by Kim Karr
Carter doesn’t discriminate between gay and straight porn. As long as the men are good-looking, he’s down with whatever is on. He actually likes to watch porn, and not just for jerking-off material. He finds the skits amusing and the storylines intriguing.
That’s why he has all the porn stations. Clicking to another, and another still, I end up stopping on Playboy TV when I see a couple fucking on a kitchen counter.
As the guy thrusts violently into the girl, I can’t help but think how different this is from the sex tape Brooklyn and I made. The one where Brooklyn is actually making love to me, not fucking me.
I figured out what he said to me that night, what he whispered into my ear. It took me hours of watching us together, but he said, “I love making love to you.”
Swoon.
I wish I had heard it then, because figuring it out after our forbidden affair ended has only put me in the hopeless romantic category.
Sighing, I click the television off and look over at Carter. He is fiddling with his mouse. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Editing,” he says with another click and drag.
“I know that.” Getting to my feet, I walk over and stand behind him. On the screen is an image of a woman in a wedding dress. He’s blowing it up. I watch as it grows larger and larger on the screen. Tapping the paint can icon, he adds vibrant red to the bouquet of flowers that is held in her hands, along with yellow, green, and orange. When he zooms out, I can see that she is sitting on the ground with a pair of Chucks on.
Leaning even closer, I ask, “Who is that?”
He changes the specs in the adjacent window and I watch the photo zoom out some more. “Just a girl I hired to be a jilted bride.”
“Really? Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m not a wanker. These images are hot right now, and I wasn’t shooting any weddings in the next couple of weeks, and I wanted to add to my stock photos. I already uploaded the jilted groom prints. I thought I showed them to you?”
I pull my mouth to the side. “I don’t think you did.”
“Well, they’re selling like bloody mad with the whole Parker/Bennett debacle.”
I thump his shoulder. “Yes, I bet they are.”
He twirls around in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “By the way, did you see the news yesterday? I can’t believe Gigi Bennett leaked the tape as a publicity ploy.”
“Me either! And did you see where it got her? A nomination for an Emmy.”
“No shit—I missed that.”
“Yep. I swear it was all a publicity stunt, but what do I know?”
Carter turns back around in his chair and taps his keyboard. “You should have taken some pictures yourself. Of that night and the wedding debacle.”
“Carter!” I scold.
He raises his palms. “I’m just saying, you would have made a fortune.”
I shake my head. “Has anyone ever told you what an ass you are?”
Standing up, he heads toward the kitchen. “All the time, especially when I make them come, and then tell them it’s time to leave.”
I follow behind him. “That’s enough talking shit. Tell me about Eli. How are things?” I raise a suggestive brow.
Reaching for the wineglasses, he glances over at me. “Nothing has changed since last week. We still haven’t shagged. If that’s what you are asking?”
“Still?” I laugh.
“Why do you think I’m watching porn?”
Grabbing an opened wine bottle from the refrigerator, I set it down and stare at him. “What’s going on? Why wait this long?”
“Grab the cheese, will you?” He sidesteps me to reach for a box of crackers in the upper cabinet.
“Carter.”
“Because,” he says, “we both want to take things slow.”
I put the cheese on the table and uncork the wine. “Any slower and—”
He cuts me off. “Don’t say it.” Reaching, he grabs the block of cheese to slice it on the butcher block. “I already know what you’re going to say, and that is why I invited him to come with me to Niagara Falls next weekend.”
I giggle as I pour the wine into our glasses. “Separate rooms?”
“Fuck no. This is a romantic getaway, and if it doesn’t move things along, nothing is going to.”
“Carter Kincaid in a sexless relationship?” I tease. “It’s unheard of.”
The plastic sleeve of crackers is loud when he dumps it on the plate. When he looks up, he makes a face at me. “Speaking of slow moving, did you call Landon back yet?”
I’ve been back in the city for four weeks. And it has been a productive four weeks. I’ve spoken to my father on countless occasions. It’s good I took that time to cool off. It helped. When we met, I told him how disappointed in him I was. What happened wasn’t really my business, but that man I put on a pedestal is gone. Still, he is my father, and I can’t cut him out of my life. He isn’t seeing Vanessa, at least. It wasn’t my father she was with that night, thank God. And he did fire her when he found out what she’d said to me. The things she said about Brandon I think hurt him the most.
I also quit my job in the grown-up way, giving two weeks’ notice.
In addition, I’ve been spending most of my days in Brooklyn, the place where my mother lives with her new husband. She and Josh got married over a year ago, and although I attended the small affair, it was begrudgingly. And I never took the time to get to know Josh. He is really sweet, and funny, and a talented artist who loves my mother.
My mother, father, and I went to Brandon’s grave together yesterday. Slowly, our family is healing from his loss, and although things will never be the same, I think we have all made peace with our feelings, in our own way, Cam included.
