by Maggie Riley
REAGAN
Despite my asking for specifics, Josh refused to tell me anything about the birthday plans he had made for me. Even when I tried in my most sneaky way to figure it out, he saw through my innocently asked questions about what I should wear or how late we were going to be.
All I knew was that we were going out in the evening. I didn’t have many dresses, so I pulled out my favorite—a black sheath I usually wore for our opening nights. I felt confident and comfortable in it and so far it had brought me a good amount of luck. Not that I felt like I needed luck tonight. Just being with Josh made me feel lucky. Made me feel a lot of things I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I found myself pacing my apartment waiting for him. Surprises weren’t something I had a lot of experience with and the few times my parents had surprised me, it had been with things I really hadn’t wanted. Like being shipped off to boarding school. I wasn’t a planner, but I still liked to be prepared. I liked to be in control. That was the director side of me.
There was a knock on the door. I opened it and my knees got all wobbly. Josh looked incredible. He was wearing a suit, his jaw freshly shaved, his hair perfectly tousled. His arms were full of flowers. Purple blossoms, overflowing in a beautiful bouquet. I took them, my heart fluttering like a butterfly.
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, burying my nose in them and inhaling their scent.
“Violet pansies,” said Josh. “But they’re also known as ‘love-in-idleness’.”
I looked up at him. “From the play?”
He nodded. “Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower, before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound. And maiden’s call it ‘love-in-idleness’.”
I cradled the flowers close to my chest and looped my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. A long one. I put everything I felt—all the lust and need and affection I felt for him—into it.
“I love it when you quote Shakespeare,” I told him.
He looked a little dazed. “And I love it when you love me quoting Shakespeare,” he said. Then he stepped back, his arms on my shoulders, as if to take me in. “You look incredible,” he told me.
I blushed. His compliments always did that to me. They always made me feel embarrassed and wonderful at the same time. Especially since they were usually followed with an intense stare, one that seemed to undress me in the most delicious way. I got all tingly, from my head to my toes and everywhere in between and suddenly I wasn’t so interested in going out for my birthday. I was much more interested in staying in.
Josh ran a hand over his mouth. “We’d better go,” he said, taking the flowers from me and putting them on my table. “Before I say the hell with all our plans and give you a different kind of birthday present.”
“Would that be so wrong?” I asked, running my hand over my hips. I felt so bold with him. So brave.
He grinned. “I think you’re going to like what I have planned,” he told me, taking my hand. “And that other present can wait.” He paused. “But only if we leave right now. A few more minutes alone with you and that dress and my control will be shot to hell.”
So with a tug, he pulled me out of the apartment and down the stairs. As we passed through the building’s broken front door, he gave it a frown.
“Your landlord needs to fix the security system,” he said, as he did every time he came over. “I don’t like the idea of people just being able to walk into the building.”
“I know,” I told him, patting his arm. “I’ll send him another email.”
“Don’t be nice in this one,” he told me.
“I thought you liked it when I was nice,” I teased.
“I do,” he winked at me. “But I like it even more when you’re tough. And I like it a whole lot more when you’re bad.”
I blushed hotly at that, while Josh laughed and hailed us a cab.
“So, when do I get to know where we’re going?” I asked when he handed the driver a piece of paper with the address on it.
“When we arrive,” Josh said, leaning back against the seat, taking my hand and linking our fingers together. “It won’t take long.”
As we headed uptown, I realized that I had meant to tell Josh about my parents back in my apartment. Back before the night had officially begun. But he had distracted me with flowers and Shakespeare and sexy looks of longing and I had totally forgotten.
I gave his hand a tug, hoping that I could tell him before we arrived at our destination, but just as I was formulating the words, the cab came to a stop and the sentence I was planning disappeared.
“Oh. My. God,” I managed, staring out the window with wide eyes.
I glanced back at Josh, not even sure I believed it. But he smiled at me, clearly satisfied with my reaction.
“It’s too much,” I told him, but still let him help me out of the cab.
“It’s your birthday,” he said, as if shrugging it off.
I patted his body down, and he gave me a look.
“I’m just trying to figure out which organ you sold to get us tickets to Hamilton,” I explained. “Was it your liver? Your kidney? Your spleen? Can you even sell your spleen?”
He laughed. “Fear not,” he told me, kissing me on the forehead. “They just took my brain. Said I wasn’t using it for much anyways.”
I socked him in the arm. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Someone told me that this was the show all theatre nerds were dying to see.” He pulled the tickets out of his jacket.
I stared at them like they were made of gold. “They were right,” I said. “I’ve been dying to see it ever since it was at The Public.”
“I’m glad I get to be the one to take you.” Josh put his arm around my shoulder and we headed into the theatre. “Happy birthday, baby.”
And what a birthday it was. Josh refused to let me look at the tickets, refused to show me how much he had spent on them, but when we got to our seats, my eyes nearly bugged out of my sockets. They weren’t just tickets to Hamilton—a show that was notoriously difficult to get into—they were amazing seats. Fourth row.
