Forked

by Melanie Harlow

  hallway. Glancing at the door, I expected to see Mia pop back into the frame and brace herself against it, her eyes wild with panic. I held my breath.

  No Mia.

  But my phone pinged with a text.

  NO NO NO NO NO

  “Wow.” Swiping my phone off the desk and into my lap so Angelina wouldn’t see it, I turned off the sound and cleared my throat. “That is short notice. And what’s this about TV people? You’re on a reality show?”

  “I’m not exactly on it yet. But I’m being considered for this show called Italian-American Princesses. They’re looking for girls to star in the premiere season, see. So I applied, and they think I might be the perfect fit. Some producers are coming to scout the location and meet me and everything, and I figure what better way to show them my star potential than to throw myself a big party? Right?”

  “Right.” While she was talking, my phone buzzed in my lap, three times with only a second in between.

  TV PEOPLE???

  DON’T DO IT!

  NOT ENOUGH TIME!

  “Look, I can pay extra or whatever,” said Angelina. “I already sent the invitations. And I know exactly what I want, so all’s you have to do is arrange it.” She made it sound like she’d already done all the hard work, and I’d just have to make a couple calls. In reality I’d have to bust my ass to pull off an event that big in such a short time because I was guessing her list of exactly-what-I-want was long, specific, and ridiculous.

  Which meant expensive.

  Bring it on, princess.

  My phone continued to blow up with texts from Mia as I broached the subject of cost. “Angelina, I’d like to help you, but parties this big can get expensive. What’s your budget?”

  5 REASONS YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE ON THIS PARTY

  She pursed her frosty pink lips. “I don’t care what it costs. The important thing is to make a good impression. A big impression. Unforgettable, you know?”

  1. HER TWITTER HANDLE IS @SPOILEDROTTENBITCH

  “Unforgettable, yes. OK, well, ballpark it. What are you comfortable spending?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugged. “Fifty thousand maybe? A hundred? I got no idea what this shit costs but my dad said he’d pay for whatever I wanted.”

  2. CREEPY LONG FRENCH MANICURED TOENAILS + FROSTY PINK LIPS WITH DARK LINER = BAD TASTE.

  I blinked at her. Twice. Had I heard right? Fifty to a hundred grand? For an engagement party? Visions of myself mixing up cocktails in my cat-pee-free dream house danced in my head. “Uh, for that kind of money, you can have more than big.”

  She smiled and snapped her gum again. “Good because I want ginormous. But it has to be perfect.”

  3. SHE CARRIES AN ANIMAL IN A PURSE. IT WEARS A CROWN.

  “Ginormous it is.” As long as she didn’t expect me to don a tiara, I didn’t give a crap what she put on her dog’s head.

  “Ginormous and perfect.” Her voice was slightly sharper. “You’ll get all the things I want, right?”

  At this point, I experienced a frisson of doubt. I had faith in my ability to design an amazing event, but Angelina might be a difficult-to-please client with over-the-top taste. As if Mia was mind-melding me, which she sometimes did, her next text said,

  4. SHE WILL CHANGE HER MIND EVERY FIVE MINUTES AND BLAME YOU FOR NOT KNOWING WHAT SHE WANTS.

  My hand shook as I typed in the date on the contract. “Of course I will.” Crap. Maybe I should have asked what all she wanted before saying I’d do it, but it was too late now. “Shall we talk details?”

  “Sure.”

  “Venue?”

  “Easy. My parents’ house. Outside on the lawn.” She gave me a tony address on Lake Shore Road and I wrote it down. It actually wasn’t too far from where my parents lived, which would be helpful. So far so good.

  5. HER FATHER’S TRUNK IS PROBABLY FILLED WITH BODY PARTS OF EVENT PLANNERS WHO GOT THE DETAILS WRONG.

  At this point, I turned my phone off and dropped it into my purse. “OK. I assume the yard is big enough for a couple tents?”

  She stared at me. “Uh, yeah.”

  Of course it was. At that address, you could probably set up the Ringling Brothers Circus on the front lawn, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was on her list of requests. Grabbing my note pad and pen, I elbowed my laptop aside and glanced at the page with the real estate numbers on it. Suddenly they didn’t seem so depressing. Smiling, I flipped to the next blank page and jotted Spackatelli Party at the top. “All right, what else do you have in mind?”

