Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath to retrieve my calm. I don’t appreciate being ambushed rather than consulted, but putting broken manager-client dynamics aside, I know he speaks the truth. “Okay. Let’s talk in the bar.” Actually, it’s probably ideal, I realize as I check my watch. It’s not quite five. The bar won’t be crowded yet, so I can have the I-love-you-but-you-need-to-back-off conversation without a PR coordinator weighing in. “Let me change and then I’m ready.”

  “I need to check on something downstairs. Meet you in the bar?”

  “Deal.”

  It doesn’t take long to wash up and trade out the interview-ready Tom Ford jacket, aged jeans, and white T-shirt provided by the stylist for my black-and-gray Henley and black jeans. It’s not exactly a huge transformation, but it feels like slipping back into my own skin.

  I shake hands, pose for a couple pictures with the crew, and I’m out of there. I get an elevator to myself and check my phone as I ride down to the bar. Nothing urgent. I upload a funny shot from this morning to Instagram. One of the stylists swooshed my hair into a faux-hawk and I’m giving the whole thing a right-eyebrow-raised, WTF look. It won’t get as much love as a shirtless shot, but my core followers will appreciate the candid glimpse of the day.

  I’m still focused on my phone as I step out of the elevator, which might explain why it takes me a moment to locate the source when I hear a female voice call, “Vaughn, baby, are you done for the day?”

  I look up to find Becca breezing across the gleaming marble atrium toward me, backlit by Southern California sunshine spilling through the glass doors of the hotel’s main entrance. She’s got a couple shopping bags on her arm and her sunglasses doing secondary duty as a headband to keep her hair away from her face and highlight those cheekbones. A gauzy gray sundress with little black accents skims her torso and flutters around her calves. Between her cross-lobby greeting and her young Gisele looks, several heads turn in our direction. When she reaches me, she rests her body against mine, wraps her arms around my neck, and plants a kiss on my lips. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I step back because I feel like I’m in a scene where I never got my script. Hell, we’re even dressed picture perfect in complementing tones of black and gray. “Um…what are you doing here?”

  She links her arm through mine and laughs. “I’m here to see you, silly. I’m joining you for a celebratory drink.”

  “We’re celebrating?”

  “Yes. I got that movie role I auditioned for when I was in New York! And you’re still in the running for America Rocks, despite all the naysayers. Let’s get a table in the bar, and I can give you a proper bottoms up.”

  Pun intended, her look assures me. I ignore that for the moment, because I’m still confused, but I do offer her congratulations and go along as she starts moving us toward the bar. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Her brow wrinkles at my question as we walk into the paneled and mirrored bar decorated like a nineteenth century gentlemen’s club. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  Rather than answer, a lead weight sinks in my stomach. I glance around. Where the hell is my father?

  We approach a table in the center of the room—optimal for seeing and being seen—and I spy Kit, a cameraman, and another guy sitting at the bar. Kit gives me a “gotcha” smile and taps one of the guys on the shoulder.

  Awesome. I acknowledge her with a head nod that says, What? I told you she’s a friend.

  As we settle into deep leather chairs, Becca’s pretty eyes look slightly bruised at my silence. I reach across the table and give her hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks for being here. I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  She shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Mission accomplished.” I look over her shoulder to see where the hell my father is.

  “He’s not coming,” she says. “You’ve got me instead.”

  Our eyes meet and hold, and for the first time I realize I’m not the only person my dad likes to manipulate.

  “We’ve fed the media the authorized crumbs.” She pauses while a waiter delivers an apparently preordered bottle of champagne, pours two glasses into long crystal flutes, and leaves the bottle nestled in a silver bucket brimming with ice. When he retreats, Becca twirls the stem of her glass between her fingers and looks at me like I’m the center of her universe. “Now it’s time to give them something less authorized to chew on. Vaughn Shaughnessy and Rebecca Bismark…are they or aren’t they madly in love?”

