Fake Halo

by Piper Lennox

  “Keep her safe,” I tell Rylan, who crosses his heart after he hugs me.

  Their taxi lurches into traffic. I wave to Georgia through the back window until they’re too far for us to see each other.

  My phone rings as soon as I’m at my subway station. Wes.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Damn, Hurley.” He pauses, clearing his throat softly. “Clara.”

  My heart spins inside my chest.

  “I was just wondering if you were still coming over. I need your help.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Listen,” I hiss, lowering my voice when some Orthodox Jews cross in front of me, “don’t ever send me a dick pic again.”

  Wes laughs so hard the line crackles. “Oh, God, that is priceless.”

  “I’m glad you find it so hilarious, because if my sister had seen—”

  “Look at the photo again, sweetheart. Then unknot your panties and get over here.”

  He hangs up. Furious all over again, I gawk at the Call Ended message...then stab my way back to our thread, angle myself against the tiled wall of the station, and look.

  It’s not his dick, after all. Just a very phallic kielbasa, next to a box of rice, followed by the text I ignored.

  Wes: Come over. I’ll make you lunch.

  “I’m in the bathroom,” Wes calls, as soon as I shut the door behind me. Bowie scrambles to the back of the couch, perching himself there while I coo hello and get a face full of slobber.

  “What’s your dumb human doing in the bathroom?” I baby-talk. “Did he fall in? Yes, he’s dumb!”

  Bowie wags his tail so hard, his rear paws slide back into the cushions. He barks happily.

  “Will you stop riling up my dog and come help me, already? I’m freaking out.”

  “Was your shower too cold?” I call, sliding my bag off my shoulder as I follow his voice. “Don’t worry, it’s all still there.”

  All my jokes get thrown back in my face the second I step into the bathroom and find, inside all this Axe-laced steam, Wes standing in nothing but a towel.

  His chest hair is beaded with water, and the damp flick of his hair when he looks at me gets my heart doing maneuvers it shouldn’t do. Not for him.

  “I have a tick on my back,” he says, “and I can’t reach it. Must have picked it up at the dog park.” When I just stand there like the hormonal idiot I am, he lowers his head into my sight. “Can you get it for me? Preferably before I contract Lyme.”

  I blink. It doesn’t help. “Do you have a lighter?”

  “You’re not burning this fucker off me, Clara. We’re not camping in the Adirondacks. Christ.” He hands me some tweezers, and for the first time I notice how nervous he is.

  “Wow, this thing really has you freaked.” I wedge myself between the sink and....

  Oh, God. And this tight...sculpted...perfect—

  “Do you see it?”

  Having the dampness of his towel against my knees (actually, having the entirety of his ass against my knees) steals whatever stability my voice had left. “Uh-huh.”

  The tick is small, nestled against his shoulder blade like a mole. Carefully, I get the head in the tweezers and pull.

  “Ow, shit. You doing a skin biopsy back there?”

  “Kind of,” I laugh, showing him. He flinches having the bug so close to his face, but does take a second to observe the chunk of skin that came out with it.

  “Great. Fascinating. Now flush it, please.”

  “You don’t want to do the honors?” I ask, waving it near his face again.

  He staggers out into the hall and clutches his towel tighter. “Clara, I swear to God.”

  My laugh makes him half-smile, but he watches warily until the deed is done.

  “Thank you. Ticks are my least favorite thing ever.” He reaches for me when I go to the sink. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  “I’ve gotta wash my hands, anyway. Might as well wash the tweezers for you, while I’m at it.” I nod at his shoulder. “Let me put some alcohol on that.”

  “Good call.” Maybe I’m imagining it, because he looks insecure while he waits in nothing but a towel.

  Actually, I know I’m imagining it. No way is Wes embarrassed to be basically nude in front of me. I’m sure he’s noticed the fact I’m still red-faced, and I’m sure he’s absolutely loving it.

  While I doctor him up, my eyes memorize the muscles of his back.

  “What are these?” I ask, my thoughts returning to PG territory when I see the scars on either side of his spine, just above the towel.

