by Mary Frame
I consider her for a minute and think about what Gemma said, and my life, and how I’ve held everyone at a distance for the last year while internally complaining about how terrible the city is and wanting to run away from everything. Is Gemma right? Am I the problem? I take a breath. “You know what would go great with these cupcakes?”
“What?”
“Tequila.”
SO TEQUILA AND CUPCAKES are actually terrible together. But an hour later, we’ve put the tequila back in the cupboard and had a couple glasses of wine and three cupcakes each.
“You got the interview for the job because of the article about us?”
I’m not the only one who had some life changes after Liz ran the Wonder Woman article.
“Pretty much.” Scarlett puts her empty wine glass on the table in front of us. “When I went to check on the status of my application, the producer recognized me from the picture and put my name at the top of the list. Then I blew it.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a better job, eventually.”
“I don’t want a job. I’m already working as a short order cook at one of those all-night diners that has the best coffee in the world and I have to wear a polyester blend shirt and the most unflattering pants known to man. I want a career. I want to have my own kitchen where I can make the menu and tell people what to do. This was a chance to have all of that.”
“I know the feeling. There will be other opportunities for you, I’m sure of it.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “But things are going good for you, right? I saw an article with you and that football guy.” She whistles. “He’s a real looker. My granny would call him a prime pickle. ”
I purse my lips and nod, considering Granny’s newest phrase. “Why a pickle?”
“I think it’s a euphemism for something else. Granny is a bit of a horndog.”
I snort out a laugh. “I guess so.”
“So have you had a look at his pickle?”
“Um. No.”
“Well why not?”
I can’t tell her about Brent, for obvious legal reasons, but can I talk to her about Marc? No. I can’t. Nothing will ever come of it. I can’t have a relationship with anyone, let alone the brother of the guy I’m fake dating. And I can’t mention the fake dating, so if I try to explain it out loud without that important little tidbit, it’ll sound more like cheating.
So I settle for a slight untruth. “We’re taking it slow. He’s a gentleman.”
She sighs. “I didn’t know those existed anymore.”
“Well when you find all your dates on Grindr, I’m sure it seems that way. But I’m sure there will be more opportunities for you as well. For a career and for a man.”
“Maybe. Or I’ll have to move back to Blue Falls. I don’t want to go back, though. I can’t go back. There’s nothing for me there.”
“No restaurants in Blue Falls, Texas?”
“There’s two eateries in town, a diner and a more upscale restaurant, but they’re both owned by the same man and, well, suffice it to say I dated him and it didn’t end well. Story of my life.”
I take a sip of wine and refill her glass. “What happened there?”
She shakes her head, a slight flush crawling up her neck. It must have been bad. “You do not want to know. The only thing that might compel me to return is my little sister, Reese. She just started college this year.”
We talk for a while about our families and she tells me more about Reese. I tell her about my sisters, too, and by the time the clock strikes midnight, I’m tired but happy.
I haven’t had a night where I could sit and talk to someone like this in forever. Even though I can’t share all the drama or the truth about my relationship with Brent, it’s still . . . nice.
We agree to have drinks at some point over the next week and by the time the Uber shows up and I lock the front door behind Scarlett, a bubble of hope has formed in my chest.
I forgot how much I enjoy just hanging out and talking with a friend. Gossiping about boys and family and life . . . I’ve been so good at pushing people away for the last year I didn’t realize how much I was holding back who I am and what I’ve been missing out on.
Maybe New York isn’t so bad after all.
Chapter Ten
Work is something you can count on, a trusted, lifelong friend who never deserts you.
–Margaret Bourke-White
MARC
I SPEND A COUPLE OF days immersed in work, attempting to forget about Marissa and everything that happened.
Not my own heartbreak—my heart is surprisingly okay with Marissa being out of the picture. But the fallout for Brent is making my blood pressure rise. Dad’s on me to “fix it” since Brent is the star behind all of our proposals to investors for the store expansion. The bad press is affecting the company. Heaven forbid Dad worry about his children’s emotions instead of the bottom line.
On top of that, football has been Brent’s dream since we were kids. It’s not fair, it’s not right that a woman I picked to date holds his future in her lying, manipulative hands. This fake-relationship idea needs to work. The guilt is wearing on me. Guilt that only grows when I think about Gwen.
Her fingers in mine, and more importantly, her fingers on my face. Twice.
Twice she’s touched me. On purpose. Women don’t do that. Every single person I’ve dated since the accident went out of her way to avoid it.
Then I remember running into her ex—Mr. Cheekbones—and the way he stole the light from her eyes. You don’t really think about beautiful people having relationship problems, but that doesn’t make sense, I guess. Everyone has problems sometimes. Looks have nothing to do with it.
Some scars are invisible.
She’s an odd but irresistible combination of maturity and innocence.
Brent went to lunch with her the other day and I avoided all publicity of them canoodling for the cameras.
Since our little run-in at the kids club, we’ve emailed back and forth about the website a few times. She sent me the pictures she took; I sent her a thank you.