  “I want a champagne fountain, a big dance floor lit underneath by sparkly colored lights, a band and a DJ, fireworks, a ice sculpture of me and Lorenzo, and—”

  “Wait a minute.” I held up one hand and paused my frantic note-taking. “You want an ice sculpture? In August?”

  “Yeah. I saw it on Bridezillas once.”

  God help me. “I’ll see what I can do. How about food?”

  “Ciao Bella’s gonna cater dinner. The owner is a friend of my dad’s.”

  “Great,” I said, relieved. “I’ve worked with them a lot. That makes it easy on me. Are they doing dessert too?”

  “Yeah, they’re doing a cake and some pastry trays. I love those anus cookies they have there.” My pen froze mid-word, and I looked at her without raising my head. Had she said…anus cookies? I glanced over my shoulder toward the door, halfexpecting to see a cameraman there, filming us. This had to be a joke. “I’m sorry…what kind of cookies?”

  She looked annoyed. “Anus or something? Or maybe it’s Annuss? I don’t know how you say it. But they’re really good. They taste kinda like licorice.”

  “Oh, anise.” Relieved, I sucked my lips between my teeth so I wouldn’t laugh and lowered my chin in case my eyes gave me away. Fucking anus cookies. I couldn’t wait to tell Mia about that one.

  We went over more details, including tables and chairs, flowers, bringing in the bar, hiring servers and bartenders, arranging for bathroom trailers, and we discussed a few local bands. To my relief, other than the ice sculpture and maybe the fireworks, nothing Angelina wanted seemed impossible, especially with her huge budget. Outlandish, maybe, but not impossible, especially once I explained to her that the city probably wouldn’t let her have caged tigers on the property (apparently her fiancé was a rabid Detroit Tigers fan). I held my breath as she took in the disappointment, but she handled the news OK. While she was there, I made some calls and was able to book vendors I knew and trusted for all rental items, a florist, and a DJ. We put in a call to the talent agent I used for live music, and touched base with the woman in charge of catering for Ciao Bella.

  Holy shit, I might actually pull this off. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I noted the vendor names on the contract. No, not might. I would absolutely pull this off by myself, and it would be fabulous. Huge without being impersonal. Fun without being tacky. Elegant without being stuffy. Mia would be proud of me, we were bound to get good buzz if this reality show took off, and with the estimated total cost—at which Angelina didn’t even bat a fake eyelash—I’d make enough money to put ten percent down on the house. I could make an offer next week, even.

  See? Stop worrying. This was all meant to happen.

  It’s fate.

  And then.

  “Oh! I almost forgot. I want that Italian chef, Nick Lupo, to do burgers at midnight,” announced Angelina. “Right after the fireworks.”

  The floor dropped a few feet, or maybe it was my stomach. I gripped the edge of my desk. “What did you say?”

  “I want that Italian guy. You know, the one who won first place on that reality show about hot chefs last year, Lick My Plate? He’s from here and he has a restaurant downtown called The Burger Bar. He’s there like every night. I saw him in there this week.”

  “Yes, I know who he is. I just…” Haven’t seen him since he snuck out of our hotel room in Vegas seven years ago. “…think he might be difficult to get.”

  Angelina blink
ed at me. “Why?”

  “Well, because he’s, um…” My ex. Famous now. The best sex I ever had and the worst mistake I ever made. There were any number of ways I could’ve finished that sentence, but finally I went with “probably not available.”

  “I want him.” Angelina poked an index finger onto my desk. Unlike her pink and white pedicure, her fingernails were painted corpse gray. “Get him.”

  “Uh, I don’t think Nick Lupo does private parties.” I hadn’t said his name out loud in years, and the sound of it, the feel of it on my lips brought back powerful memories—the taste of whiskey and apple pie. A warm, muscular body moving over mine. The crunch of leaves beneath my back. A wide, lush mouth closing over my breast as he filled the hollow ache inside me—

  I crossed my legs and squeezed my thighs together. Don’t.