  He twists, looking at me before following my eyes. After I dab at the tick bite with a Q-tip, he shrugs.

  I follow him into his bedroom and watch him. He stares into his shirt drawer like he’s making the most important decision of his life.

  “Who did you donate marrow to?”

  “You don’t have to know the person to be their donor. There’s a database you can get yourself into, in case you’re a match for someone.” He draws the corner of his lip between his teeth before looking at me. “How’d you know it was bone marrow donation?”

  “You’re not the only one in the database.” I flop onto his bed and stretch out, thinking how lucky he is to have this view. All this sunlight, just pouring in from every angle. “A friend of mine in Santa Barbara had kidney failure. He’s doing well, now, but it got me into the whole idea of donating.”

  I push up on my elbows. “But to be honest, being a kidney donor scared me too much. I kept worrying that, as soon as I gave one up, Georgia would need it or something. Which is stupid, I mean...she’s perfectly healthy, but—”

  “But you never know what’ll happen tomorrow.” He nods. “I get it. Marrow donation is important, though. You being willing to do even that much is a big deal.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Yeah, I was pretty sore for a while. And tired. But it was worth it.”

  Before I can ask my next question—why he decided to become a donor—he drops his towel.

  “Wes!” I slap my hands over my eyes and fall back on his bed again. “God.”

  I wait until his drawers stop screeching before I sit up and peek through my fingers, assuming he’s dressed.

  Nope.

  He’s merely laid his clothes on the laundry chair, still naked as can be right in front of me.

  The sunlight hits him from behind, so that all I really get is a silhouette with a glowing white outline. The filaments of his hair catch it, the last bits of water sparkling.

  “Keep stealing glances like that,” he says, stepping into his boxers, “and I’ll be on you like a tick.”

  Twenty-Two

  “Do I call her Billie?” Clara straightens her skirt again. “Or Mrs. Durham?”

  “Stop fidgeting, first of all. This woman smells fear.” Says me, the world’s biggest hypocrite. I haven’t stopped fucking with my utensils since the moment we sat down, and my leg’s bouncing so hard it might qualify as a cardio session.

  “And call her Billie. Definitely Billie.” My mother loves formalities, but only the ones that don’t remind her she’s aging.

  Asking Clara to join me on this luncheon from a milder circle of hell wasn’t planned. When she got back from walking Bowie this morning and saw me pacing my apartment like I’d snorted Ritalin, I ended up spilling the entire story: my mom called to tell me she was coming to see me, from the plane—as all normal humans do—and that she had something “deeply concerning” to discuss. And I was not looking forward to that discussion.

  “Will you come to lunch with me?” I blurted suddenly, and my legs froze to the spot as soon as I said it. Whether I was relieved to find a candidate for my human buffer or just terrified she’d say no, I couldn’t tell.

  “If…you really want me to,” she shrugged, laughing when I shook her by the shoulders and thanked her.

  “I’m surprised you asked me to come with you,” she says now. The restaurant is on the Upper East Side (Billie Durh
am doesn’t “do” Brooklyn), and the lunch crowd is booming. I stop watching for my mom, and look at Clara.

  If the glamour of Hollywood fooled around with the give-no-fucks attitude of New York, here’s their baby. She’s wearing a black hat, black pencil skirt, and a white sleeveless blouse, with jewelry to match the diamond near her eye. I’d love to mess up that bright red lipstick with my lips, tongue, teeth…and that’s just in the suitable-for-work version.

  “It’s not like I need someone to come with me,” I explain, feeling defensive. “I can handle my mom on my own. I just despise doing it.”

  “No,” she smiles, propping her chin in her hand, “I meant that you asked me. As a friend.”

  “Turns out asking as a friend goes over a lot better than demanding as a boss.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Wait. Are we friends?”

  Clara draws a breath to answer this, and I find myself holding mine.

  But she smiles past my head and suddenly rises, extending her hand. “Hi, Mrs…. Billie. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  Taken aback, my mother shakes her hand and gives me a side-hug and air kiss before I pull her chair out for her. “Wes, honey, who’s your friend?”

