by Maggie Riley
I hoped they weren’t holding their breath for that. Joanna might show up at events and charity auctions, but she drew the line at a marriage her family orchestrated. Though I doubted they had learned their lesson from the last time they tried to make that happen. Rich people always thought they were the exception, rather than the rule. Even with their own children.
“Besides,” Joanna said as she took a sip of champagne. “If they do get a shot of you, you’ll be able to send it to your parents. They’ll be so proud.”
“Not dressed like this,” I reminded her.
My clothes had been one of the many sources of contention between my parents and me. They never had a problem with my desire to wear all black. Black was “very slimming” as my mother always said—though if my skinny ass got any slimmer, I’d probably disappear—but she also preferred to see me in designer clothes, not the stuff I found at consignment shops or at Target. “You dress like a ragamuffin,” she told me once. And it was true. I never had much of an eye for putting together the kind of effortless elegance my mother and sister excelled at. Even in designer clothes, I looked out of place. My mother begged me to wear contacts or style my hair in a certain way, but I preferred my big, bulky glasses and my straightforward haircut. It felt weird to dress any other way. I didn’t feel like myself.
I just wanted to fade into the background. The last thing I wanted to think about was the way I looked. Which is why I didn’t own a lot of clothes and they were all black. I didn’t have to think about what I was wearing. I could focus all my creative energy on my work.
“True.” Joanna gave me a once over. “But I like your style. It’s unique. Very you.”
“I wish my family felt the same,” I said, putting my napkin on my lap as the food arrived. “Do you even like oysters?” I asked her as they were placed in front of her.
“Of course not,” she said, pushing them closer to me. “But they look good in photographs and they’re something we can eat quickly so we can get out of here before the Sunday brunch rush. The last thing I want is to run into some of our former classmates.”
I nodded. That was the trouble with showing up at places like this. Joanna needed to be photographed at restaurants where her expected crowd went, but she tended to want to avoid that same crowd as much as possible. They were the same people who had made my life a living hell in high school—people I had been more than happy to leave behind.
If we weren’t careful we’d get caught in a loop of small talk and passive aggressive compliments with people we both tried to avoid as much as possible. People who still considered the whole “theatre thing” a weird hobby of ours. Something we would eventually outgrow. And they had probably all heard some version of the story of how I had fallen out of my family’s good graces. How I had changed my name. How we rarely spoke. It had been a small scandal at the time, but my parents had managed to avoid speaking about it—about me—and there were always new dramas to worry about. But my mere presence at a place like this could start them up again if I wasn’t careful.
“But back to the task at hand.” Joanna drummed her perfectly manicured fingers on the white tablecloth. “Please tell me you’ve decided on the next show.”
I squirmed in my seat.
“Reagan,” Joanna chided.
“I know, I know.” I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m the worst.”
“No, you’re not and that’s what is so frustrating.” She gave me a long stare. “This isn’t like you at all. You’re always full of ideas.”
Despite my dirty forehead, I put my head down on the table again.
“I think I’ve lost my touch,” I told her miserably.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said bluntly. “You know I don’t believe in creative blocks.”
Joanna never minced words. Usually I appreciated her honesty, but I was feeling a little vulnerable in the moment and wished for a little sympathy and understanding. But, if that’s what I had wanted, I never would have gone into business with Joanna. She wasn’t the nice one. She was the tough one.
“That’s because you’re not creative,” I retorted, feeling like I needed to borrow some of her toughness for the day.
“Excuse me.” She crossed her arms. “Pairing these shoes with this suit is very creative.”
“You’re wearing a white suit, like you always wear—with black heels, like you always wear,” I pointed out.
She gave me a look. “But this is a Prada suit with Saint Laurent shoes. Usually I don’t mix designers.”
I smiled at her. “You’re right, that’s very creative.”
“Don’t humor me,” she frowned.
“Don’t patronize me,” I fired back, but there was no anger in either of our statements.
I loved Joanna and I would do anything for her. I was just afraid that what she needed now was something I couldn’t give her anymore. My brain felt as if it had dried up.
Joanna leaned forward, serious. “Look, Reagan, this isn’t like grad school. You can’t just wait for inspiration—you have a theatre that is depending on your creative vision. So find that vision. And find it soon.”
She was right. I knew she was right. I nodded, feeling the pressure sitting across my shoulders. So much depended on me and it was terrifying. I felt completely ill equipped to handle this responsibility.
“Just choose something,” Joanna ordered before her voice softened a bit. “Even if the show isn’t right, you’ll find a way to make it work. To make it special.”
And that was why I loved Joanna. Why I liked working with her. She was tough and gruff, but she believed in me. Not a lot of people got to see that side of her—the encouraging, caring side—and I was lucky that I was one of the chosen few.
“I will,” I promised.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“Tomorrow,” I agreed, even though I wasn’t sure I could deliver.
Sure enough, just as we were about to finish our oysters, the photographer showed up and got what would look like a candid shot, but was actually Joanna knowing exactly how to pose for pictures like this.
