by Mary
What am I thinking? I want my own brother to be happy, don’t I?
“So. Tonight huh?”
“Yep. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t want to spook her. She’s a little skittish.”
More hope. She didn’t seem that skittish to me. Not when I was kissing her in the Hamiltons’ kitchen.
“Good luck, man.”
He runs over and grabs the ball from where it’s settled on the gym floor and passes it to me. “Your turn. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. It was nothing.”
He frowns but doesn’t press the issue. Then his face breaks into a smirk. “You cool to come out with us on Friday? I have a hot date for you.”
I had nearly forgotten. Since it’s a bye, a bunch of Brent’s teammates plan on meeting up at some hot new club where they can sit in the VIP section and act like kings. Starlee suggested Brent and Gwen make an appearance, and Brent wanted me to come with them.
“Sure, that’s fine.” I take another shot from the top of the key and this time, the ball goes wide and curves next to the net. I’m not even close.
~*~
“How do I look?” Brent stands in the doorway of my office at home and adjusts the tie around his neck.
“Good.”
“Yeah? I’m a little nervous. That’s a first.” He laughs.
“I’m sure it will all work out.” What I’m actually thinking is fuuuuuuuuuck.
Brent looks good. I mean, he always looks good, but all dressed up and in a new suit, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad. Kind of like Gwen.
This sucks.
“Don’t wait up. I’m taking her to the wine cellar at il Buco.” He flashes me one last bright white flash of teeth and then disappears from the doorway. “I’ll see you later, maybe,” he calls.
He leaves, whistling.
I throw a paper clip from my desk onto the floor, watching it land with no sound or effect on anything at all.
I’d make a terrible diva.
How is he going to bring it up, the whole I-want-more thing? What is she going to say?
This isn’t something I have control over. I need to divert my mind.
I spend an hour working on some reports and googling potential career changes. Then another hour watching TV, but nothing is derailing my thoughts and each hour feels like a full day.
What if she goes for it? Why wouldn’t she go for it?
Because maybe she really likes you.
The little voice in my head is an idiot.
Finally, around eleven I go back to my room instead of waiting around in the living room. What if they come back here together? I don’t want to see that.
When I finally hear the door click open after midnight, I listen intently.
Brent’s feet move down the hall with gentle taps into his room.
There’s only one set of steps.
He’s alone. With that thought comes a surge of relief. Whatever happened tonight, she’s not here with him. He’s not at her place either. He’s not removing her clothes or touching her body or kissing her the way I’ve been imagining for weeks.
Part of me wants to run into his room and jump on his bed and ask him what happened, but emulating a tween girl is a bit much, even for me.
There’s no choice but to wait until morning to find out.
Which is why I sleep like shit.
I’m making extra-strong coffee the next morning when Brent comes out of his room, not looking much better than I feel.
He sits at the counter, hunched over his phone, hair rumpled, eyes tired, mouth slightly downturned.
“Coffee.” I hand him the first cup with cream and sugar, just like he likes it, and then push the button to brew mine.
“Thanks,” he murmurs and takes a sip, eyes still focused on his phone, clicking buttons.
I bite my tongue, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to say something.
It isn’t until I’m drinking my own cup and checking my emails on my laptop, trying to ignore the urge to throw it at him, when he finally speaks.
“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
I meet his eyes. He’s more alert now, but there’s still a pinch to his mouth and concern tightening his eyes. “What do you mean something wrong with you? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“It’s just that,” he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, “the women who want me, I don’t want. And the ones I want, don’t want me. At some point, it’s not the world’s fault these things always happen to me, it’s mine, right?”
“Um.” I lean back in the chair and remove my hands from the keyboard. “I take it things didn’t go well with Gwen last night?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“That’s perfectly clear.”
“I . . . couldn’t say the words. I know, it’s stupid, but the signals she was sending were all wrong. So instead I made some moves. Subtle ones, you know, to see if she would reciprocate.”
“And?”
He sighs and his lips press into a thin line. “I couldn’t really tell. She’s super nice, but I feel like . . . I’ve been friend-zoned.”
I grimace. He’s not happy. Inside, I have to squelch the lightness spreading into my chest.
Everything inside me is at war.
I don’t want Brent to be unhappy, but if Gwen had returned his “moves,” whatever those are, no doubt something gorgeous flirty people understand more than us mere mortals, it would have broken my heart. Shit. I don’t want to be that guy, that jealous guy.
Outwardly I’m sure I could fake happiness, even if it did mean dying inside a little every day, but I’m so relieved, too.
I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, man.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is.”
“How much longer do you have to fake date her?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Starlee. It might be a good idea to get some distance, but at the same time, I don’t want to lose my chance. You know what I mean? And we’ve got that double date coming up, Friday night. You’re still in, right?”
I nod.
