by Ana Novak
“Apparently I invited Shane over for pizza tonight,” I said. “I do not remember doing this.”
“You were probably too drunk to remember. Those shots hit you hard last night,” Mistral said breezily. “I wish I’d been as lucky as you. I couldn’t follow through on my guy.”
“Your guy? You mean Nick Carter?”
“You know, after I got a better look at him, he was more like an Aaron Carter.”
“Yikes.”
“Yup. Dodged a bullet there. Look, hun, I’ve got to go, but why don’t you do yourself a favor and take my advice for once? Talk it out with Shane. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Lord, don’t call me that. I feel old enough already. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
I ended the call and stared down at the text from Shane, debating about how to respond.
Sure, I texted back. I’m making the dough soon. Come over when you’re ready if you want to help.
Be there in an hour, came the reply. I’m just finishing up at the studio.
Talking to Shane about the issue that Van had addressed was going to be wildly awkward, at best. I could pour my heart out when I was writing a book, emptying my soul with a voracity that left me feeling completely spent afterwards. But communicating about relationship issues, or any kind of conflict, really, had never been my forte. What little communication skill I’d developed as a young adult had wasted away during the years of my marriage. The most communication that ever passed between Dave and I had been through his bouts of passive aggressive behavior, when he’d used silent treatment and underhanded, hurtful actions to punish me for whatever misdeed he thought I’d committed at the time.
The tables had certainly turned, I thought wryly, standing up and making my way back toward the apartment. I’d spent years chasing after Dave, craving his approval, trying to find ways to please him and having no idea what I was doing wrong because of his refusal to communicate. Now he was texting and calling me constantly, begging to talk when the time for talking was long past.
My phone rang again as I was climbing up the stairs to my apartment. Wearily I pulled it from my pocket and rolled my eyes when I saw it was my father. He’d undoubtedly seen the tabloid picture, too.
“Hi, Dad.”
“What were you thinking?” His voice rose an octave with each word. “You just managed to put all this boy drama behind you.”
“Shane’s not a boy, Dad.”
There was a pause. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.
“I meant he’s not a boy, he’s a man,” I said, incredulous. “As in we’re both consenting adults. What did you think I meant?”
“In this day and age, you just never know,” he huffed. “But it doesn’t matter. He may not be confused about his gender-”
“What?”
“-But you’re definitely confused about what’s good for you. I know you were heartbroken when David left, but-”
“I left him!”
“-That’s no excuse for repeating past mistakes.”
“Dad. You do realize that you and I haven’t spoken since I’ve been back in New York.”
Arnold was suddenly flustered. “Well- I know you’ve been busy-”
“I haven’t been busy. I’ve had plenty of free time on my hands to repeat all my past mistakes. Is it really that hard to drop me a text?”
“You could put a little more effort into staying in touch too, young lady,” he said.
“I sent you a text the day I got back,” I said, pushing open the door to the third floor. “Van picked me up at the airport, and I texted you and Mom right away to let you know I got here okay. She responded. You didn’t.”
“You didn’t attend family dinner Thursday night,” he said.
“I didn’t know I was invited!”
“Didn’t David tell you?”
I rolled my eyes as I stopped in front of my front door and dug my keys out of my pocket. “Yes, he said, ‘See you Thursday,’ after trying and failing to break up my lunch date last week. That’s not exactly an invitation, and even if it was, I think I have a right to be annoyed that the invitation to a family dinner came from my ex-husband and not my family.” I stopped to take a breath, shutting the door firmly behind me. I couldn’t remember ever being so forceful in any conversation with my father, but I was beyond tired of my family interfering in my love life.
“I didn’t call to argue,” Arnold said after a long pause. “I just want you to be careful. I don’t want you to run off to California again because that boy- that man drags you back into his mess of a life.”
I flopped down on the couch. “I’m just dipping a toe in the dating pool, Dad, not making a lifetime commitment. I’m really not looking for anything serious.”
“That does not make me feel any better, Taylor.”
“Am I invited for dinner tomorrow?”
“Of course you are.” He was sounding flustered again.
“That’s great. I’ll be there…as long as you don’t invite Dave.”
“Taylor.”
“He’s my ex-husband. Emphasis on ex. And he calls and texts me multiple times a day even though our divorce has been final for months. I don’t want to be fending him off at a dinner I’m meant to spend with my family.”
“I can understand that,” Arnold said grudgingly, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that I’d struck a nerve by pointing out that Dave was making unwanted advances. “I will keep the guest list limited to immediate family only.”
“Thank you. Now I have to go, because I’m making pizza for dinner and the dough needs to set.”
“Are you eating alone?”
“Very sneaky. No, if you must know, a friend is coming over to help me cook.”
“Is it that boy?”
“Goodbye, Dad."
“Be careful!” I heard him shout as I took the phone away from my ear and ended the call.
I stared up at the ceiling, one arm thrown over my head, the other one resting on my stomach, still clutching my phone. “How did I get here?” I said to no one in particular. “I finally decide to have a casual fling and my entire family finds out and reams me for it. I have the worst luck.”
