by Mary Frame
I pop another dessert in my mouth and watch her carefully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“You know why I went out with asshole Jerry? And all those other guys who never bothered calling me back?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“It’s because I slept with my boss back in Blue Falls. He turned out to be married.”
“Yikes.”
“Right? I didn’t know, by the way. Well, I knew he had been married, but he told me they were separated and going through a divorce. They weren’t. He was a chef. We had a passionate, torrid affair, and when I learned the truth, I was devastated.” Her stirring pace increases. “That’s why when I got to New York and was ready to put myself out there again, I only picked guys on Grindr that didn’t really do it for me . . . you know, sexually,” she whispers the word, “and they were all serious businessmen. And do you know why?”
“Um, because you really like douchey guys that are only moderately attractive?”
“Because I don’t want to end up in a relationship like my parents. Or like the one I had with Bruce.”
“Bruce is the married chef guy?” I clarify.
She nods.
“I thought you said your parents are super in love and into each other.”
“They are. And that’s the problem. They are so passionate, to the absolute exclusion of everything and everyone else. Including their daughters. My relationship with Bruce was like that. I forgot about my dreams, and he forgot about the wife he had at home.”
I nod. “So you want someone who doesn’t make you feel too much. I don’t think you need Grindr. I think you need a therapist.”
She switches from stirring to chopping strawberries. “I don’t need a therapist, I need someone I have lukewarm feelings for.” The knife clicks down on the cutting board with swift, hard thrusts.
“That sounds like a horrible idea and why are you getting all worked up?”
She stops chopping and stares down at her mess of berries. “I lost my job today.”
“Scarlett! What happened?” I rush over and put a hand on her shoulder.
She turns to face me. “One of our drunk customers asked to see the chef, and the boss always makes us go out and talk to them. The customer is always right!” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, he was an older guy and he was dressed in a Santa costume. He said his burger was overcooked and when I reminded him that he asked for well done, he pointed at his crotch and told me I could crawl under the table and be his ho-ho-ho. So I dumped a chocolate shake on his head.”
“Scarlett, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“So explain to me what losing your job has to do with you dating those asshats? You’re not going out with horny Santa, right?”
“Yuck, no. But now I’m going to end up back in Blue Falls and I won’t be able to get a job there either because Bruce owns every restaurant in town! What am I going to do, Gwen?”
“Why don’t you work for yourself?”
She blinks at me. “I don’t have the money to lease space in the city and start my own place. There’s no way a bank would front that kind of money to an unknown chef.”
“Not a restaurant. You’ve got a lot of desserts right here. What if instead of leasing a space, you do a dessert food truck or catering or something.”
She stares at me.
“I can help you market,” I add. “And I bet Brent would, too. Maybe he could tweet or something about how divine your desserts are to get some interest. Plus, I bet Liz would run a follow-up article, to show where you are now and what you’re doing. It could be amazing.”
She drops her spoon in her batter and throws her arms around me. “Gwen. That’s a brilliant idea!” She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders. “I’ll have a lot to figure out, but it’s just crazy enough to work. A dessert food truck,” she mutters, then turns back to her mixing. “Okay, my crazy is all tapped out. It’s your turn. Tell me something going on with you.”
I bite my lip and then decide to just spill it. Why not? “I’m in love with Marc.”
She stops stirring and cocks her head toward me. “The brother?”
“Yeah.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I kind of figured.”
“You did?”
“Well, sure. I mean, Brent is the most handsome guy in the city. If you don’t want to truss him up and bring him home, then it must be love.”
“But now I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“About my job. About his brother. About his issues and my issues and, and . . .”
“Honey, we all have issues. Did you not just hear what I said about wanting someone I don’t really want too much? There’s no reason you can’t have issues and still be together. And why can’t you have the job and the guy, too? There’s no rule against it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe it is.”
“If News Weekly likes my presentation, I might leave the country.”
“That’s a big deal,” Scarlett agrees. “But he could go with you. Or he could wait for you. Have you even asked him?”
“No.” I’m like a sullen, angsty teen. I should go hang out with Janice.
“Do you even have this job yet?”
I sigh. “No. You’re right. I’m going to tell him.”
I want to call him. I want to be with him. I’m going to do it, after my presentation tomorrow. But something feels off, and I don’t know what it is. It’s like there’s a dark figure looming over me, waiting to drop the hammer.
Chapter Twenty
Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness.
–Yousuf Karsh
GWEN
MY PRESENTATION ISN’T until one, but I’m up early to prepare Monday morning. I brew coffee and get to work. I’ve been over this a million times, but there’s got to be a way to make it better, to make it even more compelling, to get my words across.
There’s a knock at my door and I get up to let Martha in.
“Hey, Martha. You want coffee?”
“Oh, yes, sweetie.” She comes in slowly, shutting the door behind her, and I get out a mug and put it next to the coffee pot for her.
