the station to my building.