Then today she sent me a Matrix meme with Morpheus saying, What if I told you to have a nice day?
It made me smile and I want to return the favor, so a bit later I return the email with one of Keanu Reeves—less Neo, more Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. The meme has a goofy shot of Keanu with his mouth half open and it reads, What if soy milk is just regular milk introducing itself in Spanish?
An hour later, I get a grumpy cat meme. I purred once. It was awful.
Laughing, I immediately put aside my reports and start googling for memes.
I send one back to her of Chuck Norris: When Chuck Norris left for college, he told his father, “You’re the man of the house now.”
When I turn back to my reports, I’m still smiling.
A few minutes later, my inbox dings with a black and white picture of Chewbacca. Uuur Arrr Uhhhr Ahhhr Aaarhg.
I laugh and type back, You win.
After that, every time my inbox dings, I jump to check it, but it’s always from someone in the company about invoices and interagency memos and work things. Doesn’t stop my heart from leaping every time.
Eventually, she writes back and I’m smiling before I even open the email.
Yes! I’ve always wanted to win a meme war. Now that all my dreams have been actualized, I can quit this photo shoot and pursue meme challenging full time. Or maybe make it home before nine for the first time all week. Did Charlie need anything else for the website? I haven’t heard from her.
Not wanting to come off as too eager, I wait a little bit before responding. Plus I am actually busy, although the more I get to know Gwen, the more dangerous I realize she is. If she asked me to drop everything I’m doing right now, I would likely sprint out the door.
The question at the end throws me a little. Why send me a message and not Charlie directly? Did she ask the question to keep our little message chain going?
>
No.
I’m reading too much into it.
I haven’t heard any complaints from Charlie, but I think she’s enamored of you. I cede the meme championship to you. You are a worthy competitor. Before nine sounds like a dream. I’ll be lucky to make it out of here before sunrise. I’ll renew the challenge of the memes if I do, so you better get you’re A game on. I was being easy on you before.
I add a winky face.
Are winking faces creepy?
I delete it.
Should I ask her something so that she responds? My mind blanks. What could I ask her about? Everything I think up sounds way too cheesy.
In the end I leave it as is and hit send.
Time passes. I put out fires and try not to watch my inbox too closely.
It’s dark outside when Dad stops by my office on his way out. “Did you get the scheduling done for the guys from Tokyo?”
“I’m on it.” Like always. “Are you going to be around for Thanksgiving? Brent and I are driving up to the Hamiltons’. They invited you as well.”
But I know what he’s going to say. We go through this every year. “Can’t go this time. I’m taking Glory to Saint Bart’s.”
Glory must be the newest fling. I’ll be surprised if she makes it to Thanksgiving; it’s over a week away.
I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment that hits me. It’s not even that I want to hang out with Dad. Most of the time, I’d rather go for a root canal than deal with him at the office. But he’s my father. You’d think he’d at least extend an invitation for us to join him. He has no idea that I’d break my right arm for the chance to travel anywhere beyond the Eastern Seaboard.
Besides, maybe he’d be different away from here. Maybe it would be more like it was before Mom died.
I should be used to his rejection by now, but endless repetition of the same stab doesn’t stop the sting.
“That’s fine,” I bite out. “Will you at least tell Brent what you’re doing so I don’t have to?”
“Brent won’t care. He’s a grown man.” Like I’m not. “Besides, you’ll see him before I do.”
“Right.”
“Don’t be running your guilt trips on me, boy. You’re worse than your mother.”
“I don’t see that as an insult.”
There’s a tap on my door right before it swings open. “Hey, Marc, I brought you some—oh I’m so sorry to interrupt.”
It’s Gwen. She’s wearing black yoga pants that hug her curves and a soft pink long-sleeved top, and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. There isn’t so much as a hint of makeup on her face, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and my heart starts beating triple time. She’s holding a brown paper shopping bag.
“You aren’t interrupting anything, darling,” Dad flirts. “Who have we got here?”
“I’m Gwen.” She reaches out her free hand and Dad takes it in both of his. He shakes it—and doesn’t let go.
“You’re here to see Marc.” There’s an unspoken question mark on the end of that sentence. He might as well have said, Why is someone like you coming to see someone like him?
She flushes a little while yanking her hand away. “Well, yeah, I brought him some food because he said he’d be here late but I’m, uh, Brent’s girlfriend.”
“Of course you are. A beautiful woman like you wouldn’t be with this blender face.” Dad laughs.
I sigh and avert my eyes. The papers on my desk are suddenly fascinating. For the first time in the longest time, shame wraps its warm fingers around my neck like a scarf. I thought I’d become accustomed to his comments, but in front of Gwen they pack an extra punch.
“I think any woman with a modicum of intelligence would be proud to be with someone as smart and talented as Marc.” Her voice is like steel wrapped in candy, both sweet and sharp.
Surprised, I lift my eyes and see Gwen staring my father down, her eyes bright, her face flushed.
She’s defending me. With a smile.
And dad would never dare to gainsay a woman as beautiful as Gwen.