We sat down and I stared at him, unable to comprehend how he was able to pull this off. I knew he had money—his expensive address and enormous apartment was evident of that—but this was more than generous for a birthday present. Not to mention the work it must have taken just to find someone willing to sell their tickets. The last time I had been dating someone and my birthday came around, I got a Phantom of the Opera keychain. It broke a week later.
“This is the most wonderful birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” I told him as the lights in the theatre dimmed and brightened, indicating the show would be starting soon.
“You haven’t even see it yet,” said Josh. “What if you don’t like it?”
I slapped my hand over his mouth. “Shut your mouth,” I told him. “That’s not a thing.”
He shrugged and nipped at my fingers. I yelped and pulled them away just as the lights in the theatre began to go down. As the curtain rose, I found Josh’s hand and held it tight, giving it a squeeze that I hoped told him—in some small way—just how happy he had made me.
Chapter 28
JOSH
If I had thought watching a baseball game with Reagan was fun, it was nothing in comparison to seeing a Broadway show with her. Especially one that she loved. We left the theatre with her gesticulating wildly, her eyes bright and a smile that seemed to rival Times Square itself.
“It’s just so inventive,” she was saying, putting a hand to her head. “I just mean, wow. That someone could look at the story of Alexander Hamilton and say, ‘this should be a musical’, is probably the sign of genius. Of actual genius.”
I grinned and nodded, leading her towards the restaurant where we would be eating a late dinner. The show had been great, but I was starting to think that I was a little bit biased. That I could have been in an iron cage underwater surrounded by sharks and chum, with Re
agan looking down at me from the boat and I would have said that was a great time, too.
We headed to 49th Street, where I had made reservations at Le Bernardin. I hadn’t consulted my sister on this part of the evening, but all my research had indicated that this was the place for special event, upscale type dining. Especially after the theatre.
The restaurant was elegant and beautiful, with enormous modern chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and gorgeous lighting throughout. I saw Reagan’s eyes widen as we entered and I could have sworn that her smile dimmed for a moment, but by the time she had looked back at me, it was back to its full brightness.
“This place looks wonderful,” she told me. “How will I ever be able to top this for your birthday?”
I shook my head. “A beer, hot dog and a ballgame is more than enough for me.” I winked at her. “And maybe you in that Mickey Mantle jersey I got you. And nothing else.”
She blushed. God, I loved it when she blushed.
We were taken to our seats—a great table next to the enormous windows that let us people watch everyone out on the streets. But Reagan, who was always an avid people watcher, seemed distracted, her eyes darting around the restaurant, her posture stiff and straight.
“Is everything ok?” I asked, reaching out a hand.
She started as if she had forgotten I was there.
“Of course,” she said quickly, and I could see her trying to relax, but her smile seemed a little strained, her eyes distracted.
“How are rehearsals going?” I asked once we had ordered our food.
“Good,” she said, her gaze still canvassing the room.
Finally she looked over at me and, seeming to see my confusion, let out a little laugh.
“Sorry,” she said. “Guess a part of me is still back in the theatre with Aaron Burr.” She took a deep breath and gave her head a little shake as if clearing it out. She focused her attention on me. “Rehearsals are going really well,” she told me. “Our cast is fantastic and it’s been great having Liz as my assistant director.”
“I was going to ask how that was going,” I said, drinking some of the extremely expensive beer I had ordered. “I know a lot of directors would have trouble handing over control to someone else.”
“Oh no,” said Reagan. “Liz is a perfect fit for the production and a really good counterpart. I’ve given her a lot of responsibility when it comes to the actors—since she was an actor herself—and I’ve been focusing more on the production as a whole, especially the aspects that have been most affected by the choices I’ve made in adapting it.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” I told her.
While I had been picking her up at the theatre almost every night since they started building the set, she hadn’t let me come in. She told me she wanted it to be a surprise on opening night.
Reagan opened her mouth as if to say something, but just as she did, our food arrived. We were both a little distracted by the delicious meal, but I noticed that she seemed to be a little more relaxed and by the time we were heading to the front to get our coats, she was laughing and smiling in her usual Reagan way.
But then, as we were about to head out, a man in an expensive suit, slicked back hair and wearing a sneer stepped in our path. Reagan’s entire body went stiff, her face going pale.
“I’ll admit, Caroline,” the man said to her. “I was surprised to see you the last time. I’m even more shocked now.”
Caroline. I was about to correct him, to tell him that he had Reagan mistaken for someone else, when she responded.
“Patrick,” said Reagan, her voice flat.
He had his arm around a blonde woman who looked as snobby as he did. But something about her was familiar, even though I was sure I had never met her before. None of that mattered, of course. The only thing that mattered was that this man—Patrick—had called Reagan Caroline. As if he knew her.
“Let’s go, Reagan,” I told her, taking her elbow.
