by Maggie Riley
There were still fifteen minutes until the show was set to start, but I nodded, took her arm and went into the theatre.
It was our best performance yet. But it wasn’t until the end, when the actors were taking their final curtain call, that I finally felt myself relax. The applause was strong, but I pushed that out of my head, choosing to focus instead on how I felt about the show. And I felt good about it. Proud.
Joanna patted my arm as we stood.
“Not bad,” she told me.
High praise from her.
As the theatre began to empty, I felt my nerves returning. Because while the show was over, now we had to talk to the press. To mingle with guests at the after party. It was all great fun for the actors and the crew, but for Joanna and I, it was still work. We had to sell the show. Spread the word. And that started in the lobby.
I saw Joanna square her shoulders, put on her invisible armor, the one she wore at all events that required a socialite’s touch. I took her hand gently and she squeezed my fingers.
“Don’t let him come near me,” she said, not needing to clarify who she was talking about.
I nodded. I owed her that at least, though I doubted Lincoln would make the attempt. The last thing either of them would want was to cause a scene, which would undoubtedly happen if they were close enough to be photographed together. As far as high society relationships, they had sold plenty of papers during their time together. There would be enough ink spilled just mentioning Lincoln’s presence at the theatre.
We entered the lobby together, but parted quickly, the experience of two shows under our belt having proven that dividing and conquering would be the fastest way to get through the crowd of reporters and attendees.
For a while, I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, but they were friendly, congratulating me and complimenting the show. I reached a few reporters, offering what I hoped would be acceptable sound bites for articles or reviews. It wasn’t hard to gush about the show, about the cast and crew. Their skill and talent made that easy. And I was happy to praise them. It was talking about my own role in the creation of the show that most made me stumble. I had never been comfortable talking about myself and didn’t seem to be getting any better at it.
Finally, through the throng of people, I saw Lincoln. He came towards me and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Flashes went off around us.
“The show was great,” he told me, a smile on his face.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I said, painfully aware of how we were being watched.
He leaned forward, the smile in place, but his voice lowered. “Please give your producer my compliments,” he whispered.
I nodded, knowing that they wouldn’t be well-received. But I didn’t have much time to worry about that because another familiar face appeared out of the crowd. Two of them, in fact.
“Excuse me,” I said to Lincoln, my eyes fixated on them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him follow my gaze.
“Of course,” he said, once he spotted them, fading gracefully away.
As if in a dream, I walked towards my parents.
“You came,” I said once I reached them, unsure of what else to say.
It had been a few years since I had seen them, but they both looked the same. My mother’s hair was pulled back in the evening-version of her usual hairstyle, and I noticed she was embracing the gray streaks in her hair. She wore a black evening gown, much more elegant and expensive than what I was wearing, though she had left her elbow-length gloves at home. My father’s salt and pepper hair was parted as usual, his suit impeccably tailored.
Both of them looked the part of wealthy theatre-goers, and I doubted that anyone watching us would have assumed us related. You had to look closely to see the similarities—the shape of my eyes, big and round, I got from my mother, though she minimized them with make-up—and my height and long hands I got from my father, though his were hidden by the jacket draped over his arms.
The three of us stood there, staring at each other, examining, cataloguing the differences, the similarities since our last encounter. I was trying to recall what that was when my mother gave me a look I recognized only too well.
“For goodness sakes, Caroline,” she said, reaching out for me.
For a moment, I thought she was going to hug me and I leaned in appropriately. But she was only offering an air kiss, so the end result was something that probably looked as awkward as it felt.
“I’m glad you came,” I managed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling very much like a little kid.
My father nodded and the three of us stood there again, in silence.
I wanted to ask them what they thought of the show. Wanted to ask them if they missed me. If they thought of me. But it all sounded terribly pathetic in my head and I was pretty sure it would sound even more so out loud.
“How is Amanda?” I asked.
“Very well,” my father said. “Another promotion is within her reach.”
“Must be hard to be working so hard and trying to plan a wedding,” I mentioned casually, but quickly realized that it wasn’t the right thing to say.
Both of my parents’ faces closed up like clams.