“Maybe you can help me figure out what she’s thinking. Or maybe you can ask her some questions, something, you know, indirect to find out if she has feelings for someone else maybe? Or to find out what she thinks of me?” He laughs and shakes his head. “I sound like a middle-schooler. Marc, you have to help me. Please?”
I swallow. What else can I say? “I will.”
Chapter Sixteen
Only photograph what you love.
–Tim Walker
Gwen
“I showed the pictures to Warren and he loved them,” Starlee says.
I hold in my urge to squee and jump around the room like a hooligan.
Because I’m a professional like that.
“That’s so great,” I say.
Before Thanksgiving, I called Starlee to tell her the issues I was having with getting her connections to listen to my pitch. She had me send her some of my endangered language pictures with the proposal for that piece. I also sent her an outline for the project I want to pursue abroad.
I’ve been on pins and needles for the last week, but she finally came through.
“He also said there might be interest in your idea at News Weekly, and he’s going to put in a good word for you, if you’re interested in making a presentation.”
“Yes, absolutely!” It’s my dream. It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what I’ve been working on for the last few years, and now it might actually happen.
“Great. They have you scheduled for next Monday. Bring your portfolio and a marketing plan.”
The excitement of that win is dampened by my most recent date with Brent.
Thankfully, it’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen him. Something was different. First we went to dinner at the wine c
ellar at il Buco, not exactly the best place for a prime photo op. I mean, it’s in a freaking cellar. But Starlee wants us out more, acting like a couple in places Joe Schmoe and his camera phone can catch us rather than paparazzi, so I didn’t think much of it. But then there was the walk afterward. He held my hand even inside the car and when he walked me to the door, he leaned. Again. This time wasn’t like Thanksgiving, there was no getting around it. It was unmistakable.
That’s what guys do, guys who want to see if you’re interested. He stood in my doorway, watching my mouth, and he leaned.
I didn’t lean back. I couldn’t. I blurted a quick goodnight and slipped inside my apartment, shutting the door behind me.
What could this mean? We can’t . . . I mean, he can’t . . . So does that mean Brent is having more than friendly feelings for me? God, I hope not. This doesn’t need to be any more complicated. I’m already falling for his brother. His beautiful, kind, selfless brother. And if Brent likes me and I like Marc and Marc likes . . . maybe me? I don’t know. We did kiss, but then it was like nothing happened.
And I shouldn’t be falling for anyone. I have goals that don’t involve relationships.
I’m so fucked.
And I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell anyone the truth, but I have to talk to someone. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that I need to reach out to someone when I need help. And I can’t talk to Gemma. She’ll freak and blow everything out of proportion.
That leaves my one friend in the city. Scarlett. We’ve hung out a few times since she had her cupcake meltdown in my living room. Plus we’ve been texting back and forth occasionally.
And there’s nothing in the NDA to stop me from talking about Marc, even if I can’t tell her the total truth about Brent.
So the day after my disaster date with Brent, I invite her over for takeout.
“How’s the job hunt going?”
We’re sitting on my futon in front of the TV, eating Chinese food and drinking martinis.
“It’s not.” She stabs the kung pao chicken with her fork. “And Mr. Guy I’m a Jerk Face Chapman has basically had me blackballed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I applied for a couple of different dessert chef jobs at Per Se and Daniel and they looked at me a bit funny after I gave them my name. I thought maybe it was because of the article, you know, but I think he’s told everyone about how I burned his jacket.”
I grimace. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes.” She stabs her fork into the container again. “I swear, chefs are the biggest jerks on the planet.” She points her stabby fork in my direction. “Don’t ever get involved with one. No matter how nice they seem or how good they can cook, they’re all egotistical turds.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “I promise I will never date one. Do you want me to punch him in the balls?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Maybe we can find his picture and print it out and throw things at it.”
That makes her laugh. “That might be helpful, too. You’re a good friend, Gwen.”
I smile. “You’re a good friend, too. I’m glad you brought me those cupcakes after that crazy night at Miguel’s. You know, I don’t . . . I don’t really have many girlfriends.”
“Well, most girls are probably intimidated by your looks. They don’t want their men falling in love with you. If I had a man to worry about, I might run out of here, too.” She smiles and I know she’s kidding.
“You’re not completely wrong. The only other friend I had since I moved to the city . . . well, let’s just say that didn’t end well.”
“What happened?”
“I walked in on her with my boyfriend. They were both naked. And, you know.”
“Holy fudge on a rocket.”
“Yep. The worst part was that when I got upset, they acted like I was crazy. Like, why was I so upset? Didn’t I know Lucky and I weren’t exclusive? Didn’t I know he slept with half the city? Even my supposed best friend, who knew how I felt about him, didn’t seem to care. I haven’t talked to her since that day.”
“What a butt-nugget.”