On the bright side, the casual fling is with Shane Kruger, my inner voice pointed out, and I couldn’t argue with that. I got up and busied myself with washing dishes, determined to come up with a plan of action before Shane came over.
And by “action,” I certainly did not mean sex, I told myself firmly.
By the time he knocked on my door forty minutes later, I’d cleaned the kitchen and was scrubbing the freezer, trying to work out some of the anxiety over what I had to discuss with him.
I pulled off one rubber glove with my opposite hand and tromped through the living room, pulling open the front door.
Shane stood there, looking even more devastatingly handsome than usual, if that were even possible. He’d changed into a white button-down shirt and slacks, and he carried a single grocery bag in one hand.
“Did I interrupt your spring cleaning?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in my disheveled appearance.
“It’s November,” I said stupidly.
“Right. My bad.” He stepped inside when I motioned him in and followed me as I made my way back to the kitchen. “I didn't know you were a neat freak.”
“I’m more of a control freak,” I said, closing the freezer and slapping my rubber gloves down in the sink. “Any time something is out of my control, I clean compulsively.”
“That explains why your apartment looks the way it does,” he said, and set the grocery bag on the counter. “I figured you wouldn’t be up for anything alcoholic, so I brought sparkling water.”
“I love Clearly Canadian,” I said in surprise as he drew several bottles out of the bag. “My mom used to drink it when I was a kid. How did you know?”
“You told me,” he replied. “The first day we met.”
/> I stared at the bottles for a long moment, struggling to make sense of the warring emotions inside me. “That’s nice of you,” I said. “Like, really nice.”
He put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him and kissing my forehead. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “Are you gonna show me how to make pizza?”
“I am,” I said miserably. “But I need to talk to you about something first.”
He drew back, looking at my face, and his expression turned wary. “Sure. What’s up?”
I leaned against the counter, wondering if we should move to the couch. I didn’t want this discussion to last overly long, but it was bound to be awkward no matter how long it took. “I had lunch with my brother today,” I said finally. “He had…some not-so-nice things to say about you.”
Shane leaned against the counter opposite me, folding his arms across his chest. “Okay. What kinds of things?”
“He said…” I stopped, at a loss as to how to word it. “He told me that you, I mean, your publicist controlled the narrative after our one night stand. He said that your PR team made it so that you came out unscathed and the media went after me.”
Shane was silent for several seconds before speaking. “He thinks I threw you under the bus?”
“Yes. Well, that’s not all he said, but that was the first thing.”
“Oh, there’s more?” Shane said, looking completely unsurprised. “He probably doesn’t want his baby sister messing around with a guy with my reputation, huh?”
“That…yeah, that’s it, pretty much. He talked about your Rolling Stone cover.”
Shane nodded. “That I expected. Where do you want me to start?”
He was taking this well. I drew a deep breath. “Did your PR team spread rumors about me so that the tabloids wouldn’t focus on you?”
“No.”
Hope sprang up within me, unbidden. “Really?”
“Really. They did damage control, at least as far as I know, but I never would have let them drag your name through the mud.”
“But…but they were calling me a homewrecker.”
“They who?”
“Everyone.” I spread my hands, the same frustration bubbling up inside. “The paparazzi, the tabloids, basically everyone.”
“Everyone on the internet, you mean.”
“Well, yeah.”
He reached out with one hand and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and the tenderness in his touch surprised me. “I know it hurt you, Taylor. I would have protected you if I could have.”
I laughed, and my nervousness made my voice high-pitched. “Mistral says I’m too sensitive.”
“I like that about you. I like that you’re not into the whole celebrity lifestyle. I wish there was a way I could shield you from it, but I’ve just learned to deal with it.”
“I know I need to get over it,” I muttered. “I feel like I’ll never get used to people taking pictures of me.”
Shane didn’t say anything else, and after a few moments of silence, I looked up at him. “What about the Rolling Stone cover?”
He shrugged. “What about it?”
“I didn’t know you were into the drug scene.” I felt so lame saying it out loud, but Shane didn’t seem to take offense.
“I’m not. But I used to be, and Rolling Stone is known for controversial covers, so I went along with their treatment.” He hesitated. “Do you remember when I said that I left UnAlive because I had to deal with some stuff in my personal life?”
“Yes.”
“The personal stuff I was talking about was a drug issue. Alcohol was becoming a problem, too. I went into rehab,” Shane said, and his eyes were intense upon me once again. “We kept it quiet, and it happened fast enough that the media never got wind of it. UnAlive went out at the top of our game, and any rumors that had started because of me died out quick after we split up.”
“I pushed you to drink last night,” I exclaimed, suddenly frightened. “Did I make you relapse?”
“No,” he said. “As a rule, I don’t drink hard liquor, but a couple of shots at a club won’t knock me off the wagon.”
The relief that bubbled up inside me was so genuine that I felt a smile creep onto my lips. “So you’re saying that you didn’t throw me to the wolves with the paparazzi, and you’re not a drug addict.”
“Damn, sweetheart, when you describe me like that, I sound like an asshole,” he said, shaking his head. “Did your brother tell you all this?”
