Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

  I only realize we’re both still staring when the object of our gaze lifts his hand in a stiff wave, before guiding an older lady and a young, nubile-looking blonde away from the car and toward the entrance to the bleachers.

  “Fucking Jeff,” I murmur, like I’m in a trance, the half-hearted wave I was giving him still frozen, my palm outstretched but not moving. “I should have known; his mom’s birthday is this weekend. He always comes back for that.”

  Max reaches her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “Well, we’re just going to ignore him. Right?” She widens her eyes at Hal, who grabs my other shoulder supportively.

  “OK, let’s not make it look like I’m having a breakdown or something, guys,” I say, anxious that Jeff’s going to look over here again. Why does he have to look so polished and handsome, while I’m in a baggy Bloodhounds jersey with a shoddily drawn greasepaint star painted on my cheek?

  But Max is already loosening her grip as she spots something up ahead. “Are those cameras?” she asks, excitement gripping her voice in spite of her attempts to play it down. As we near the entrance to the bleachers, a tanned guy wearing one of those headset things hands us a Screen/West waiver form.

  “We’re filming some crowd shots here today, guys, so just in case you object, you know… Uh, Mayor Castellano has assured us the good people of Dogwood will be happy to comply. Keep it moving, if you have any issues, drop our production manager an email. Keep it moving, people, thank you…”

  Maxine grips the piece of paper like it’s a golden ticket as we jostle forward with the throng. “Oh my god—I actually will be in the freaking show. How do I look? Like sort of ‘wow, who’s the redhead, let’s get a close-up of her’? Or should I…”

  I drift off, scanning the crowd more intensively now. If they’re shooting, does that mean Greg is here too? Or maybe he’s elsewhere, busy making the camera believe he and Bethany are in love, which will put a serious dampener on my enjoyment of the game. I inadvertently lock eyes with Jeff again, a few rows up in the bleachers from where Max, Hal, Todd, and I manage to find some seats. He smiles broadly, showing his perfect teeth, like it’s not a big deal. Like I’m just an old school friend. Not someone whose heart he stomped all over. He turns back to his new girlfriend, who is also looking at the waiver form and talking animatedly. I immediately imagine her to have a squeaky, annoying little baby voice, even though I can’t hear her from here.

  “That’s not ignoring him,” I hear Max say in a low voice, and I pull my eyes away.

  I sigh in relief as I see the cheerleading squad head onto the field for the warm-up, so at least I have a distraction—well, them, and Maxine trying to loom into view anytime she thinks the few cameras dotted around the field are trained vaguely in her direction. Soon enough, the players run out onto the field, the crowd roars, and the game begins.

  *

  I’m almost hoarse by half-time, and I decide to stretch my legs, volunteering to go pick up some beers and snacks for everyone. Hal half-heartedly offers to come with me; he’s spent most of the game flirting with a girl that I’m not entirely sure has actually graduated Dogwood High yet, but he’s clearly getting somewhere. It’s sort of a relief to have him distracted, if I’m honest. And Max and Todd are putting on a half-time show of their own, so I figure it’s best to leave them to it.

  The line for beer is insane, but at least it’s moving fast. I check my phone, see a group photomessage from Carl of him and all his friends’ butts, each cheek assigned a letter to spell out “GO HOUNDS.” I chuckle and text him back saying I can tell which one is him. But there’s nothing from Greg, much as I check through my list, twice. I take a breath, deciding the line is too long. But I do resolve that I should move out somewhere a little quieter, bite the bullet, and just give Greg a call. Of course, as soon as I turn away, I come face to face with someone tall, familiar, and preppily dressed.

  “Cathy!” he says.

  “Uh, hi, Jeff. You’re… You’re back.” Great. State the freaking obvious. Nice opener.

  “Yeah. For my mother’s birthday, you know. How are you? How’s the restaurant?” He’s so gosh darn chipper, I can hardly stop myself wanting to punch him but I ball my fists up under my armpits, force a nod, and smile.

  “Uh, good. You know.”