  I lean back in my chair and wish we didn’t have to have this conversation in public. “I’ve already told them we’re not.”

  “Are you sure about that?” She tips her head to a coy angle. Her foot finds mine under the table, and she runs her toe up my shin.

  “Bec.” I pull my legs under my chair as I rest my forearms on the table and lean toward her. “I don’t want to pretend with you anymore.”

  “But I’m about to break big. Same for you. If we play this right, combining our momentum will give us both an extra boost. And…”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing.” She lifts her glass and clicks it to mine. “To us.”

  I down my glass in one long gulp and place it carefully on the table before saying, “There is no us,” I reiterate. “Not for public consumption.”

  “And privately?” Uncharacteristic vulnerability laces her words, but I honestly don’t know if it’s authentic or an act.

  “You don’t need me there, either. Not anymore.”

  She crosses her arms, studies me. “Well, it’s not really up to us, is it?”

  I frown as my dad’s words from earlier this evening replay in my mind. I added a few additional things, including one for this evening. I’m going to strangle him. My phone buzzes as that lightning hot thought singes deep into my brain. The screen fills with a text.

  Enjoy the champagne. We’ll catch up tomorrow.

  Fuck strangling him. I am definitely going to fire my dad.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kendall

  Today’s walk finds me veering off Sunset and exploring side streets lined with trees and trendy shops. In New York City, I walked everywhere and loved it. I loved navigating the crowded sidewalks, catching threads of conversations over the steady rumble of traffic, following the scent of the flower vendors, or the seduction of a luxurious window display. A small blessing, I often told myself, attending college in a place that didn’t require I drive anywhere.

  Walking in L.A. is obviously very different, but the destination remains the same—a personal sanctuary built from fresh air and the head-clearing simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other. One of my mom’s favorite phrases floats through my mind. “One step and deep breath at a time.”

  I’ve been replaying last weekend over and over in my mind, one minute feeling more honest and in control of my life than I’ve felt in a long time and the next worried I’ve fallen into a false sense of security. There’s nothing wrong with either emotion, I tell myself. Don’t second-guess. Go with the flow.

  My cross-trainers continue to eat up the sidewalk, and my mind adds an encouraging little mantra. One step…one deep breath…one step…

  The ding of my phone interrupts, and I take it from my back pocket to find the screen lit with a text message from Vaughn.

  Hey baby. U up?

  I laugh and type out a reply.

  A hookup text at ten-thirty in the morning? That’s pretty cheesy.

  I’m in Vegas. I’ve lost all track of time. What are you doing?

  Walking along Sunset. Checking out the shops. Maybe find a job.

  Gonna buy yourself something sexy?

  Ha. All I’ve got on me is my phone and ten dollars earmarked for Starbucks. If you consider an iced coffee sexy, then yes, I am.

  Yep. Sexy.

  I laugh again. You have a strange definition of sexy.

  Three dots appear and linger on the screen. His response is tak
ing a little longer this time.

  Are you going to hold it firmly in your hand? Put your lips over the tip of the straw and use suction until your mouth fills?

  Suddenly the mid-morning sunshine on my face feels a little hotter, and I’m glad I have the sidewalk mostly to myself. A naughty impulse compels me to reply, I’m going to go slow. Make it last as long as possible. Savor every drop until it’s completely drained.

  The three little dots appear again, and I’m practically holding my breath to see his response. Was I too smutty? Not smutty enough? I’m new to sexting.

  Holy $#!@. I just had a long-distance…iced coffee.

  Glad you enjoyed yourself. Pride makes me sassy.

  I enjoy YOU. Looking forward to Saturday.

  Me too. Have fun in Vegas.

  I’d rather have fun with you. Later Kendall. He ends with an iced coffee emoji.

  I slip my phone into my pocket and peek into a clothing boutique. The reflection staring back at me catches me off guard. The girl in the glass wears a secret smile.