So yeah, a month, and no, I haven’t heard from Brooklyn, the person. I’ve called him and left him messages. The first one before I got on the plane to let him know I’d told Cam about us. The second one when I landed to tell him I missed him. The third one that night when I got in bed all alone and hated the mess I’d left behind. Countless messages later, he has yet to answer a single one.
And yes, it’s time I let him go.
I sip my wine. “I did call Landon,” I tell Carter. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”
He raises a brow. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Popping a piece of cheese in my mouth, I shrug. “It’s just dinner.”
“Hmmm . . .”
“What?” I ask tartly.
“Are you sure you’re ready to move on?”
I take another small sip of wine. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Amelia.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I say, “I don’t have a choice. And technically I met him first, so I’m moving back.” I try to laugh, but for some reason I can’t.
“Just don’t hurt him.”
His words sting. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt a man, and I don’t want to now. But Landon has been pursuing me, so I think I owe him this date. Unable to talk about it any longer, I twirl around and head toward the living room with my glass in hand. “Come on, let’s watch TV.”
Watching porn has to be easier than facing the truth . . .
That I messed my life up and it is never going to be the same.
THE PRINCE OF TIDES
Amelia
Landon is a patient man.
In fact, I bet if you looked up the word patient, his handsome profile would be beside it. Never have I met someone as understanding as him. That in itself should be a sign that he is the Prince Charming I’ve been looking for.
I’m not sure what he sees in me. When I asked him, he said there is just something between us that he feels compelled to explore further.
Romantic.
Right?
We’ve been dating for the past two weeks and he hasn’t pressured me for so much as a kiss. I’m glad, because I am nowhere near ready to embark on a new physical relationship.
An intellectual one is about as far as I’ve been able to manage.
Such a huge difference from the initial impression he made on New Year’s Eve, when he was all hands, and tongue.
He really is a gentleman.
Dashing.
Charming.
Kind.
Understanding.
Very understanding.
Even though I’m moving to California to take the job my brother offered me, he says we can make things work. He’s a ballplayer after all, and on the road half the time, so he can spend his off-season anywhere he wants.
And yes, there it is. I made a decision. I’m moving to California. I felt amazing when I was there. Almost like a different person. Being back in the city has felt a bit stifling, and the day I couldn’t breathe any longer was the day I decided to move.
But I’m not moving back for him.
He doesn’t live next door to Cam anymore.
He is Brooklyn, of course.
There, I said his name.
I know you wanted to know.
But that’s all I know about him. I got that small bit of information from Makayla. And even then, she was pretty closemouthed about anything else. Not that it matters; he’s already long forgotten me, I’m sure.
And besides, it wouldn’t have mattered if he did still live next door because I don’t want to live with my brother. I’m going to get my own place as soon as I get there and get settled. Probably somewhere in Los Angeles. Maybe close to Keen and Maggie; that way my brother won’t worry about me so much.
As for the job with Simon Warren, it isn’t exactly my dream job, but it is a stepping-stone to the world of photography, and I am very appreciative to have this opportunity.
Funny how things work out, but I met this actor at the Parker/Bennett wedding debacle. His name is Jagger Kennedy. He plays Gigi’s brother on Where’s My Latte? He also has starred on the big screen, and is most famous for playing the role of Ian Daniels in No Led Zeppelin a couple of years ago.
Anyway, his wife is Aerie Daniels. She wasn’t there, but she’s the senior editor for Sound Music, a magazine owned by Plan B that I really admire. Jagger told me to look them up if I moved to LA. That his wife has photographers on staff, and you never know when she’ll be hiring another.
I think in due time I will do just that.
It’s my dream job, after all.
Music playing and snow falling outside, I’m inside the warmth of my apartment and packing the last of my boxes when my cell buzzes. I glance at it casually by my side on the counter, and nearly drop the wineglasses in my hands when I see the message is from Brooklyn. It says two words: I’m sorry.
Two words that make my world turn upside down.
Just then, I happen to notice that the song on the radio changes. I try to distract myself by listening to it. Singing along to the lyrics, I wrap the glasses in brown paper and grab another. The last. The very last thing to be packed.
Then, I sneak another look, as if those two words might have disappeared or changed into something else, another two, something more like fuck you. After all, I did tell my brother about us, and even though I did it for Brooklyn, I’m not sure he saw it that way.
Suddenly, I’m not sure about anything.
Moving.
Leaving the city.
Being so far away from Carter, and my mother, and even my father.
Teary-eyed, I glance around my small apartment. Boxes that Carter neatly labeled are ready to be moved into storage until I secure my own place. Furniture that Landon insisted be wrapped in heavy plastic are also awaiting storage pickup in the morning. I look at the bare walls. The emptiness of it all.
And for the first time, I find myself second-guessing my decision to move across the country.
With sweaty palms, I set the glass down and pick up my phone. Holding it tightly, I allow myself to contemplate what to text back.