“Reagan?” Patrick asked, letting out a nasty snort of laughter. “Is that what you’re going by now?”
All the color had left her face, her lips pressed tight together.
“I don’t know who you are,” I told him. “But you must be mistaken.”
“Patrick Anderson,” he said, as if I should have known the name. “And I am certainly not mistaken.” He gave Reagan a cruel once over. “Caroline and I used to date.”
“Caroline,” I repeated, looking over at Reagan, hoping she would tell this asshole that he was confusing her for someone else. But the look on her face told me that Patrick wasn’t the one who was confused.
“Caroline Richmond,” the blonde, who hadn’t spoken yet, piped in. “Of the New York Richmonds.”
I looked at her blankly.
“One of the wealthiest families in New York,” she added, looking exasperated when I didn’t respond.
“Josh,” Reagan said quietly, pulling on my arm. “I can explain.”
I turned to face her. “Explain what? Who you are? Because that isn’t something I should need explained. Are you Caroline Richmond or are you Reagan Bennett?”
“I’m both,” she said, tears beginning to well in her eyes.
“Oh dear,” said Patrick, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “Did I ruin your charade?” he asked Reagan. “I only thought you were directing drama, not cultivating it in your own life.” He looked at me. “You really didn’t know, did you?”
He was the last person I wanted to have this conversation with, but at least he seemed to have the answers that Reagan had neglected to share.
“Why don’t you enlighten me?” I said between gritted teeth.
“Josh, please—” Reagan begged, but I ignored her, turning to face Patrick.
“You’ve heard of the Millets, I presume?” he asked, clearly relishing his role in exposing Reagan’s deception. “Old money.”
I nodded, my jaw tight.
“Well, the Richmonds’ money is even older,” said Patrick. “Compared to Caroline here, Joanna Millet is a pauper.”
“That’s not true,” said Reagan, her voice small.
Patrick ignored her. “But it just shows you that all the money in the world can’t buy you class.” He had an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “At least, it couldn’t buy me for longer than a few months.”
It took a moment to realize what he was insinuating.
Reagan let out a choking sound, her eyes wide. “My parents paid you?”
“Of course,” Patrick sniffed. “They could afford it.”
I’d had enough. “Let’s go,” I held out my hand to Reagan, even though I was furious.
We left the restaurant in silence, a silence that lingered through the cab ride back to her place and all the way into her apartment. When the door finally shut behind us, I turned to her, my anger bubbling out.
“What the hell was that about?” I demanded. “Have you been lying to me this whole time about who you are?”
Tears were streaming down her face.
“I never meant to lie,” she said. “I was going to tell you about my parents. I was going to tell you tonight but—”
“But what?” I asked, my arms crossed. “Why not wait to see if I could afford your lifestyle before confessing that you’re rich?”
“I’m not rich!” she argued. “My parents are rich.”
“Extremely rich, apparently,” I spat. “Enough to pay someone to date you.”
“I didn’t know about that.” Reagan’s tears were flowing freely and I felt a twist in my heart.
A voice inside my head told me that the kind of person that took money in exchange for dating Reagan was an idiot and a jerk. That Reagan was obviously hurt and surprised by this information. That I should have defended her back in the restaurant, that I should be comforting her now.
But all of that was overridden by the anger coursing through me at knowing that she had lied to me. And not about something small. About who she was. Her name. Her identity. I felt
like a fool. Here I was this whole time thinking that Reagan was some struggling artist—someone who had gone to school on scholarships, someone who couldn’t afford to replace her ratty old couch. Not someone who could buy half the city. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers, embarrassed by my own blindness.
“Who are you?” I asked her.
“I’m Reagan Bennett,” she said, but then her shoulders sagged. “But I was born Caroline Richmond. My parents and sister are rich.”
“And your Great Aunts?” I gestured at the apartment. “I thought the only reason you could live in New York, the only reason you could direct was because of them.”
“All of that is true,” Reagan told me. “I swear to you, I just didn’t tell you about my name. Everything else was true.”
I stared at her. “How can you say that? I didn’t even know your real name, how can I possibly believe anything else you tell me?”
“Please let me explain,” Reagan begged, but I held up my hand to stop her.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” I told her, feeling as if this was Kelly all over again.
He had said the same thing. Minimized the lie—told me it was nothing. And I had believed him. Trusted him. And he used that trust to betray me.
“You lied to me,” I said to Reagan. “You let me believe that you were some struggling artist, that you lived and breathed the theatre. Instead you’re just some weird little rich girl playing at being a director.”
I saw Reagan draw back, heard her sharp intake of air and I knew that I had hurt her.
“Get out,” she said quietly.
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my coat.
I stomped out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me, not even stopping to look back.
REAGAN
I cried until I had to leave for the theatre the next morning. I washed my face, scrubbing it hard with cold water, hoping to hide the evidence of my sad evening, but Joanna took one look at my face and sent me to her office, telling Liz to start rehearsal without us.
“What did he do?” she demanded once the door was shut behind her.