As soon as he left, she relaxed. “Let’s go,” she said. “I think that should suffice for at least a week, though I’m probably overdue for a showing at a charity event or exhibit opening.” She sighed. “I’d only do this for you, Reagan,” she reminded me.
“You’re doing it for us,” I said, even though I felt guilty. I wished I had access to my trust fund, but that had been taken away the minute I had gone against my parents’ wishes. So even though I knew if I had money I wouldn’t be free to direct, I still felt guilty that the financial future of our theatre rested on Joanna’s shoulders. “For the theatre. Our dream.”
The only way we were able to run The Hole in the Wall was because of her trust fund. We both were working towards a time when Joanna didn’t have to rely on her family’s money, when the theatre could pay for itself, but we also knew how difficult it would be to get there. If we ever did.
“I know.” I looped my arm through hers. “And I’m endlessly grateful.”
“Don’t be grateful,” she told me. “Be creative.”
After we checked on the theatre, which was now sparklingly clean, I headed back to my apartment, hoping that I’d find inspiration there among my books and records. Of course, the minute I walked in, all I could think about was Josh lying on my couch. Josh sitting at my kitchen table. Josh with his jacket off. Josh with his shirt unbuttoned.
It was incredibly distracting.
In the end, I went out. Sometimes taking a walk would start the creative juices flowing. But I walked for hours, not getting back to my place until after dark, and I still didn’t have any ideas. Flopping down on my bed, I looked up at the ceiling as if the white paint would grant me answers.
Tapping my finger against my forehead, I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Think. Think. Think,” I told myself. “Think.”
But my mind kept coming back to Josh. Memories of la
st night had begun revealing themselves to me throughout the day. Now, lying on my bed, I remembered him leaning over me. He had carried me up to my apartment. Like a romantic hero in a movie. I had been draped across his sexy shoulder and I hadn’t been able to savor the moment. That was the greatest tragedy of all.
I felt an ache in my chest. An ache that I knew too well. It was the feeling I got when I started falling for someone who I knew had absolutely no interest in me. It was a very theatrical feeling. Very much like—
Sitting up, I let out a gasp.
“Yes!” I punched my fist in the air before scrambling out of bed.
I had a bound copy of all of Shakespeare’s plays, and I hefted it down from its shelf and, not even bothering to go over to the couch, sat down on the floor and began flipping through it until I found what I was looking for. The ultimate theatrical display of unrequited love.
And that’s how I decided which play we were going to do next.
Chapter 9
JOSH
It wasn’t until I felt the couch cushion vibrating incessantly that I realized I had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Again. Rubbing at my eyes, I squinted at the bright light streaming into my living room. What time was it? What day was it?
The TV had turned itself off, probably hours ago. Digging my phone out from underneath me, I saw that I had seven missed calls. Four were from Kelly—luckily he hadn’t left a message—and three were from my sister. She had left messages. Three of them. All long.
I didn’t even bother to listen. Since the call that had woken me up had come from her, I just called her back.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” she asked instead of saying hello.
“Why are you calling me on your honeymoon?” I retorted. “Isn’t that a bad sign? Does someone need to have a talk to Shane about the birds and the bees?”
“Gross.” I could practically hear Allie wrinkle her nose. “Please don’t ever talk to my husband about the birds and the bees.” She paused. “My husband. That still sounds so surreal. Married life is awesome, though.”
“And yet, you’re still calling me. While on your honeymoon.”
“I just wanted to check in with you,” she said, trying to sound innocent and failing completely. “See if Reagan got home from the wedding ok.”
Subtly was never my sister’s strong suit.
“She got home fine,” I told her, purposefully not reminding her that I had texted her about getting Reagan home. “As did I.”
Part of me wanted to tell her that I knew exactly what she had been trying to do, attempting to use Reagan’s happiness super power to get me out of my funk, but that would mean acknowledging said funk and I was in no mood to discuss that. Especially since I had just spent several hours in my nearly empty apartment watching a show I had already seen.
“Are you at least enjoying New York while I’m gone?” Allie asked.
“Yep,” I told her. “And I haven’t even fallen into any subway grates yet.”
“Have you even gone on the subway?” she demanded. “Or are you still taking cabs everywhere?”
For whatever reason, my sister had decided that I wasn’t a true New Yorker unless I learned how to use the subway. I kept telling her that I didn’t need to use the subway. And if I wanted to, I wouldn’t need to learn how to do it. I would just do it. I was a damn grown-up. I could get from point A to point B without any handholding. But she wouldn’t let up about the fricking subway. As if it was some sort of rite of passage.
“I like taking cabs,” I responded. “They’re convenient.”
“Real New Yorkers use the subway,” Allie informed me.
“Then who is sitting in traffic with me whenever I go out for groceries?”
I heard my sister groan. “Please don’t tell me you use a cab to get groceries.”
“I don’t,” I said, choosing not to mention that I hadn’t bought groceries since moving to New York, that my meals had thus far consisted of take-out and I was pretty close to sampling every single restaurant within a four-mile radius of my house.