  “This isn’t just any private party. Tell him who it’s for,” said Angelina, like duh. “Tell him who my father is. He’ll do it.”

  My insides churned. “I guess I could try.”

  “Do it. Or I’ll get someone who can.” Her loud voice was razor sharp, and I suddenly got the feeling God wasn’t the one who’d sent her.

  Fuck.

  “I’ll do it.” My throat was bone dry, my words barely audible.

  “What?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said more forcefully. “I’ll get him.”

  “You promise?” Angelina sniffed.

  “Yes.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  We finished up, and after she left, I dropped my head onto my desk and banged my forehead against the wood until it ached.

  Nick Lupo. I had to face Nick Lupo, after all this time.

  Even Mia didn’t know the complete truth about my most impulsive decision ever. I’d been too ashamed to tell her.

  When he’d left me sleeping in that room at the Bellagio seven years ago, I’d been wearing a wedding ring. That he’d put on my finger the night before.

  He’d left his ring on the nightstand along with a note.

  This was a mistake.

  I needed a plan. Automatically I pulled my phone from my purse with the intention of calling Mia, but as soon as I unlocked my screen I saw one last message from her.

  Please tell me you said no to that party.

  Crap. I couldn’t ask her for help. What’s more, I was going to have to lie to her about taking the Spackatelli gig. She had enough to worry about— packing and planning and dealing with multiple families. Both her and Lucas’s parents were divorced, and figuring out where to house and seat everyone had given her hives over the last couple weeks. Being less than honest with her about the business we shared made me feel squeamish, but in this case, I felt a little truth-avoidance was the kinder way to go, even if it was a bit self-serving. Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to do it in person—Mia wasn’t kidding about my being the worst liar in the world. And just in case I was so bad she could hear the falsehood in my voice, I decided on a text.

  No worries! She agreed to move the date.

  Have fun packing

  I pressed send, ignoring the voices in my head screaming, You just lied to your best friend! You’re a terrible person! You deserve to fail!

  Dropping my phone back into my bag as if it had bitten me, I squeezed my eyes shut and took several deep, slow breaths. Seven of them, to be exact

  —one for each year Nick and I had been apart. Years I’d spent grieving him, nursing my broken heart, hating myself for my stupidity and Nick for his callous behavior. Years during which I’d come to terms with the fact that he and I were wrong for each other, that my first love wouldn’t be my last, no matter how romantic the notion, and that some betrayals just can’t be forgiven. Years I’d suffered for him.

  But that was the past. Ancient history.

  I could let all that go, couldn’t I? For the cause?

  I was older now. Wiser. And I was totally over him.

  Wasn’t I?

  Fuck yes, I’m over him. I’m over him, and I can handle this.

  That would be my mantra.

  I called Erin and asked her if she’d meet me at The Burger Bar around seven. She was way more level- headed than I was, and I needed someone there who wouldn’t let me do anything stupid like throw a plate at his head or grab his ass.

  “The Burger Bar? Isn’t that the place owned by your college boyfriend, the hot chef?” Erin hadn’t gone to MSU with Mia and me, but she’d heard enough about low-down good-for-nothing cheating bastard Nick Lupo to sound shocked at the idea of putting myself in his path.

  “Yes,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Why would you want to go there?”

  I gave her the lowdown, and she gasped. “Are you serious? And you said yes to this without telling Mia? Coco, this sounds like a very bad idea.”

  “I had to, OK? Mia said I could keep the commission of any event I booked while she’s off. And I need money for a down payment so I can get the hell out of my parents’ house. This looked like a golden opportunity! How the hell was I supposed to know she’d want my ex flipping fucking burgers at her party?” I was yelling at her by the time I finished, but I couldn’t help it. The thought of seeing Nick again after all this time had my intestines in knots. I’d avoided watching Lick My Plate for fear I’d backslide and get mopey about him again, but I’d seen his photo online enough times in the last year to know that he was still ridiculously attractive. The boils and baldness I’d wished upon him had not materialized.

  “OK, OK. I get it. But why not tell Mia the truth?”