Then I start to wonder if I should even text anything at all. Minutes pass as I stand here paralyzed, singing along to a song I’m not sure I could tell you the name of. And then like a sign from above, one that wants me to focus on my life, the song changes again, but this time I know the title.
I’m listening to this song by the Spin Doctors called “Two Princes.”
The lyrics are similar to my story. Two princes. One princess. A choice to make. And perhaps even a happily ever after.
Unlike a fairy tale, though, my story doesn’t start with “Once upon a time.” Oh, how I wish it did, though. The thing is, a lot has happened in my life that has made me who I am. And because of this, I have a lot of issues to resolve before I can get to the end. Yet, rest assured, in its true form—this will be a love story.
It has to be.
Like the song, it’s about me and . . .
This one.
And that one.
You’d think choosing Mr. Right over Mr. Oh-So-Wrong would be easy, but it isn’t.
In the light of day, it all seems so clear, but now, in the dark of the night, Mr. Right doesn’t seem so right, and Mr. Oh-So-Wrong doesn’t seem that wrong.
I met one before the other. Spent more time with one than the other. Now one is ready for the next step, but I’m not sure about the other.
None of that matters.
What matters is in my heart, and I have to dig deep enough inside to figure out what it is telling me. Move forward or go back. God, I wish I knew.
The doorbell rings.
Rushing over to the door, I swing it open wide, expecting my mother, my father, my best friend—anyone but him.
There he stands with a smile on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Before I can even take the flowers, I look at the cell clutched tight in my fingers. At the two words I don’t know what to do with. They’re from him. The other man.
This isn’t a love triangle; it never was. It’s simply about choices.
This one.
Or that one.
Mr. Right, or Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.
With the text still unanswered, I stare into this man’s face, and then at my screen.
Who should I choose?
I stand here, reeling, my mind wandering back to how it all began. How I went from searching for the right one to finding two men within twenty-four hours.
Two princes, but only one that is meant to be mine.
And I know which one.
“Hi,” he says.
“Landon, what are you doing here?” I ask, taking the flowers he’s handing me.
His smile is wide. “My flight to Tampa got canceled, and I figured with all the packing you probably hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Am I right?”
I nod, staring at my phone. Glad he will be here longer. Glad he is still in the city, but not exactly over the moon.
“Then come on, let me take you out.”
I look around. “I don’t know. I have so much to do.”
“I insist,” he says.
“Okay.” I smile.
Setting the flowers down, I grab my coat, hat, and gloves, and we venture into the Village.
The walk is spent with Landon telling me about his day. I listen. Or I try to, the entire time my heart beating faster and my palms a little sweaty in my gloves as I think about those two words, I’m sorry, and what they mean.
We end up at a new place called Soup and Noodles because Landon has been there, and he says the chicken noodle soup is out of this world.
There’s live music. Some indie band I don’t know. The restaurant is tucked neatly off a side street, and I didn’t even know it was here, but it’s nice inside, and I like it.
Landon grabs my hand as the hostess leads us to our table.
He helps take my coat off.
Sits beside me rather than across from me.
Smiling at him, I pull my gloves off and am grateful to be out of the cold.
Landon orders for us, two soups and a loaf of French bread. He’s easy to be with. And he always makes me laugh.
“See?
” he says, when he finishes telling me about his schedule. “It’s insane.”
“It is,” I tell him, my mind on Brooklyn and why he bothered to text me at all.
“It’s the insanity, though, that’s makes it all worth it.”
I laugh. “Maybe that’s because you’re a little bit insane.”
He moves a little closer. “Is that a bad thing?”
I drag my spoon through the noodles left in my bowl. “No, not at all.”
“Good,” he says, pushing his empty bowl away.
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and look over at him. “I should probably get home. I have to finish packing.”
“Yeah. Thanks for joining me on such short notice.”
Outside, we walk in silence, our breath fogging the air and our boots leaving slush marks on the sidewalk. Somewhere between our soups arriving and now, his attention seems to have drifted, and mine is where it has been all night—on my phone. Still deciding if I should answer the text, and looking for a sign that I’m sorry isn’t the absolute end, although I’m certain it is.
Back at my place, Landon pauses in the doorway. When he leans to kiss me, I turn my head.
“Amelia,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m not going to call you anymore. Whoever is on your mind isn’t me. But if things don’t work out, give me a call. Who knows, maybe it just isn’t our time yet.”
Tears dip down my cheeks, and I get on my toes and softly kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Landon. Thank you for noticing what I didn’t.”
At that he laughs. “I wish I could say I didn’t, but the guy on your mind is the one you should be with.”
When I close the door, I lean against it and pull out my phone. I read the message again, and this time I type out the message, “Why did you let me go?” but I never send it.
And then I close my eyes and whisper into the darkness . . .”My Prince.”
EVERYBODY WANTS SOME
Brooklyn
The standing joke in Hollywood is that using a standard-required screenplay format will help get the screenplay read.