  “Some things just don’t change around here, huh? I bet Joe’s still doing my favorite chicken pot pie. I’ve been dreaming about that sucker—”

  “No,” I say, and my teeth clench. “No, actually we dropped that from the menu,” I say pointedly, wondering just how much longer I can attempt to make small talk before I say something really bitter and angry, but then the blonde I saw him with earlier shimmies toward us, and I straighten up and pull a hand through my hair.

  “Honey, the line was so long for the bathroom, I’m sorry. That vitamin water just went right through me… Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. Who’s this?”

  I was right. Baby voice.

  Jeff slips an arm around the blonde’s waist. “Tilly, this is Cathy, an old friend of mine from Dogwood High. She’s a waitress over at Joe Johnson’s, the place I told you we should stop by later.”

  Old friend. Old fucking waitress friend. “Oh, we’re fully booked up this weekend,” I say smoothly. “I’m doing a little management now too, so I saw the bookings for tonight. Try another time though if you’re in town for a while, uh, Tilly?”

  “Oh, I sure will try. I have to tell you, I was so excited when Jeff’s mom said they were shooting this TV show here. Johnny Lincoln is my absolute all-time favorite guy…” She turns and looks up at Jeff, laughing squeakily. “Besides you, of course, baby,” she adds. Jeff taps her on the nose. He used to do that to me. God, was I like this, back then? I suddenly start to feel a weird sense of panic, like I might even just burst out crying right now with all the memories of how much he hurt me welling up. I look away, trying to take a moment and about to excuse myself to go back to my seat, when I see Greg.

  Our eyes lock and my heart quickens immediately. He must notice something’s up, because in spite of everything he turns away from the director lady I recognize from the table-read and starts to come over. I blink a few times and suddenly he’s next to me.

  “Cathy, hey.” Greg glances down at me, then over at Jeff. He stands a good few inches taller and a good few hundred degrees hotter than my ex in his black T-shirt and dark jeans. I see Tilly’s eyeballs widen appreciatively, then, if possible, stretch even wider as something else seems to dawn on her.

  “Oh… Oh my goodness, you’re that guy! That Greg Moran guy, you’re going to be on the show, right? I just saw you, um, you were number one on a Buzzfeed list of the sexiest guys to hit fall TV!” She giggles, and Jeff seems to tighten his arm around her waist. “Sorry, baby,” she says again. Clearly this girl is a fame hound, or pretty oblivious to when she should and shouldn’t comment on other men’s attractiveness. I think I’m starting to like her, actually.

  “Uh, yes, sorry,” I say. “Greg, this is, um, Tilly and Jeff.”

  Greg’s eyes flicker down toward me for a second before he reaches out a toned arm to shake both of their hands. As he pulls it back, he slips it under my hair to my neck, massaging gently. I feel warmth creep up from the soles of my feet. He leans toward me and lowers his voice, but not enough that the other two can’t hear.

  “I only have a five-minute break before we go back to shooting,” he says, his breath brushing the hair next to my ear. “I thought you said you were going to take me under the bleachers…” He presses his lips to my temple then pulls back with a secret-looking smile. I don’t have to fake a blush, and take the risk of slipping an arm around his waist.

  “Well, I said I’d get the others some beers first,” I say. “The line’s gone down, so I’d better do that. Nice seeing you guys.” I nod to Jeff and the still-gawking Tilly, and I’m pretty sure I look like the cat who got the cream as Greg and I stride away to the beer concession, his arm around my shoulder, mine around
his waist. God, it feels so natural, the way we fit.

  “I cannot thank you enough,” I whisper when we’re out of earshot. “That was… I haven’t seen him since… Just, thank you. Really.”

  He shrugs. “No problem.” My heart sinks as he pulls his arm from around me.

  I swallow. “Greg, I’m so sorry about the other night.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t say anything, and we step to the front of the line. I order the beers, wondering what he’s thinking. I balance the plastic cups in the cardboard holder thing the guy gave me, and move off to the side just as I hear the buzzer go for the next quarter.

  “I have to go,” he says finally. “They’re doing wide shots of the crowd but they need the back of our heads and our profiles in some of them. It’s… Anyway.” He stops and just looks at me, so I nod. But then he steps closer to me and bites his lip a little. “I like your face paint,” he says in a low voice, with the hint of a twinkle.