  The Vaughn effect. They ought to create an emoji for that.

  But he’s done more than just put a smile on my face. He helped me confront a huge obstacle keeping me in my untenable limbo.

  Me.

  Mason didn’t push my heart into a holding cell and hide the key. He couldn’t do it even if he was the kind of guy who would want to—which he isn’t—because I’m in charge of my heart. It’s mine to give, and it finally dawned on me that I can give it many times, in many ways. Love’s not a finite thing. I don’t have to retrieve what I’ve given, or give back what I’ve taken, in order to move on. I just have to be ready to give again. There’s freedom in that realization, and I close my eyes to absorb the weightless sensation. I’d hoped to get unstuck this summer and am grateful for the assist.

  Who knew the guy hanging in Times Square would become my friend-slash-unknowing therapist? Not this girl. And now he’s poised to become more.

  One step…one deep breath…

  My stomach hears my thoughts and rumbles to remind me I want a pastry with my coffee, so I pick up my pace again. I sniff the air and can practically smell the blueberry muffin I’ve been craving almost as much as I crave Vaughn. Gah. I can’t even think about food without Mr. Tall, Charming, and Sexy intruding.

  The stores transition from retail to business offices as I continue my walk, and when I pass signage for an attorney, I’m hit with a stab of nostalgia. As much as I dread law school, I do miss my law firm internship. Not the legal aspects, so much, but I miss being busy with work and hanging out with the other interns.

  Distracted by the recollection, I turn the corner and bump right into someone. Oomph.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say to the woman whom I’ve literally knocked off her feet. She was already kneeling, so she didn’t have far to go. By the time I crouch down she’s already back on her haunches, so I help pick up the flyers strewn all over the ground. “Are you okay?”

  She waves away my concern. “I’m fine, just klutzy. I’m sorry I’m practically taking up the whole sidewalk.”

  I study one of the flyers. It reminds me of a Matisse painting, the colors vivid and bright, and drawn if I’m not mistaken, by a child. Bold black typeset tells me there is an art exhibit happening courtesy of Art In Progress.

  Once we’ve gathered all the papers, we stand. The woman is maybe ten years older than me with deep brown eyes and dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. “What’s Art In Progress?” I ask, handing her my pile of flyers.

  “Thank you.” She adds them to her stack inside a small box then adjusts the strap of the messenger bag hanging over her shoulder. “AIP is an organization that helps people in need through art.” She nods to the storefront behind me. “This is our studio.”

  I turn to see the words Art In Progress beautifully etched in gold lettering on the window and different pieces of art on the other side of the glass. Twisting back around, I notice a car parked at the curb, the trunk open, and several boxes marked AIP.

  “Do you need some help?” I ask.

  “Would you?” she asks with gratitude and relief. “It’s just me this morning, and I’m running late, as usual.”

  “Sure.” I grab two boxes and follow her inside. The space is large with hardwood flooring and dark painted walls. Framed photographs, sculptures, and a piano decorate the area. I put the boxes down near a reception desk, and we make one more trip to her car.

  “Thank you so much,” she says, wiping her hands down the sides of her jeans. “I’m Candace, by the way.”

  “Kendall. It’s nice to meet you.” I take a closer look around, my gaze drawn up to the ceiling, and all the air whooshes out of my lungs. Somebody’s painted a cross between a rainforest and outer space up there. “Wow,” I murmur.

  Candace tilts her head back. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she says with awe. I bet no matter how many times someone looks up, he or she always feels like they’re standing on the edge of the world, about to jump into a heaven of living color.

  I drop my chin and take one of the flyers. “Can you tell me more about this place?”

  “I’d love to. Would you like a tour?”

  “Sure.”