  “Uh...Mom, this is Clara Hurley. Clara, my mother.”

  “Clara Hurley,” she repeats, wide-eyed when she removes her sunglasses. “Yes, of course, from the makeup reviews. My daughter loves your channel.”

  Clara reels a little. I wonder if it’s from my mom recognizing her name, or learning that Delaney is a fan. “Oh. That’s...that’s very flattering. We actually linked to one of your daughter’s uploads, last week.”

  “I saw,” Mom nods, smiling as her eyebrows raise, “along with a few, shall we say...speculative posts concerning the two of you?” She crosses her wrists, pointing back and forth between us with both hands. “Any truth to the rumors? There must be something. Here you are.”

  “And here’s the wine,” I exhale, as soon as the waiter sets the glasses down. Thank, God. I start to drink, ready to numb the tension in my shoulders—and in the air—but Mom stops me.

  “We should toast.”

  “To what?”

  “To...second chances.”

  Her smile stays in place, and Clara gives a half-one herself, but I’m the only one scowling when we clink. I know what this is about.

  “Mom, I told you: I’m not doing the reunion.” Annoying as this topic is, I’m also insanely relieved she’s not here to chew me out over Delaney visiting.

  “Louis called me,” she says, speaking into her wine glass as she studies my reaction. “He said they’re offering you thirty percent more than what they offered last time. Did you really turn them down?”

  I wish agent-client confidentiality was a thing. Or, if it already is, that my agent actually gave a shit about it. “Yep.”

  “Wes,” she sighs, “honestly, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours. You’re missing an incredible opportunity.”

  To Clara, she says, “Cut to the Chases—I’m sure you’ve heard of it—is trying to get him back for a reunion special, and he’s been nothing but stubborn, no matter how much they’ve offered.”

  “It’s not about money.”

  “It’s about music now.” She nods sarcastically. “Which would be fine, except that you haven’t even started to monetize your channel. And that little record deal is, to be frank, far lower than what you should have negotiated.”

  When I ready to deliver a comeback, Clara’s look stops me. “You have a record deal?”

  Call me crazy, but she looks impressed. It’s a refreshing change of pace from Mom’s judgment. “Uh...yeah. It’s just one, a trial album with this new label back in Brooklyn, but—”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t care much for his music.” Mom twirls one of her pearl earrings back and forth. Maybe it’s the dial that controls how invasive she is in my life. It must be permanently stuck on eleven. “It’s very violent and loud.”

  “Gritty,” Clara nods, but oddly enough, it doesn’t sound like she’s agreeing with my mom’s words. Just amending them. “Really dark and metal. Definitely not everyone’s cup of tea, but...you know. Nothing is.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Mom laughs, smoothing the napkin in her lap, “this one must really like you, Wes.”

  Nope. Just everything else on this planet. Music included.

  Still, I feel a little jolt of pride at Clara’s words, and gratitude that she thought to say them in front of my mom.

  The subject won’t drop regardless, even after we’ve ordered and have our salads. Mom keeps hounding me about the reunion, critiquing my music, and comparing my latest endeavors to those of my former costars.

  Just when she’s about to start a tirade over the commercial I also turned down recently, Clara sits up and says, “You know, I just have to tell you...I can’t believe I’m having lunch with the Billie Durham. You’re a legend.”

  Mom’s shocked. But not one fraction as much as I am.

  “I loved you in Varsity Silk,” Clara continues, hand on her heart as she leans close, like it’s just the two of them at the table. “You should have taken home an Oscar, hands-down.”

  “Why, thank you, dear! Of course, there were so many wonderful films that year, our little picture really didn’t have much hope.”

  Her surprise and false modesty don’t last long. Soon she and Clara are discussing just about every role she’s ever had, and roles she secretly pined for and never got.

  “Oh, come on,” she beams, swatting Clara’s arm, “you’re just saying that.”

  “No, I mean it—you could easily play someone in their late twenties.”