  How that sentence sounds so seductive to me I don’t know, except that it’s coming from his beautiful mouth, of course. “Thanks,” I manage croakily. “Listen, Greg. Can we talk after the game? Maybe you could come meet me over at JJ’s when you’re done? My dad does a thing for the players and whatnot, but, uh, we could find somewhere a little less—”

  “OK,” he says quietly, even though the roar of the crowd has picked up again and the snack stands have all but emptied out. He leans forward and I look up at him, kind of helpless because I’m balancing a tray of cheap beers. I half think, and very much hope, that he’s going to kiss me—but then he lifts one hand, brushes back the hair from my ear, and whispers, “By the way, I’m sorry too.” He smiles a little at me and his fingertips skim down my arm in an electric trail. And then he turns, and then he’s gone. I stare after him for a while before remembering what I’m supposed to be doing.

  “Jeez, I’m dying of thirst over here,” Max calls when I finally make my way back down the bleachers to our seats. “What took you so long?”

  “Just bumped into … my past and my future.” I hope so anyway.

  Maxine rolls her eyes but grins as she sees the expression on my face. “All right, all right, enough with the Philosophy for Dummies,” she says, then turns back toward the field. “LET’S GO, BLOODHOUNDS!”

  *

  I sneak out front to keep Max company for her one cigarette while the coach makes his speech about not taking the first win of the season for granted. I check my watch, but the game finished over an hour ago and so far there’s no sign of Greg at the restaurant. Maybe they’re still filming. Or he’s changed his mind about being sorry. Or… I stop with the possibilities because Maxine’s elbowed me in the ribs.

  “Max, I swear to God, one of these days you’re going to give me a blood clot or something.”

  “Sorry—but look, here comes lover-boy,” she says, extinguishing her cigarette hastily. She winks at me, shakes a mock-chastising finger at Greg as he strides toward the restaurant, and then she slips back inside. The noise from the restaurant momentarily spikes, before the door closes again and it’s back to a muffled roar of rowdy jocks and music.

  I step down from the restaurant porch and go meet Greg as he’s halfway across the parking lot. He stops when he sees me coming toward him, his silhouette outlined in the streetlights that have just clicked on as twilight descends. One hand pushed in the pocket of his jeans, one pushing his hair off his face—the gesture’s already so familiar to me, but still does something crazy to my insides. I nod over toward one of the big trees on a grassy knoll nearby and start to stride over to it so he’ll follow me. I flop down onto the grass under the tree and look up it at. It’s been a long day, and the couple of beers I drank in the heat of the Dogwood sun have made me feel sleepy. Greg lays down beside me and we both look up for a while without saying anything, just staring at the leaves swaying, light winking in between them as they flutter in the breeze.

  Eventually I look over at him and see that he’s tucked his hands behind his head. He’s lying closer to me than I’d thought. And he’s not looking at the leaves. He’s looking at me.

  “How do you do that?” he asks softly, and I frown, confused. I’m on my back too, but I roll onto one side so I’m facing him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re just… Every time I see you, you’re more beautiful.” He blinks, then turns his head to stare back up at the tree’s branches. Like that was a totally normal thing to say.

  I feel prickles of heat creep up the back of my neck, and my mind says deflect, deflect, deflect. “See, you said you liked the face paint, but now that I’ve washed it off, you’re like ‘Oooh, that’s what her face is supposed to look like.’”

  He just turns back to me and smiles.

  “I know,” I say, more quietly. “I can’t take a compliment.”

  Greg sits up slowly and bends his knees a little, resting his arms on top of them. “Cathy, listen, about the other night, with Bethany—”

  I sit up too, shaking my head. “I should have called before I turned up, and I should have told you that I trusted you. I mean, obviously. I’m so sorry to have even suggested otherwise.” He nods, and I pick at a blade of grass. “But I don’t blame her. Look at you. Even I’m jealous, and I think you might kind of like me,” I say, my mouth quirking into a half-smile.

