Remember When 2

by T. Torrest

  I couldn’t believe the outfits I was pulling out of that bag. Practically every label was designer, and most of the stuff was unworn, brand-spanking-new, with tags!

  I was squealing in delight, giddily checking out my beautiful new wardrobe. “Oh my God. You’re like my favorite person in the world right now. You know that, right?”

  Lis put her hands to her hips. “And just exactly what was I before, you bitch?”

  I cracked up and met her back in the kitchen, where she handed me a glass.

  We looked at each other, not knowing where to begin. There was just so much to celebrate.

  “To the baby,” I finally started in.

  “To your interview!” she added.

  My stomach dropped just thinking about it. Not just because of the possible boon to my career, but for the fact that I was going to see my old boyfriend within a matter of hours. The thought freaked me out, but I was careful not to show it.

  “To new clothes!” I added with an excited grin.

  “Don’t rub it in. To your impending career-related perks.”

  “Wishful thinking. To the Knicks making the playoffs!”

  “That’s really wishful thinking. To first loves.”

  “Yes, of course. To you and Pickford.”

  “And you and Trip.”

  “Lis, cut it out.”

  “What?”

  I knew what she was trying to do, but it wasn’t going to work. “Just don’t, okay? I’m already nervous enough about having to see him again. I don’t need the constant reminder. Anyway, that stuff between me and him was over a long time ago.”

  “Oh. So, we’re just supposed to not discuss it? Are you really trying to tell me you’re not the least bit excited about this whole thing? If you’re so over it, why is it bothering you so much?”

  “I’m engaged.”

  She rolled her eyes, playfully dismissing such an “insignificant” circumstance. “Yeah. Engaged. Not dead. C’mon, give an old married fatty a vicarious thrill. I’m counting on you to jump Trip’s bones tomorrow and then tell me everything about it afterward. If the story’s even close to the first time you two got it on, I’ll be happy. Please. I need this.”

  I almost did a spittake, cracking up. “You’re insane!”

  “No, I’m married. Big difference. Well, not really, I guess. Look, the point is, I will never know what it’s like to have sex with a movie star. You have to do this, okay? Please, I’m begging you. For me.”

  I slammed down my drink in one shot and then went over to the counter to fix another, laughing hysterically. “Lisa Marie DeSanto Redy. I will not sleep with my ex-boyfriend just so you can get some twisted, perverted, secondhand kick out of it. This is just like that time you made me watch The Exorcist while describing the whole movie over the phone because you were too afraid to watch it yourself. I’d like to remind you that this is my life you’re playing with here.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “What?” Her comment made me stop laughing, because I already knew what was coming. God help me, I already knew.

  “How can it be your life when I’m not even a part of it? How can you seriously consider marrying this guy?”

  And there it was.

  Suddenly, what started out as a funny conversation had unexpectedly turned serious.

  “His name is Devin, by the way,” I shot back in defense.

  The thing was, that was the only ammo I had in my arsenal. She was right. My best friend in the entire world didn’t even know my fiancé. It really was pretty bizarre. I’d had that same niggling concern in the back of my mind when Devin popped the question; realizing that my friends and family had barely even met him. His work kept him so busy, and I truly appreciated his steadfast dedication to his job. Truly. But there were so many things he missed out on because of it. So many family events and dinners out with friends and random Sunday barbeques that went unattended. I’d gotten used to showing up places alone.

  I just figured that now that we were engaged, the people in my life would be thrown into the same room with him a million times before the actual wedding. There would be parties in our honor, rehearsals, tux fittings, etc. He’d bailed on making appearances while we were dating, but now that we were going to be married, that would change, right? Lisa would have at least a year to get to know the guy. I didn’t think I’d be able to walk down the aisle if that didn’t happen.

  She gave a huff and said, “You haven’t even told anyone but me about the fact that you’re engaged. Don’t you find that a little odd? It’s like you’re trying to keep it a secret.”

  “I’m not. I was planning on Devin and me telling my father before Jack’s engagement party.”

  “But…?”

  When I didn’t respond, Lisa answered for me. “But Devin’s not going to the party, is he.”

  I didn’t need to confirm it. She already knew it was true.

  “How much longer are you going to wait? God, don’t you remember how excited I was when Pick finally made with the ring? There wasn’t a single person in my life that didn’t know about it within an hour of that happening. I’ve been dying to talk to my mother about this, but I can’t even do that until you do.”

  “Well, gee. I’m so sorry you don’t get to talk to your mom about my engagement.”

  “Layla, give me a break. You know damn well she’ll be jumping out of her skin when she hears the news. She’ll be on the phone with Kleinfeld’s the second she finds out, making the appointment to go get your dress. She lives for that stuff.”

  My heart panged when I thought about going dress shopping with Lisa’s mom. I hadn’t really thought about it, but of course she’d be the one to take me.

  I felt guilty about the fact that I hadn’t spilled the beans about such big news, not only to Lisa’s parents, but especially my own brother and father. I truly wasn’t trying to keep secrets from my family and friends. It’s just that I’d been keeping my life with them separate from my life with Devin for so long, and I was just waiting to figure out the correct way to merge the two. I was just waiting for the right time.

