by Mary Frame
“Gwen, you okay?” Marc’s voice is coming from far away.
Lucky catches me staring and then everything around us slows down to a crawl as he acknowledges my gaze with a small smirk. Then he heads in our direction.
Oh, no.
“Gwen, darling,” he says. He air kisses me on both cheeks, his hands gripping my shoulders briefly before he steps back and smiles at us, all charm and grace as if the last time I saw him he hadn’t been a cheating, phony, no-good piece of rat dung.
He looks the same. Too thin. Too chiseled. Too perfectly put together in an expensive shirt and distressed pants that he pays extra for to look casual and like he’s not trying too hard.
I’m speechless. Terrified. There’s a lump in my throat and I can’t speak around it.
Marc thankfully steps into the breech. “I’m Marc Crawford,” he says, shaking Lucky’s hand.
Through the pounding of my heart in my ears, they exchange names and pleasantries.
And then I see her. My former best friend is at the door, eyes pointed down toward the phone in her hand, looking bored and beautiful with her dark wavy hair, designer clothes, and flawless face.
Becca.
She was the first friend I made in New York. And then she ripped my heart in two.
I try not to hold hate in my heart, but all I can think when I look at her is I hope she gets a high five. In the face. With a van. A big one.
Lucky is speaking to me and I rip my eyes away from Becca. “I saw the news about you and the footballer,” he says, like he’s fucking British or something. “Lucky thing, snagging that fish. Maybe you’ll be able to use his connections to help fix your . . . problems.”
He’s always using his name with double meaning. I never realized how lame it was until he was gone. He would always say, they call me Lucky, because I am Lucky and because I get Lucky. In hindsight, it’s so stupid I don’t know why I ever thought he was an interesting person.
But now that he’s here in front of me, everything I’ve thought about saying to him if I ever saw him again is stuck in my throat. About how my only problem was not recognizing him for the snake that he is before it was too late. About how I trusted him and he treated me like trash.
But once again, Marc interjects, his tone firm. “We’re the ones who are lucky. My family and I support her one hundred percent and we would never let anyone hurt her.”
Lucky has enough of a survival instinct to step back. He’s not the biggest fish in this pond. “Nice to see you again, Gwennie. We have to get together and catch up soon.”
He was the only one who ever called me Gwennie, something I used to think was cute but now makes me want to puke my burger all over him.
I still haven’t said anything. I’m barely breathing. Lucky walks away into the other room, and Becca follows without so much as a glance in my direction.
Somehow Marc manages to get our food bagged up and a few minutes later, he’s ushering me outside and into the car. The sedan moves smoothly down the street and Marc gives me a couple of minutes to gather myself before he speaks.
I’m grateful for the momentary peace. It’s like he knows exactly what I need.
But then, of course, he has to ask. “Who was that bonehead?”
I’ve been gazing out the window, shell-shocked. But now I force my gaze to meet Marc’s. “Lucky Carter.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s a model. He’s well known in that crowd. I used to . . . date him.” At least, I thought we were a couple.
He thought we were casually boning while he also casually boned every other female within a ten-mile radius, including my “friend” Becca. But I don’t want to tell Marc about how clueless I was. How everyone laughed at me behind my back when I would gush about my “boyfriend.”
I was so stupid.
Seeing Lucky brings all those insecurities rushing to the surface.
But then I glance over at Marc and feel an equal rush of appreciation. He stood up for me. No one has done that in so long.
“You know, it doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside. Whether you’re scarred,” I reach up and cup his injured cheek, “or beautiful. We all have them. But some scars are invisible.”
I drop my hand and turn back to the window, watching the city lights rush by.
A few minutes later, Marc shifts in the seat next to me, watching me. “I was a pretty good snowboarder.”
“Yeah?”
“I qualified for nationals when I was sixteen.”
“Brent isn’t the only one in the family with athletic ability.”
He nods his head once, a slight dip downward. “But ever since the accident, I haven’t so much as touched a board. I can barely look at one.”
“What happened?”
“I was an idiot. There had been a big storm and then a major freeze and the snow was slick. I was young, reckless, thought I was invincible. I crashed. Ran into a tree. There were icicles, and they fell on me. My goggles were askew from the collision. This side was exposed.” He fingers the damaged side of his face.
He puts his hand back down on the seat between us.
After a few long seconds I cover it with my own.
His palm turns into mine and the movement makes our fingers link. The gesture is so natural, his hand warm and steady against my own, it just feels . . . right. Like we’ve held hands a hundred times before.
The steady pressure and heat of his fingers are a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
I wonder if my hand is having the same effect on him, but I don’t ask. Words might ruin it. We make the rest of the drive to my apartment in silence.
Chapter Nine
It is more important to click with people than to click the shutter.
–Alfred Eisenstaedt
GWEN
“GWEN.” The voicemail is from my sister, Gemma. Her voice is clipped and serious. “I saw on the news you’re dating some freaking football player? What the hell! If you don’t call me back within twenty-four hours, I’m calling the authorities. Don’t test me.”