I get back to work, the sounds of Martha toddling around in my kitchen a familiar accompaniment. Which is why I barely hear when she asks me a question.
“What did you say?”
“The people calling me about you. I told them you’re a nice girl who didn’t do anything wrong.”
“People . . . called you about me?”
“Yes, this morning.”
What? I hadn’t looked at anything online yet today. I shut the Wi-Fi off on my computer and kept my phone off so I wouldn’t be distracted. I turn it back on and, with a sinking feeling of doom, load up my web browser.
There’s another article. In Stylz. Of course.
It’s Marc and I.
My stomach drops when I see the pictures.
There’s a fuzzy one of us kissing at the club the other night. Another clearer shot of him getting out of Brent’s car and walking up to my apartment building. And yet another, both of us in Brent’s car, driving away the next morning, clearly freshly showered and smiling and . . . oh God.
This is a disaster. This is going to ruin Brent’s career. No one will believe anything he says. This will kill him. And Marc and their family business. Their dad is going to freak out and Marc will end up dealing with most of the fallout. Not to mention my interview later today . . .
With shaking hands, I turn on my cell phone. There’s a ton of missed calls, but none of them are Marc. He hasn’t seen the article yet.
I glance over the story again, seething when I notice the title. “Beauty and the Beast.” Fucking Marissa.
I call Marc.
“Hey, beautiful,” he answers after one ring, his voice light and happy.
“Marc.” My voice cracks on his name.
“What’s wrong?”
“Seen what?”
“There’s . . .” I can’t say it. Instead, I sigh and say the one word I know will clue him in. “Marissa.”
He’s already clicking away, the tapping of his fingers the only sound until— “Shit.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead. I stare at my phone. Did he hang up on me? I try to call and it goes straight to voicemail.
No, he doesn’t get to do this.
I grab my keys and purse and then I’m out the door, walking in the direction of their apartment while tapping for an Uber on my phone.
It’s takes forty-five minutes to drive to his place because of an accident on Henry Hudson Parkway. I want to scream, but that won’t make the cars in front of us move any faster.
The doorman recognizes me and lets me go up.
I have to talk to him. See him. I want to throttle Marissa when I think of the pain she’s already put him through, and now this?
I knock, frantic, and the door swings open and there he is, in slacks and a button-up shirt like he was getting ready for work when I called. I want to rush into his arms but he’s on the phone. He steps back to let me in.
“Yeah, she’s here.” He hands me the phone.
Confused, I take it. “Hello?”
“The presentation is off.” It’s Starlee.
My eyes fly to Marc’s and I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, even though she can’t see me. I didn’t even think about my appointment later today, or how this news would affect my deal with Starlee.
“What were you guys thinking? You were supposed to help Brent, not make things worse.”
“I didn’t . . . we didn’t . . .”
“I don’t have time for excuses. I’m too busy trying to fix your fuckup. No one in this town is going to give you a shot now, and you have no one to thank but yourself.”
She hangs up.
I pull the phone from my ear and stare down at it, numb with shock. Starlee has the connections to ruin me. Completely. This is worse than what happened last year with Lucky and Marissa. I can’t dig myself out of this. My dream is dead.
Marc takes it from me, careful not to touch my fingers with his.
The lack of contact chips off a piece of my heart. I step closer, as if the proximity will make him stop pulling away. “Marc, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, Gwen, it’s mine.”
I don’t have a chance to respond because the door swings open and slams against the wall, startling me into a jump.
It’s Brent. When he sees us, standing next to each other in the doorway, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are trained on Marc, unblinkingly hostile. His jaw is tense, his arms rigid by his side.
Brent stalks past us into the living room and Marc follows him.
I follow Marc.
“Brent, listen,” Marc starts.
“No, you listen. I never did that to you. Never. Not once. Not even when your girlfriends were throwing themselves at me, fully naked. I still kept my damn hands to myself.”
“You weren’t really dating!”
“Does it matter?”
I feel like an interloper, watching them fight, even though it is about me.
“You barely even know her.”
“And you do?”
“Yes! I was the one spending time with her when you weren’t here.”
“I know, and I trusted you. More fool me. You knew I had feelings for Gwen,” Brent says.
I’m stunned by that revelation. I mean, with all the leaning, I had an inkling Brent was wanting more than the fake dating, but I didn’t think it was serious. I thought he just wanted to fool around or something, not that there were feelings involved.
We had fun, but everything we talked about was on the surface. It was never like with Marc.
“Oh, come on. This isn’t about your feelings for Gwen, it’s about how this is the first time a girl has chosen me over you and your ego can’t take it.” He smiles, but it’s not any smile I’ve ever seen on Marc’s face, filled with an almost ferocious glee.
It stuns me. Has it been about this the whole time?