“He did. I think he’s just worried about me. Also, my ex-husband is his best friend,” I added as an afterthought. “So I don’t think Van is all that keen on me dating again.”
“I knew they were close,” Shane said. “But I didn’t know Van had it out for me.”
“He’s just overprotective,” I said.
“Overprotective? He’s best friends with your ex,” Shane pointed out.
“I know, but like I said before, I’m not going to ask Van to ditch Dave because of me,” I said, feeling light-headed from simultaneous relief and nervous excitement over the fact that I now had no legitimate reason to stop seeing Shane. “I guess we need to start making the pizza, right?”
I started to turn away, but Shane caught my hand and pulled me to him, sliding his arm around my waist.
“Hey,” he said in a low voice, looking down at me.
I stared up into his eyes, dangerously close to losing myself in their liquid depths. “Hey,” I responded dazedly.
“I’m glad you talked to me about it,” he said, and the rasp in his tone turned my knees to jelly.
“Me too.”
His thumb stroked against my cheek, and then he lowered his lips to mine. The kiss was sweet and chaste, not at all like the hungry, lust-driven makeout sessions we’d had before, and when he ended it, he placed another light kiss on my nose before releasing me.
“I could get used to having you around,” I said without thinking, and he grinned down at me.
“I could get used to being around.” Our eyes were locked for a handful of heartbeats, and then he turned into the counter, looking down at the ingredients I’d arranged there earlier. “So, pizza dough. This is going on Instagram if it looks good. Where do we start?”
Chapter 10
I tugged on the hem of my skirt, feeling cranky and frustrated. I’d woken up without Shane beside me, had spent all day cleaning my house in order to avoid writing, and was now in Van’s car on my way to dinner at our father’s house. This was probably not going to end well.
“You’ll be fine,” Van said. “You know he’s missed you.”
“Yeah, I know.” I glared out the window. I’d dressed in a black sheath halter dress that was only a smidge too tight, but I’d put a cardigan over it and was wearing a respectable pair of black pumps on my feet. I looked like I was headed to a funeral. With any luck, our father would spend the entire dinner fawning over Van and ignoring me.
Arnold had reaffirmed his dinner invitation from two days ago via text, but I suspected Van had more to do with that than any goodwill on my father’s part. I knew he wasn’t happy about me seeing Shane again, and he definitely wasn’t happy that I’d stipulated I would only come to dinner if Dave was not invited.
The car pulled up in front of Arnold’s elegant brownstone, and I looked up at the multi-story townhouse, feeling completely deflated. “Talk about your wedding,” I said to Mel. “Talk about it the whole time.”
“Will do,” she said. Her face was perfectly composed but also expressionless. My father was always nice to Mel, which was to be expected considering her level of celebrity, but she didn’t care much for him either.
Van led us up the steps, and before we’d even reached the door, Arnold had opened it. “Son,” he said, holding his arms out for Van. He smiled warmly at Mel and gave her a hug before turning to me.
I’d gotten my blonde hair and dark eyes from my dad, and Van had said more than once that of the two of us, I definitely bore more of a resemb
lance to Arnold. Those dark eyes were unsmiling as he gave me an awkward side-hug. “I hear you’ve made the Times bestseller list,” he said. “Good job. I’m glad to see your education is finally paying off.”
I forced a smile, painfully aware- and forever grateful- that he’d paid my tuition at NYU. “It was a sound investment, right?”
“Certainly.” He didn’t comment on my appearance, which was a relief since all he’d ever said before was that I looked healthy. I’d always taken it as a dig at my perpetual chubbiness, but Van had insisted it was Arnold’s backwards way of complimenting me.
Teresa was clearly relishing playing hostess for the night. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, taking my hand in both of hers and staring so earnestly into my eyes that I had to fight the urge to look away. “I’m truly hoping that we can be friends. Your father talks about you all the time.”
“Does he?” I didn’t believe it, but she was trying to make a good impression.
“Oh, yes. He says you maintained a 4.0 GPA your entire four years at NYU, and that your latest book is on the New York Times bestseller list. He says you’re the next John Grisham.”
“What is it in us that seeks the truth?” I quipped uncomfortably, and was rewarded with a blank stare from her. “A Time to Kill,” I added, trying in vain to remember if the quote had been from the book, the film, or both.
“Oh.” She nodded knowingly. “Matthew McConaughey, pre-McConaissance. And Sandra Bullock before she married and divorced that snake Jesse James and became an icon for wronged women everywhere.”
Her comment was so unexpectedly candid that I was silent for a moment, taken aback. Finally I smiled. “That’s one thing we can definitely agree on.”
“You know, I went to NYU too,” she told me, tucking my hand into the crook of her elbow as she led me to the dining room. “Physical therapy at Steinhardt. I couldn’t afford it though, and I had to drop out before I finished my degree. I became a masseuse instead.”
“Is that how you met my father?” I asked curiously, only realizing after I’d said it that she might perceive my question as rude. Fortunately she didn’t seem to take offense.
“No, we met at a charity event hosted by RCA. My late husband was an executive there.” She volunteered the information candidly, seemingly unaffected by his passing, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.