“Touché, my dear.” He chuckles. “It was nice meeting you. Tell Brent I said hello when you see him and to watch out because I might be stealing his girl.” He laughs again and pats her on the shoulder as he leaves my office.
“Well.” Gwen walks over and puts her bag on my desk. “He’s interesting.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I brought something to ease your sorrows.” She pulls out a couple of containers.
“Is the cure to my father’s irrational behavior in that bag?”
“No, but it might be the cure to not caring about your father’s irrational behavior.” She smiles gamely and pops off the lid to show me. “Red velvet cupcakes. Made by a true Southerner. You have to try one.” She holds it out toward me. “I brought real food, too, but I’ve always thought it makes sense to start with dessert.”
I take a bite and chew. “Wow. These are great. Where did you get them?”
She pauses for a second and then says, “A friend of mine. Her name is Scarlett. She’s a chef.”
“You came all the way here to bring me food?”
“If I didn’t, I would be sitting at home eating them by myself and you and Brent could use the calories more than me. I have extra that you can bring home.”
“Brent doesn’t eat this stuff during the season, but I can share with some of the staff here, too. Did you want something to drink?” I gesture to the mini fridge. “I have water and maybe some ice tea or something in there.”
She hops up and has the fridge open before I can get to my feet. “Water would be great.”
I finish off the rest of the cupcake and swallow before asking. “What else did you bring?”
“Well, since you impressed me with Raoul’s, I thought I could return the favor.” She pops open one of the containers. “Los Tacos.”
“Oh yeah, their marinated steak is the best.”
“I got a few different options.” She hands me a container. “This one’s the steak, and then I got chicken and a quesadilla, too.” She continues unpacking her bag, setting up my desk with napkins and forks and little salsa containers.
“You didn’t have to do all this.” I pull my chair around to the side so I’m not sitting at the head, lording over her or something.
“I wanted to.” She puts a warm hand on my shoulder and waits for me to meet her gaze. Her eyes are serious, but she smiles before removing her hand. “Let me do something for you.”
That shuts me up.
Once we’ve organized the food, we dig in.
“This is a nice setup you have here.” She glances around the room.
I shrug. “It’s work.”
“Work with a view. And a couch.”
“It folds out into a bed. I wasn’t kidding about being here until sunrise. Thankfully, there’s also a private bathroom.”
She grimaces. “Yikes. So what is it that you and your dad do? I mean, I know you do the restaurant supplies and you told me about your grandpa, but what is your role here?”
“Boring stuff. Trust me, you don’t want to hear about it.”
“I do, though.” She takes a bite of her taco and then meets my eyes, her gaze steady.
“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I give her the rundown of my daily duties, from reviewing marketing proposals and prospective new clients to hiring staff and signing off on purchases.
Surprisingly, she asks questions and pays attention and is legitimately interested.
“Is this always what you wanted to do?” she asks.
“Sure. I mean, after the accident there wasn’t anything else I really could do. And before that, I knew it was coming. It’s tradition to keep the business in the family.”
“What about Brent?”
I shake my head. “That was never going to happen. As soon as Brent started Pop Warner at six, it was clear that was his calling. He hasn’t gone more t
han a couple hours without a football in his hands since. And I’m the oldest, so . . .” I shrug. “It’s what I’ve known I was going to do ever since I was a kid.”
She frowns, a small crease forming between her brows. “But didn’t you have other dreams? I mean, even if you can’t snowboard professionally and wander around the globe saying things like ‘Dude that was hella sick’ in the X Games, wasn’t there anything else you thought about doing?”
“Not really.”
“Not even in preschool?”
“I wanted to be a garbage truck man when I was five.”
She laughs. “You know, they get great benefits.” She finishes the last of the quesadilla and puts the trash in the bag she brought. Then she pulls out another cupcake and unwraps it.
“Yeah. They get to drive around in a giant truck. I think it would be fun. I used to wait outside every Friday morning for them to drive by and our garbage man would always bring me little candies and treats.”
She swallows a bite of cupcake, her eyes on mine. “I wish I had my camera.”
“Why?”
“You looked different for a second. Like . . .” Her eyes search my face, considering her words before she speaks. “You normally look like you have the weight of the world on you, but just then, for a second, it was all gone. Your eyes were lighter. Maybe you should pursue this garbage man dream.”
I laugh, even though her words are making me self-conscious. “I can’t leave the company. Too many people count on me.”
“You know the world won’t end if you change careers. It happens all the time.”
I finish my last bite of taco and wipe my mouth with one of the napkins. “Was it hard for you to leave modeling?”
“No. I get to have twice the desserts and none of the guilt.” She lifts her cupcake. “If I were still a model, I wouldn’t be having a cupcake before and after dinner. But in some ways it was hard, so yes and no. It’s always scary to try something new. There’s always a risk, always growing pains when you move outside your comfort zone. But I think you have to ask yourself which worst-case scenario you would regret more: staying where you are and being miserable but secure, or risking it and losing everything.”