“Are you leaving your apartment?” Allie asked.
“Yes,” I told her. “Every day to go jogging.”
I went running in Central Park first thing each morning. That had to constitute real New Yorker behavior. Hopefully enough to get her off my back.
“Do you leave your apartment more than once a day?”
Dammit.
“Josh!” Allie chastised me when I didn’t answer. “You can’t stay cooped up in your apartment all day watching The Wire again.”
Double dammit. Sometimes it was a real pain in the ass having a sister that knew me that well. It was hard to hide anything from her. Apparently we were going to have a conversation about my life whether I wanted to or not.
“I’m working on it,” I told her.
“Working on what exactly?” she demanded. “Do you even have a game plan for what you’re going to do?”
I was silent because I didn’t have an answer. And that was the problem. I didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know how I could fix the life that now felt empty and pointless without baseball.
“We’ll figure it out,” Allie’s voice was soft.
I loved my sister, but she had no idea what I was going through. If I couldn’t figure it out, how the hell could she? But I knew that she worried. And the last thing I wanted her to be doing on her honeymoon was worrying about her older brother.
“We’ll make a list when I get back,” she said when I still didn’t answer.
I couldn’t help smiling at that.
“Do you think a list will help?” I asked her.
“A list helps everything,” she told me firmly.
I knew she believed that. And I guess that could be enough for now.
“If I promise to make a list with you when you get back, will you promise not to interrupt your honeymoon to call and harass me?” I teased.
“Ok, fine,” she said. “I’m just worried, ok?”
“Don’t be worried.” I didn’t need my shitty life and attitude to seep over and screw with my sister’s happy one. So I lied to her. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m great.”
“Right,” she said, obviously not buying my bullshit for a second. “But believe it or not, this isn’t why I called you.”
“So the harassment was just an added bonus?”
“Funny.” She paused. “It’s actually to ask you a favor.”
That too-innocent-to-be-genuine tone was back.
“A favor,” I said slowly. There had to be a catch.
“Not for me,” said Allie. “For Reagan.”
Yep. There it was. The catch.
I waited for the tinge of annoyance. The annoyance that I had felt every time Allie had asked me to help Reagan before the wedding. But it didn’t come. I didn’t mind helping Reagan. Not that I wanted my sister to know that. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction that her meddling was working in any way. And I really didn’t want her to figure out that I’d had some extremely inappropriate thoughts about her friend, especially since I was obviously having a hard time keeping things from her. I could only assume that Reagan hadn’t mentioned anything to Allie about our awkward breakfast.
“What does she need?” I asked, trying to sound bored.
“Just some muscle,” said Allie. “Got any to spare?”
Chapter 10
REAGAN
I had been more than shocked to hear from Josh. When I had mentioned to Allie that I was going to check out furniture rental options for the upcoming show, the last thing I had expected was for her to call her brother and ask him to help me out. I tried not to read into it. All it meant was that he hadn’t told his sister that I had tried to hit on him in the most awkward way possible and Allie was still hoping that I could lift him out of the depression that seemed to surround him. According to her, if I could get him to go on the subway, that would be an important step. I had no idea why it was so vit
al to her that he use the subway, but as a born and bred New Yorker, I was happy to show him the ropes.
But I couldn’t help the way my palms got sweaty and my heart seemed to speed up when he showed up at my door. He looked so good. There wasn’t much that could beat a hot guy in a suit, but a hot guy in a well-worn pair of jeans and tight shirt wasn’t a bad view either. Especially if it was Josh in those jeans and shirt. His shoulders were so very broad, the thin cotton stretched taut across his chest. A chest I wanted very badly to touch, so it was a good thing that I had my hands full.
“Hi!” I said, giving him a smile that probably looked a little too bright and a little too perky. I imagined I looked crazy.
“Hey.” He wasn’t wearing his usual frown, but he wasn’t smiling either. His expression was frustratingly neutral. I had no idea what he was thinking.
“Thanks so much for helping me out,” I told him, shoving my notes and camera into my shoulder bag. “I don’t know how much heavy lifting we’ll end up doing, but it’s good to have a pair of strong arms like yours to—”
I looked at his biceps straining against his sleeves and wanted to lick them. They were so fit and muscular—I wished I could remember more clearly how it had felt for him to pick me up and carry me into my apartment. Josh cleared his throat, but it still took a moment before I realized I had trailed off in the middle of a sentence and was openly staring at him.
“Glad to help,” Josh said dryly, but there was some humor in his expression.
At least I hoped there was.
“And I’m glad for you to help!” I chirped and mentally face palmed. I sounded like such an eager idiot. Stop talking, Reagan, I told myself. Just stop talking.
“Ready to go?” Josh asked.
I nodded, keeping my lips pressed together. We went outside and as I started walking towards the subway, he stepped into the street, raising his hand to call a cab.
“We could take the subway,” I said, trying to be subtle.
It didn’t work.
“Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms. “Allie told you to get me to use the subway.”