  All right, now I know she’s bullshitting her. My mom looks great for her age, thanks to good genes and better plastic surgeons, but there’s no shrinking those fifty-two years to anything less than thirty-eight, at best.

  Nonetheless, Mom eats it up like calorie-free Jell-O. As soon as Clara leaves for the bathroom, she sits back in her chair and turns her smile on me. “I like her.”

  “She’s...something else,” I nod. Without meaning to, I look in the direction Clara went and kick myself for missing that walk-away.

  “Are things serious?”

  I shake my head, picking at the last of my frisée salad. It’s mostly pears by now, so I scrape them into Clara’s empty bowl. She seemed to love them. “We’re just friends.”

  “Wes. Please tell me you’re not still seeing that girl from the one-woman show.”

  It takes me a second to remember who she’s talking about: some hook-up from last summer, right before Stream Summit and the masquerade party. The only reason Mom knows about her is that the girl posted a photo of me tangled in her floral sheets the next morning, while her overfed cat sat right on my chest like it wanted to steal my soul.

  “I wouldn’t call that ‘seeing’ her,” I say. “We just fu—” Nice. Almost told my mom I had a one-night stand. “Uh...it wasn’t a relationship.”

  “Well, why is this not a relationship?” she asks, motioning to Clara’s empty seat. “She’s pretty, sweet...not to mention the effect it might have on your career.”

  “Don’t, Mom.”

  My protest is two-pronged. First, there’s the fact it’s too reminiscent of the last time she micromanaged my career, when we ended up at opposite ends of a lawsuit. Her pill-crazed theft is an old wound, but a sore one.

  And second…this whole arrangement with Clara is starting to make me feel like shit.

  Every time I check the stats on my page, or even Delaney’s, a bullet of guilt drags through me. It’s that feeling like you cheated on a test and got praised for your score. But even worse, like you cheated off a friend.

  “Clara,” Mom says when she returns, “maybe you can convince my son to embrace the idea of a reunion special with his old cast, since he won’t listen to me.”

  Clara shifts and takes a bite of her chicken to stall, answering from behind her hand, “I don’t know if he’d listen
to me much, either.”

  “Women have certain persuasive abilities, if you see where I’m heading with this.”

  While Clara chokes on her water, I press my fingertips to my temples to try and remove this psychological scar before it can form.

  Too late. I get to remember this forever.

  “I understand his hang-up,” Mom goes on. “Really, I do. It’s not easy returning to old projects when you’ve moved on to other things. But when the new projects just aren’t bringing the success the old ones did, well....”

  She taps her manicure on her wine glass, staring me down again. “I realize Cut to the Chases is hard to swallow as being your peak, son. I know it’s not some cinematic masterpiece. And let’s be honest, your role wasn’t as...artistic, I suppose, as some of your sister’s. But there’s no sense passing up good money just because—”

  “I actually loved him as Charlie Chase.”

  Mom quiets and looks at Clara with mild surprise.

  I look at her like she fell out of the damn sky, right into my lap.

  “Oh.” Mom dabs at her mouth with her napkin and drapes it over her plate, even though she barely took two bites of her meal. Maybe she’s following Adler’s diet back home and now shies away from solid food. “You’ve seen his show?”

  “I watched it every day after school with my sister,” Clara says softly. She drags the tines of her fork through some melted butter on her plate.

  “Georgia didn’t like it as much as I did,” she laughs, “but I kind of forced it on her. Her favorite episode was always—”

  “Let me guess,” I interject, because not only am I positive I know this answer, but I’m fairly certain Clara’s bullshitting can’t finish this sentence convincingly enough. “The one where Charlie saves his friend from alcohol poisoning?”

  “No.” Her eyes lock on mine, briefly, then go back to her plate. “Her favorite was where Charlie sneaks out to a concert, then Ben finds out and holds it against him.” Subtly, her jaw clenches, but she’s fighting a smile. “Blackmails him.”

  “Ah,” Mom nods, sounding confused and kind of bored, now that we’re not talking about her career. “I don’t remember that one.”