“She has guns,” Sam calls out in the background right before the click.
That’s the fourth message I’ve gotten on my cell phone since Wednesday. It’s been three days since my date with Marc that wasn’t really a date at all.
But it felt like one. It felt like more of a date than the lunch with Brent yesterday.
We had to get together at least once while he was in town and not busy with training. Brent held my hand. We talked and laughed while pictures and videos were taken by an entertainment channel. He even kissed me. On the lips, mouths shut.
And yet, the simple, quiet moment with Marc in the car felt a million times more . . . more.
His hand in mine, so reassuring, so real.
Hell, exchanging silly texts over the last few days has felt a million times more, and I can’t even see or hear him.
I’ve been avoiding returning Gemma’s call because I have to lie to her. I can’t tell her the truth about Brent. The thought of lying to my family makes my stomach hurt.
Instead, earlier in the week, I scratched out a few minutes in between shoots to call Starlee and let her know how Marc and I ran into Lucky at Raoul’s. I had to let her know about the potential fallout. I wasn’t going to let Lucky use me for publicity ever again.
“It’s fine,” she said with a laugh. “No one will think anything is happening with you and Marc.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Marc’s great, but he’s not Brent.”
The comment made want to reach through the phone and strangle her. But I said nothing, even though in my mind the reverse is true. Brent’s great, but he’s not Marc.
And I can’t keep avoiding Gemma. I call her and Sam one night after I get home.
She answers on the first ring and immediately begins interrogating me about Brent.
I can’t tell her the truth, even though I want to. But
I signed that agreement. I can trust Gemma, but she’ll tell Sam. And Sam is also trustworthy, but he has a giant “trustworthy” family that would no doubt be apprised of the situation as well. The fewer people who know, the better and the less likely it will be that someone will accidentally say the wrong thing to the wrong person.
I should have known my family would find out eventually, but they don’t normally stay on top of things like the New York scene.
“We had an agreement,” Gemma says. “You aren’t allowed to date anyone before I meet them first. If I had met he who shall not be named before it got serious, I could have warned you away from him. Or throat punched him or something.”
“I know, Gemma, but it’s not like that. We’ve only gone on a couple dates. It’s nothing serious.”
“I want to meet the new guy, too,” Sam calls from somewhere near Gemma. There’s a shuffle and then he’s on the phone. “Can I meet him?”
“Uhhhh,” I stall.
“I promise I won’t be weird. Can I bring a rookie card? Do you think he’ll sign it? How do you think he’d feel about extremely long hugs from his potential future brother-in-law?”
There’s more shuffling and Gemma murmuring, “Dude, they’re not getting married. Stop it. No, I’m sure he does not hang out with Eli Manning. Anyway,” she says into the phone. “I would like to come and see you to make sure everything is okay.”
“Gemma, it’s fine. He’s nothing like Lucky. Trust me.”
After the whole Lucky debacle and subsequent meltdown, Gemma flew out to New York. She kind of had to. I didn’t contact anyone for nearly a month. I went through a phase where I didn’t work, I just lay in my apartment watching Bridget Jones’s Diary and listening to Taylor Swift’s “White Horse” over and over again.
When Gemma found me, I was in bad shape. I had slid into a severe depression. I wasn’t showering or doing much of anything except ordering takeout and crying. She cleaned me up, made me eat better food and go outside. She brought me out of the darkness. Hence the overprotective bit. I know it’s just because she loves me. She doesn’t want me to go through that again. I don’t blame her; I don’t want to go through that again either.
Gemma and Sam even paid my rent a couple months in advance until I could get back on my feet, something I’ve been repaying a little each month ever since.
“Are you sure? Because I heard there was some chick who said he assaulted her.”
“How are you hearing these things?”
“I have friends.”
“One of Lucy’s friends told us,” Sam calls out.
“Well it’s not true. It was Marissa. She’s the one who wrote the article about me last year. She’s full of it.”
She silent for a few long seconds. “So you’re sure there’s nothing serious happening with this Brent Crawford guy?”
Sam’s voice calls in the background. “I wouldn’t call a nearly thousand-yard season his first year nothing serious!”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Gemma tells him.
“Everything’s going to be fine. I promise,” I say with a sigh.
“I want to see this guy. Sam, where’s my computer?”
She and Sam mutter to each other and I think I hear a kiss before she comes back on the line.
They’re so cute it’s disgusting.
Gemma and Sam have been together for almost two years now. We grew up next door to Sam and his family. We’ve known them forever.
Keys tap in the background and then Gemma says, “You’re right. He’s nothing like Lucky or those other waifish weirdos you modeled with. He is hot.” She gasps and there’s more clicking. “Look at those biceps.”
“I’d totally date him,” Sam says.
“Yeah, he’s good-looking,” I say, “But—”
There’s a buzz at my door.
“Hold on, someone’s here.”
“Don’t answer, it might be a mugger.”
“Muggers don’t ring the bell.”