“You have feelings for me?” I ask Brent. He nods and I turn to Marc. “Did you use me to serve your own insecurities about your brother?”
He blinks and his head moves back as if I’ve lobbed a direct hit. “No. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
Do I? Am I so damaged from Lucky and this damn city that I can’t tell the difference between truth and fiction? A flood of panic threatens to overwhelm me. Everything I wanted was in reach. This is about so much more than Marc and Brent’s issues. Things were changing for me, someone was going to take me seriously, and now . . . everything is ruined.
“I’m not sure what I know.”
“Gwen,” they both say.
I look at Marc—pleading and contrite—and then Brent—hurt and angry. And then I think about what I’ve lost today. It’s too much. “I can’t deal with this.”
My feet are moving. They continue arguing behind me, but I keep walking in a daze into the elevator and out onto the street.
People walk by, on their cell phones, talking to each other, focused on getting to their lunch or work or whatever. I stand in front of Marc and Brent’s building for a few minutes until the doorman asks if I want a cab. I wave him off and start walking.
I end up in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain. It’s cold and cloudy and people bustle by, hugging their jackets to themselves, trying to keep warm.
I don’t have a sweater.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I need my family. They always pick up my pieces.
Reaching into my purse, I find my phone.
My fingers are almost too frozen to swipe, but after a few tries the call connects. “Gemma?”
“Are you okay?”
Only one word from my mouth and she knows something is wrong.
The tears start to fall, warm tracks on cold cheeks.
“Gwen. What the hell is going on? Do I need to kill someone?”
“I don’t know, Gemma. I thought he was . . . I thought it was— I thought we were— I lost everything! Again!” And with that I burst into sobs.
It takes a few minutes for me to calm down. Gemma’s talking, and I think it’s mostly gibberish at first, just words in a soothing tone, but then she says, “Can you get to the airport?” in a sharp pitch that gets my attention and stops the waterworks for a minute.
My head drops forward. I have my wallet and phone. That’s all I really need. “Yes.”
“Get to JFK. Sam’s booking you a flight out.”
Home.
The thought sparks a little bit of warmth in the hole in my chest.
I’m going home.
Chapter Twenty-One
Love involves a peculiar, unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding.
–Diane Arbus
GWEN
BY THE TIME I TOUCH down at the Reno-Tahoe International Airport, it’s dark outside. It’s only seven, though. I gained three hours on the five-hour flight from New York.
Sam and Gemma are waiting for me in the main terminal. I don’t have any luggage, just my purse, so after a hug, we bypass baggage claim and they walk with me in between them to the car.
They don’t ask questions or expect anything from me. They hustle me into the back seat, speaking in quiet voices the whole time like I’m some kind of mental patient.
But I don’t mind. It’s exactly what I need.
The flight was terrible. I spent most of it crying and drinking little bottles of wine while my fellow passengers leaned far, far away. I tried not to think about Marc or the fact that I blew my one opportunity to make a difference and follow my dreams.
My camera is in my purse, the one thing that might bring me comfort besides the numbing of the alcohol, but I can’t even bring myself to pull it out. It has all the pictures from my weekend wi
th Marc and the thought makes me want to cry all over again.
When we get home, Mom is waiting with my favorite old sweats and one of Dad’s T-shirts. I change and she feeds me empanadas and then I crash hard in my old room, falling asleep to the sound of my mother whispering dulces sueños in my ear and kissing my forehead, just like she did when I was little.
When I wake up, the sun is shining and I feel about a thousand times better. So much better that I pull out my camera, but as soon as I see the first picture of Marc on the beach, laughing, head thrown back, his eyes crinkled at the corners, the stabbing pain in my chest nearly cripples me all over again.
“Too soon,” I mutter before shutting the damn thing off and putting it back in my purse.
“I think she’s awake,” a loud voice whispers from outside my door.
“Shut up, Gabby, you’re too freaking loud.”
“Oh, and that wasn’t loud? Why don’t you just shout at me?”
“I’m awake, guys,” I call out.
A second later, the door flings open and both of my sisters jump on the bed, one on either side. They hug me like I’m the meat in their sister sandwich and then snuggle down next to me on top of the comforter.
“I missed you,” Gabby says, kissing my forehead.
“I missed you guys, too.”
“I didn’t say I missed your punk ass,” Gemma says, but since she’s snuggled up to my other side, I don’t really believe her. “Are you ready to spill it? Everything this time and none of that bullshit you told me about dating Brent that was obviously a lie.”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
And then I tell them all of it, from the night with Scarlett, to the photo shoot where I first met Brent and Marc, to Starlee’s phone call and offer to help with my career, to the time I spent with Marc and how beautiful he is and how he helps everyone and everything around him to his own detriment. I tell them about Thanksgiving and the ride home.
I tell them about how it grew into something intense and our one blissful weekend—leaving out some of the sexy details, but they get the drift.