  “Because she was panicking about the timeline, which isn’t that big a deal. It’s not the when that’s the problem here—it’s the who, Erin. Please tell me you’ll come with me tonight to talk to him.” Erin could sweet talk anyone into anything. She could probably even make him think it’d been his idea in the first place.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s my mother’s birthday and I promised her I’d have dinner with her. How about tomorrow night?”

  “No, I gotta get there tonight. I’m short on time as it is.”

  “How do you know he’ll even be there?”

  “I don’t, not really. I’m just hoping.”

  “I could probably meet you later if you need me to, unless she guilts me into a movie. But text me, OK?”

  “OK. And please don’t tell Mia I lied. I’ll come clean with her in France, I promise.”

  She agreed to keep it between us, although I’m sure she thought that was a Very Bad Idea. But I’d worry about Mia later. It was after six o’clock, which gave me just enough time to brush my teeth in the office bathroom, take my hair down from its messy knot, and assess my appearance in the tiny mirror over the sink. Did I look good enough to face an ex without a wingman? I took a quick inventory.

  Hair a bit tousled but otherwise OK. Had I known about tonight’s errand I might have washed it this morning, but too late to worry about that now.

  Eye makeup good, lips needed a new coat. I dug my go-to color, MAC’s Russian Red, out of my purse and reapplied, then stuck a finger in my mouth and slid it out to avoid getting any color on my teeth.

  You shouldn’t do that in front of me. You know it turns me on.

  Nick’s voice slid into my head without warning. In the mirror I imagined seeing him come up

  behind me, wrap an arm around my waist and bury his face in my hair.

  You smell so good.

  Stop it, you’ll muss me up and we’re already late.

  I don’t care.

  It’s your own birthday dinner. We’re in your parents’ house.

  I don’t care.

  I shivered, feeling his breath on my neck, one palm easing down my belly, his eyes on mine in the mirror, his cock stirring against my back.

  We were late that night. We were late a lot.

  Desire surged through me, and I cleared my throat and my head. Stop it. None of that. I eyed my reflection suspiciously. You want one thing only from him, and it doesn’t involv
e an erection so just keep focused on the task at hand.

  Breath? I exhaled into my hand and sniffed fast, feeling a little like a seventh grader at a dance but satisfied with the outcome.

  Now for the outfit review. I was wearing a dress since it was July and I have a strict no-pants policy between the months of June and September. Not only do dresses keep my legs cooler, but I’ve always felt they’re more flattering to my hourglass figure.

  Today’s choice was one of my favorites—a curve- hugger with cap sleeves, a gathered bust, and a slim pencil skirt. The print was tiny red roses on a cream- colored background, and the material was stretchy and starchy at the same time, some miracle of modern engineering. I love vintage looks, but I will be the first to admit that my closet is full of contemporary knockoffs, which are sturdier, easier to clean, and just as pretty.

  I locked my office door and took the wide central staircase down to the foyer of the renovated Victorian mansion in Brush Park that housed the Devine Events offices. Mia and I each had offices on the second floor that used to be bedrooms, and we shared a room between them which might have been a dressing room at one time but now served a dual purpose as a small conference room and lobby. There was a powder room and bathroom at the end of the hall, which we shared with the interior designers who rented the rooms on the other side of the stairs, but at this hour on a Friday, the entire house was empty.

  The dark, shiny wood of the banister and beautifully refinished plasterwork on the ceiling reminded me of my dream house in Indian Village. I ran my hand along its satiny finish and refocused my

  attention on what mattered—getting the house. If all went well in the next few days, it could be mine within in the next few months. My insides danced with excitement. All I had to do was get Nick to do me this one favor. And he owed me, didn’t he? He so owed me.

  So what if I’d ignored all his attempts at apologizing after the fact? So what if I’d divorced him without speaking to him? So what if I’d refused to acknowledge his existence on the planet for seven years? After what he did, that was my right.

  But I still had no idea how to approach him. Should I be friendly? A how-are-you-old-buddy-old- pal kind of thing? After all, we’d had some good times together. Some very good times. Times that involved midnight drives and blankets under the moon and pants around knees and a skirt around my waist and the stars falling from the sky beyond his head like sugar into my mouth while he whispered in my ear, You know how I love you…don’t ever leave me… and his body rocked into mine with deep, steady strokes.