  He grins. “I think you’re right, I think I might kind of like you.” His face grows serious. “But as soon as she showed up at my apartment alone, I should have told her we’d rehearse some other time. It was dumb.”

  “Well, like we said, we’re both sorry, right?” I reach over for his hand, weave my fingers in between his. “It’s kind of a bummer though—I had some interesting plans for Bobby’s tiramisu,” I murmur, but then laugh at myself. “That sounds so wrong.”

  Greg leans closer. “I don’t know, it sounded kind of right to me,” he says, leaning in to kiss my neck, then moving over to my lips, then edging me back so I’m flat on the ground again, his fingers creeping under my Bloodhounds jersey.

  “Hold up a minute there, sports fan,” I say breathlessly, pulling away reluctantly. “Joe is in the restaurant. He’ll come out here any minute for a cigar with the coach—you really want him to see you pawing his daughter on the ground?”

  Greg pecks my lips once then relents, and I exhale, sitting up next to him, close, so our shoulders touch. “What are your plans tomorrow?” I ask.

  He sighs hard. “I wish they were all about pawing you,” he says with a chuckle, “but we’re shooting from five a.m.” He looks exhausted just at the thought. “Which means I should get an early night,” he mutters. “I swear, if we don’t get a decent night alone together soon, we may have to settle for a not-so-decent moment or two…”

  “Mmm, an indecent moment with you sounds pretty good to me,” I reply, and lean over to kiss him again.

  Greg grits his teeth in frustration as he pulls away. “Guess I should be grateful we’re still shooting for now anyway—day after tomorrow is the big premier. If the ratings don’t do what we need them to, we won’t be filming much longer.”

  I don’t even want to think about that as an option, and I suddenly remember Max’s plan. “Uh, we’re having a little viewing party actually. I mean, if you’re not planning on watching the premier with the cast and crew?” I say “cast” through slightly gritted teeth myself. Greg shakes his head.

  “Not if I could be spending time with you, I’m not,” he says. “I’ll be there.” He leans down and runs his lips up my arm.

  “How soon after… Um, how soon after it airs will you know if the ratings are good?” I ask, reaching up to put my hands in his hair as he leans his head on my shoulder.

  “Next day,” he says, muffled, and I can hear the tiredness in his voice. If I could curl up with him here under the stars, I would.

  “Next day,” I repeat. “OK.”

  He sits up straighter and looks at me. “Then our fate will be sealed.”
<
br />   I press my lips together. “Don’t be so dramatic,” I whisper, trying to sound jokey, but it really does make my stomach flip to think that if Bittersweet doesn’t do well, he could be going back to New York in a matter of days.

  “Occupational hazard,” he says, then stands up and dusts himself off, reaching down for my hand to pull me up too. He pulls me straight into his embrace, eyes closed, and I sink into his kiss.

  “You better get back in there before cigar time,” he murmurs eventually, his mouth still close to mine.

  “Sure you don’t want to come inside?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, then closes his eyes and groans. “Don’t say things like that to me, Cathy,” he says, his voice low.

  I reach up and kiss his jaw, tickling it with my tongue. “I can’t help it if you have a dirty mind,” I whisper. “See you day after tomorrow.” I step away, not letting go of his hand until the last moment.

  “Can’t come soon enough,” he says, then turns and starts walking away.

  “No girl wants to hear that,” I retort with a grin, and his gorgeous laugh echoes back at me as he strides on down the road.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I’m standing by the door to our apartment building doing some stretches for my run when I see Max, laden down with shopping bags, struggling toward me, still in her work uniform.

  “Oh, thank god,” she pants, seeing me open the door.

  I grab a couple of the bags from her and follow her upstairs to let her into the apartment. “What do we need all this stuff for anyway? I just got a couple six-packs and some chips. How many people did you invite?”

  “A carefully selected handful, that’s all,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “But I thought we could make a little effort with the canapés, you know.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “You mean you thought I could make a little effort.”

  “It’s just assemblage, honey, it’s fine. Anyway, why are you going running now? We need to get the apartment ready and—” She looks around the spotless interior.