“Yeah, they both are that for sure. The weird thing is, even though Lucky was supposedly my boyfriend who I was in love with, the betrayal from Becca hurt my heart worse, I think.”
We eat in silence for a few moments. Then Scarlett hands me my fortune cookie. “You need dessert.”
“Thanks.”
The wrapper crinkles as she opens hers, and then she holds it and peers at it. “You know, I bet if this Becca was a cookie, she’d be a whoreo.”
I snort out a laugh. “You’re probably right.” We’re quiet again, only the sound of her cookie crunching in her mouth and the TV. Then I say, “If she was an aquatic mammal, she’d be a whorca.”
We both burst into laughter.
“If she made popcorn, she’d be Whorville Redenbacher!”
We laugh so hard for so long that my mouth starts hurting.
When we’ve calmed down and stopped the giggles long enough to eat our cookies, Scarlett says, “You know, I bet that makes it hard to trust people again. After being betrayed like that by the people you love.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Well, just so you know, you can trust me. I won’t tell anyone your secrets and I will never betray you. Mostly because I don’t know anyone else, but also because I believe in doing the right thing, always. It’s like Granny used to say, your word is only as good as your last meal.”
I nod. “That makes perfect sense.”
We talk a bit more about her latest audition and then I tell her what Starlee said and about my presentation scheduled at News Weekly next Monday.
“That’s so amazing!”
And then I sneak out the real thing that’s been on my mind all weekend.
“Also I might have kissed Marc on Thanksgiving,” I mumble the words and immediately take a long drink of my dirty martini.
Scarlett stares at me for a few long seconds. “Isn’t Marc Brent’s brother? You made out with your boyfriend’s brother?”
“Well when you put it like that . . .” I grimace. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“How is that not as bad as it sounds?”
“For one, I’ve never really made out with Brent. At least, not unless it was in front of the press.” I watch her, waiting for my words to sink in.
“You’ve only made out with Brent in front of cameras?”
“Yes.”
Her head cocks to one side. “Are y’all pretending to date?”
“No,” I say, while nodding my head yes.
“This is really confusing.”
I groan and my head falls into my hand.
“Wait!”
I peek through my fingers at her.
She purses her lips for a second before speaking. “Are you and Brent together?”
I shake my head no. “Yes.”
“Is this one of those things where you can’t tell me the truth?”
“No.” I nod my head yes.
“So you’re pretending to date Brent, but you’re falling for his brother?”
“No.” I bob my head up and down.
She rolls her eyes.
I groan. “I’m in so much trouble.”
“I guess so, since we can’t even have a normal conversation about what’s happening in your life right now. But it sounds complicated. What about your presentation on Monday? If that works out, then you won’t be here long enough to have to deal with all this guy nonsense, right?”
“I know. And I would never give up my dreams for a guy. But . . . “
“But? You love Marc?”
“What? No. Uh-uh. Absolutely not. I don’t know him well enough to assign an emotion of that weight to my feelings. But if I leave . . . I’ll miss him. More than I’ll miss Brent.”
“What if he was willing to wait for you? Or
join you?”
I bite my lip. “I can’t ask that of him.”
“Why not?”
“He . . . I don’t know.”
“You’re scared.”
“Yeah.”
She puts a hand over mine. “Thanks for trusting me with your secret. I promise you won’t find me naked with Marc. But you’d be okay if it was Brent, right?”
I laugh. “Yeah. That might actually be helpful.”
Chapter Seventeen
I’ve never made any picture, good or bad, without paying for it in emotional turmoil.
–W. Eugene Smith
Gwen
The only contact I have with Brent this week is via text. Just a few quick messages discussing particulars of our double date, where we are going (dinner and then 1 Oak), what time he’s picking me up (eight o’clock), simple things that mean nothing.
I’m not sure who we’re doubling with, but I imagine it’s one of his teammates since that’s who we’re supposed to be meeting at the club.
Unlike Brent, Marc and I exchange texts and emails all week. We send funny memes and messages back and forth, plus he tells me about trying to leave the company. I tell him how proud I am of him. I know it’s hard. I know it’s scary, but he’s a strong and capable person.
I’m ready at 7:55 when the buzzer rings from downstairs. “Coming down,” I say into the speaker and then give myself one last once-over in the mirror on the door. I went with a simple black, strapless dress that stops just above the knee. Paired with strappy heels and chunky silver jewelry, it’s elegant and classic.
Brent’s waiting for me at the front door in a snappy black and white suit with a thin black tie. He looks great. He greets me with a smile and a quick kiss to my cheek. I’m relieved he doesn’t go for the mouth.
I ask how their last game went and follow him to the car, only half listening while he talks about their recent win and the opposing team’s defensive maneuvering and blah blah blah.
I can see figures in the back seat. Brent opens the passenger door. I slide in and turn toward the back to say hello.