  Timing, after all, was everything.

  Chapter 8

  PANIC

  I made myself eat breakfast that Monday morning, but it was difficult to do with my stomach so tied up in knots.

  It had been one week since I found out Trip was in New York, five days since I finagled a press pass to attend the junket and twenty-four hours since Lisa dropped off the designer suit she’d lent me from her pre-pregnancy wardrobe.

  Multiply that by the nine years it had been since I’d last seen Trip, and it all added up to the thirty-seven times I felt like throwing up that morning.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror, again, adjusted the thin silver belt at my waist, and smoothed away some non-existent wrinkles from my slacks. The suit was sleek, black and nicer than anything hanging in my own closet, and I was grateful to have it. I’d left the blazer open, revealing a white silk shell underneath, trying for a more casual look even though I was feeling anything but. I cursed my frazzled nerves and tried to get myself under control.

  It was strange enough to think about being in the same room with my old high school sweetheart, but it was positively surreal to have to reconcile that eighteen-year-old boy with the überhot movie star that he’d become.

  There isn’t a girl alive that doesn’t want to feel like she’s left some sort of imprint on every single one of her exes, and I was no different in that regard. But how many girls have to deal with their ex becoming a famous movie star who had since been with no less than half a million other women, most of whom were beautiful Hollywood movie stars themselves? How would I even rank in such a grouping?

  I had a guilty vision of Devin and reminded myself that I really shouldn’t even care about any of that. I grabbed my leather carryall and headed out the door.

  I took a cab up to the TRU Times Square and made my way into the lobby. I’d been by the hotel numero
us times, but never had any reason to go inside. One look at the place, and I was sorry I never bothered to check it out before. The décor was modern—not usually my style, but incredible nonetheless—white floors, white furniture, white everything except the walls, which were painted in a deep, dark navy. The lighting was done in tones of blue and green and purple, splashed across every surface and sofa in the sprawling room.

  My Steve Madden heels clacked against the white marble floor as I headed toward the front desk, trying very hard not to seem impressed by the expanse of my surroundings. My brain flashed back to my high school graduation night, standing inside the Wilmingtons’ foyer for the first time, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of the massive home.

  The Wilmingtons’ hotel was infinitely more imposing.

  I resisted the urge to pivot my head around the space, take it all in like some wide-eyed tourist who didn’t know how to play it cool. I lived in the city for godsakes. I didn’t need to look like a sightseer in my own backyard.

  I approached the front desk where a model-thin concierge stopped tapping away at her computer to look up apathetically at me. She had a severely cut black bob that dusted her impossibly high cheekbones, and large, almond-shaped green eyes that made her look almost feline.

  She gave the briefest intimation of a smile before offering stoically, “Welcome to TRU. How may I help you.”

  New Yorkers always get a bad rap for being rude. The thing is, they’re not normally mean; they just don’t have time for anyone’s bullshit. This is something I inherently knew my whole life, but had just recently learned to project myself.

  I flashed my press pass, laminated and hanging from my neck by a long, black, nylon lanyard. “Layla Warren, Now! Magazine. I’m here to meet Mr. Kelly.” It was the code name I’d been given to be granted access to The Great Trip Wiley, up-and-coming movie star, already in need of a pseudonym in order to protect his privacy.

  The concierge suddenly took a genuine interest in me. Her eyes fully met mine and she gave me a quick once over before asking, “Mr. Johnny Kelly?”

  I got the impression that she had not only just sized me up, but found me lacking. Either that, or she was immediately able to see right through me with my every hair in its perfect place, standing there in my borrowed suit and trying to disguise my sweaty palms.

  I did a mental eyeroll. Yeah, okay, sweetheart. You caught me. Yes, I’m freaking out about my meeting with Trip Wiley. No, I’m not looking to compete with you for his hand in marriage. Clearly, you’ve got it all over me and I don’t need to be viewed as a threat, as Trip is only one “chance encounter” away from falling madly in love with YOU.

  But I just raised my eyebrows and gave her a, “Yep.”

  She was all business back at her keyboard, tapping away as she asked, “Junket or one-on-one?”

  Now, I should mention here that Devin was very clear on the fact that I was only scheduled to do the junket. If you’re unfamiliar with what a junket is, let me enlighten you.

  A press junket is basically a lion’s den of desperation. Normally, anywhere from five to twenty writers are crammed around a table in some stuffy room eating complimentary doughnuts and drinking weak coffee for a gazillion hours. Finally, at some point, they are granted an audience with the celebrity in question for all of thirty minutes. In that short amount of time, questions are rapid-fired at said celebrity, each writer trying to get as many of his or hers answered before an assistant comes in and excuses the haggard interviewee to their next appointment. Then the writer has to piece together the melee in order to come up with a cohesive story, all the while making their article look as though they’ve scored the exclusive of the century.

  It was all rather uninspiring.

  Seeing as I had absolutely zero experience with the competitive nature of a press junket, I wasn’t much looking forward to fighting it out with the other seasoned writers in the room.

  So, even though I knew there was a good chance I’d be found out by Trip’s people anyhow and there was a definite chance I’d be reamed out by my editors, I took the shot.