“But you’re in a big city. Maybe it’s a serial killer. They ring bells all the time, you know. They’re smarter than your average criminal.”
“Not everyone in New York is a criminal.”
“So you say, but I’ve watched Law & Order, I know the truth.”
I push the button. “Yeah?”
“Is this Gwen McDougall?”
It’s a female voice with a Southern accent.
I release the button. That can only be one person.
“What?” Gemma asks in my ear.
“It’s a girl I met the other night.”
“What does she want?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Um, I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?”
I hit the intercom. “Hi, Scarlett?”
“Oh, hi!” Her voice over the speaker is a combination of surprised and excited. “You know it’s me!” There’s a pause and her voice drops an octave. “How did you know it was me?”
“Your accent sort of gives you away.” Plus it’s not like I have girlfriends coming over all the time. Or ever.
“Oh, right. I brought you some cupcakes just like I said I would.”
“Um. Hold on.” I put my phone back to my ear. “She brought me cupcakes. Is that weird?”
“What? No. Southern people bringing baked goods are always welcome. Let her in.”
I hesitate and Gemma immediately calls me on it.
“Dude. You’re always whining about not having any friends in the city and blah blah blah. Why are you being a weirdo?”
“Would you quit pointing out my own hypocrisy? You’re my sister. You’re supposed to enable my delusions.”
“Not everyone is Becca. Why don’t you let someone surprise you?”
“Ugh, fine.” I push the intercom. “Come on up, Scarlett.” I click the button that will unlock the door. “If she comes up here and murders me, I’m blaming you,” I tell Gemma.
“If you can’t protect yourself against some chick with cupcakes, that’s your own problem. You’re always saying everyone judges you based on your looks. Maybe they’re not the problem.”
“Do you always have to be so honest?”
“Yes.”
There’s a tentative knock at the door.
“I gotta go, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Unless you’ve died from cupcakes and hospitality.”
“Haha.”
We hang up and I answer the door.
Scarlett’s standing there with a bright smile and a plate full of baked goods. She wasn’t kidding the other night when she walked me to my front door.
“Hi. Thanks for bringing those. Come on in.” I hold the door open, but instead of coming in, she just stands there.
The smile slowly melts from her face and then she bursts into tears.
“Well, shit.” I grab her free arm and tug her gently inside before the wailing disturbs the neighbors.
I don’t know what to do.
“Are you okay?” I’m not even sure what she’s crying about.
We’re standing in the small entryway, one sobbing redhead and one clueless blonde. This sounds like it needs a punch line. Her plate is drooping forward as she cries, her eyes shut, forehead wrinkled.
I grab the cupcakes before they end up in a red velvet soufflé on the floor.
“He said it was,” she sniffs and sobs, “uninspired.”
I lead her to the living room, pushing her gently down onto the futon and shoving some tissues in her hand. “Who said what now?” I sit next to her.
“The guy at the thing. He said my cooking was . . . was unsophisticated.” She sniffs and wipes at her nose with the tissues.
“Okaaay. The guy at the thing.” I peel the plastic wrap off the plate still in my hands, pulling out a white-frosting-topped cupcake. “Looks pretty inspired to me.” I take a giant bite and immediately moan as the sweet, delicate flavor explodes in my mouth. “Oh, wow. This is really good.” The words are garbl
ed since I’m chewing. I swallow. “These are definitely the best cupcakes I’ve ever had.”
I’m not even lying. They’re really good. Moist, sweet, but not too sweet, just like I like them.
Her cries have mellowed down into sniffles. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Here, try.” I shove the plate in her direction.
She takes a small bite and then nods. “It is good.”
“So this guy at the thing is full of shit.”
She lets out a sniff-laugh combo. “He’s not just the guy at the thing. He’s Guy Chapman.”
I purse my lips. I know that name. “Is that the chef guy who’s always yelling at everyone?”
“No. That’s a different famous chef. Guy is the brooding handsome one who doesn’t have to say much of anything to make people run crying.” She flaps a hand. “Apparently.”
“Oh, right. I think I’ve eaten at a couple of his restaurants. Yeah, he’s hot. Smoldery. Lethal combination. Well, if he made you cry, he sucks. And I’ve never understood the name Guy, it’s like naming someone Dude or Chick or Bro. It doesn’t make sense.” I nudge her with an elbow. “You should tell him that.”
“Y’all can tell him yourself because I’m not telling him anything. I had an interview for his new restaurant, a specialty dessert shop, and I blew it.” She sighs and wipes her nose again.
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think it was.”
She laughs and it turns into another sob. “I sort of . . . set him on fire.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I was putting the finishing touches on a crème brûlée, and I tripped.”
“You tripped? With one of those little mini torches?”
She grimaces and then nods. “I tripped into him. I didn’t actually set him completely on fire, that was a slight exaggeration. I kind of burned his chef’s jacket.”
“Oh.”
“His lucky chef’s jacket.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. And he’s known to be a bit of a perfectionist.” She blows her nose into the napkins I handed her. “I’m like the antithesis of perfection. Everything I touch gets ruined.”