  “We were founded twelve years ago with the goal of using art as therapy and offering a safe place for young people grappling with various types of challenges to share their creativity with others.” She leads me down a hallway and I’m shown a room filled with musical instruments, then a room overflowing with canvas and easels and paints, and then another one with a puppet theater and garment racks filled with clothes. By the time we walk through French doors to a small outdoor theater underneath an open tent, I’m officially in awe.

  “Wow. Inspiration lives in every nook and cranny of this place.”

  Candace laughs. “Inspiration lives up here.” She taps her temple. “Our mission involves finding the right ways to unlock it. We provide workshops in Music and Movement, Fashion and Design, and Visual Arts, which includes film, theater, painting, and photography. Leading experts designed our programs to support adolescents going through difficult life changes by offering creative tools and mentoring to help them assess and express their emotions, gain perspective, and reclaim power over their responses to the challenges they face.”

  As we return to the lobby area, I smooth my hand along the wall. Maybe I can absorb some healing just by being under the roof of this really cool operation.

  “Are you a nonprofit?”

  “Not exactly. We’re a not-for-profit organization.” At my frown, Candace continues. “Meaning our founder generously funds our operation and any profits, or donations, go back into the organization. Anyone who needs our help receives it at no cost.”

  I read the flyer in my hand. The art exhibit is next week. “This is open to the public?”

  Candace plops down in a chair behind the desk. “It is.” Her phone rings from inside her bag and she raises a finger. “Excuse me a minute,” she says as she pulls out a notebook, eyeglass case, an apple, sunscreen, and her wallet before grabbing her cell in victory. “Hello?”

  I stroll around the room to give her some privacy, but easily hear her side of the conversation. Someone named Tiffany quit to go backpacking in Europe with her boyfriend and yes, the timing is terrible, but Candace placed an ad with an online employment company this morning, so fingers crossed she’ll have a new assistant by week’s end. She goes on to talk about an upcoming workshop, some other business points, and dinner plans for Saturday.

  A nanosecond after she’s said good-bye, I spin around to face her.

  “Sorry about that.” She looks up from the desk, rubs the side of her forehead like she might be getting a headache.

  Maybe I can help her with that. “You’re hiring?”

  She gets to her feet and comes around the desk, giving me a more thorough inspection. “An assistant coordinator, yes.”

  “I’d love to apply for the job,”
I say, feeling for the first time like this is a job I’d actually like.

  “Okay. How about I interview you right now?” She glances at her watch, obviously not thinking too hard, either, and I’ll take it. “I’ve got a few minutes if you do.”

  “I’ve got all day.”

  She gestures toward a red velvet couch and we sit. “Tell me about yourself,” she says.

  So I do. Mostly. It turns out she graduated from Columbia, so we immediately have four years in New York in common, as well as favorite restaurants. She’s easy to talk to and, while my work experience is limited to my internship, I did volunteer as a camp counselor during my first two summers at NYU. I enjoy working with young people, I have strong organizational skills, and I can empathize with those emotionally struggling for one reason or another. I don’t go into any detail, but I do share that I’m still dealing with a traumatic event from my past. The biggest detriment to my qualifications is my temporary status in L.A.

  “Given that my last assistant called me from the airport to tell me she was running off to Europe with her boyfriend, you’re providing me a lavish amount of advanced notice,” Candace says. “And in all honesty, I’m a little desperate with the exhibit a week away, so how about we give it a try?”

  I don’t even attempt to keep my smile from being too big. “I’d love that.” Oh my God, I have a job. And it has nothing to do with law!

  Candace has me fill out some paperwork, we agree I’ll start tomorrow morning, and then she’s rushing out the door to an appointment and I’m hurrying to buy myself some celebratory breakfast. I’ve got a ton of questions for her, realizing belatedly that she didn’t tell me much of anything about the job. That’s okay, though. When I get home I’ll do some online research so I’ll have an even better understanding of AIP.

  Something she said while giving me the tour comes back to me. “We use art to help improve and enhance physical, mental, and emotional well-being.”

  My heart gives a little sway.

  Sounds perfect.