  “One-on-one,” I managed to say.

  I placed my company card on the desk, refusing to worry about the consequences of the unauthorized charge. If I managed to pull off the interview, Devin would gladly go to bat for me on the expense report.

  Concierge Cat tapped away on her computer while I waited to be called out for my deception. But eventually, she simply slid a room key across the desk and told me to head on up to 4816 via the elevators located just off the main lobby.

  I played aloof as I signed the receipt and grabbed the keycard, casually strolled over to the alcove, and made my way into a private elevator.

  The second the doors closed, however, I started dancing; punching the air and cabbage-patching like a white girl. I hoped I wasn’t being monitored.

  But I had done it! I was going to turn my little sideline story assignment into a feature article! I was on my way to an exclusive, one-on-one sit-down with the fastest rising star in Hollywood. Chances were good that I’d be able to parlay the interview into a cover piece with photos and a full-length story. Maybe this would be a big turning point for my career.

  I was so busy daydreaming about my impending promotion to CEO of Howell House Publishing that I’d forgotten to flip out about the fact that I was going to find myself back in the same room as Trip in just a short while. He was probably only a few doors down from my suite at that very minute, getting ready to head into the conference room at the end of the hall.

  I slid my keycard into the lock box, opened the door, and was greeted with the sight of an exquisite space.

  The entrance opened into a large living room area, decorated in pale, neutral tones with dark wood furniture. There was a kitchenette and snack bar to my right, with cabinets done in the same dark wood, but the counters were cobalt, offering just the right splash of color. There was a table and chairs to my left and a sitting area directly ahead, set up in front of a large window. The curtains were pulled back, allowing a flood of natural light into the room, and I couldn’t resist its pull, drawing me to check out the view of Broadway far below.

  I wandered into the adjoining bedroom and walked through the huge, marble bath. The décor was the same soothing neutral, with a few added accents of blue to make it interesting.

  I settled myself into the beautiful, well-appointed living room and grabbed my bag. I dug out my cellular phone and put in a quick call to Trip’s publicist, letting her know my room number, and crossing my fingers while I heard her rustle through a sheaf of paper. I exhaled when she gave me the first appointment time following the junket for the half-hour between 12:30 and 1:00, only one short hour from then.

  I set up my recently acquired digital tape recorder on the coffee table and took a seat in one of the blue plush chairs next to it. I reminded myself not to fidget as I became aware of my growling stomach. I didn’t think I had enough time to order room service, and besides, I was already pushing the limits of my company card by being in a room in the first place. I thought that I sure could have gone for one of those complimentary doughnuts right about then. I rifled through my purse and managed to come up with a flattened and crumbled granola bar, which I scarfed down without any semblance of grace.

  I had to check my teeth in the bathroom mirror, so I used the opportunity to pee and then readjusted my entire outfit and fixed my hair. Again.

  I sat back down in the chair and checked the time.

  Damn. Still had half an hour to wait.

  I reviewed my notecards, found a decent music station on the TV, rigged the door to stay open a crack, peed again and went through my outfit adjustment/hair touchup for only the millionth time that morning. Then I started to wonder what was in the minibar. I took a quick peek in the fridge, but decided against indulging in a drink, even though my nerves were pretty well shot.

  I still had some time to kill, wondering if movie stars actually held true to their schedul
es, when the room phone rang loudly, startling me enough that I actually jumped.

  It was Trip’s publicist on the other end, letting me know that they were on their way over to my suite.

  I hung up the phone and ignored the lurching in my stomach, trying to acquire my long lost sense of cool. Get ahold of yourself, Warren.

  I took a deep, steadying breath and tried to remain calm. But my zen ritual was interrupted by a knock on the door, before it was whisked open by a pretty and efficient-looking Sandy Carron, holding a clipboard and wearing a bluetooth headset.

  “Hellooo!” she called out as she scurried into the room. She came right over to me with an outstretched hand leading her way. I always found it strange when two women shook hands. It seemed like a necessary act in a roomful of men, but when it was just two ladies, a kiss on the cheek almost seemed more appropriate.

  I got up from my chair to greet her as she stated, “Ms. Warren from Now! Magazine. Pleasure to meet you. I’m Sandy Carron.”

  I shook her hand and couldn’t help but peek over her shoulder for Trip. Sandy definitely caught my wandering eyes, but was nice enough not to call me out for it. I guessed she was used to the many females coming and going through Trip’s life who made complete cakes out of themselves on a regular basis.

  “Mr. Wiley is just finishing up the junket. He’ll be in momentarily. Can I get you anything? Would you care for some coffee or a cold drink? Something to eat, perhaps?”

  Oh, right. Like after waiting a whole hour, I was going to risk getting food caught in my teeth or get busted inhaling a bacon cheeseburger at the zero hour with Trip Wiley on his way into the room.

  “No, thank you.”

  She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. “Well, I’m going to have some bottled water sent over, just in case Mr. Wiley decides he wants some, if that’s all right.” When I didn’t protest, she spoke into her headset. “Hunter, could you bring some water to forty-eight-sixteen? Great, thanks.”