“We were sure you wouldn’t be comfortable,” my mother finally said and it took me a moment to realize that they were only confirming my suspicion that I wasn’t going to be invited to the wedding.
Even though I hadn’t expected an invitation, a part of me had clearly hoped for one, because my eyes began to prickle, unwelcome tears fighting their way out.
“Honestly,” my mother said, frowning at my reaction. “Did you really think it would be a good idea for you to be there?”
“There would be too many questions,” my father added.
“I just thought—” the words spilled out of me before I could stop them, “—that if you came to the play and you saw it, that meant you understood, or approved—”
Both my parents drew back, shocked.
“You know we don’t approve,” my father said, now angry.
“And you might call this Shakespeare,” my mother said, waving a hand towards the theatre. “But it’s not an appropriate career for a Richmond.”
My heart sank; suddenly the play that I had been so proud of seemed like nothing at all.
JOSH
I had been watching Reagan weave through the room, smiling and laughing with everyone she greeted, her face lit up, the brightest thing in the crowd. I had sat in the theatre, trying to keep my attention on the stage, when all I had wanted to do was watch her. But I had managed to focus long enough to see what an amazing job she had done. What an incredible show she had created. I felt a swell of pride as the curtain closed, as the audience applauded.
Afterwards I wanted to approach her, but I knew that she had a job to do. So I stood back and watched, wishing that I could have been by her side, holding her hand as she made the rounds. I could tell when she was being complimented, that familiar blush would stand out on her cheeks, and she’d duck her head, shy at being the center of attention, even for a moment. I watched her talking with Lincoln, genuinely happy to see him, relaxing just a bit as they talked.
But then, her entire expression changed. Not just that, but her body language as well. She went completely stiff, everything on alert. This time, when she moved through the crowd, she had a destination in mind. I watched as she approached a couple, and it took a few moments before I realized that they were her parents.
Before I knew what I was doing, I moved through the crowd towards her. I couldn’t hear any part of the conversation, but I could see from Reagan’s slumped shoulders that she was unhappy. Hurt. I felt a surge of anger. Not just at her parents, but at myself for causing the same sort of response in her.
She was always so happy. So positive. It was unnerving to see her upset. I hated it.
The crowd parted for me and I was close enough to hear the exchange between Reagan and her parents. The waver
ing sound of Reagan’s voice broke my heart.
“I just thought that if you came to the play and you saw it, that meant you understood, or approved—” she was saying, her hands wrapped around her as if to protect herself.
Her father was shaking his head. “You know we don’t approve,” he said.
I clenched my jaw.
Her mother was waving a hand around. “And you might call this Shakespeare, but it’s not an appropriate career for a Richmond.”
“She’s not a Richmond,” I said, stepping out of the crowd, coming to stand next to her.
Reagan started a little and looked up at me, her eyes wide and red-rimmed.
“She’s Reagan Bennett.” I faced her parents. “And she’s an incredible theatre director.”
“Who the hell are you?” her father asked.
“Josh Lawson,” I told them.
They looked unimpressed, but I reached out and took Reagan’s hand. She let me.
“Young man,” her mother said, lifting her chin and sniffing. “You must understand that there are certain obligations for someone in Caroline’s position.”
“And what about your obligations as her parents?” I fired back.
“How dare you,” her father breathed, his eyes narrowing.
“How dare you.” I lowered my voice, not wanting to make a scene, not wanting to embarrass Reagan. “This is the opening to her play. Something she has put her heart and soul into. If you didn’t come to support her, then why the hell are you here?”
Neither of them said anything, and I could feel Reagan trembling beside me. I squeezed her hand, hoping I wasn’t making things worse.
“I watched that play, and I felt nothing but pride,” I said. “Because what Reagan does is extraordinary. And if you can’t acknowledge that, or celebrate it, then you might as well leave.”
“This is outrageous,” said her mother. “We were invited.”
“And now you’re uninvited,” said Reagan, her voice quiet but certain.
“Excuse me?” Her father drew back.
Reagan raised her head and looked at both of her parents, her gaze unwavering.
“I thought I wanted your approval. Your acceptance. But I’m never going to get it.” She took a breath. “And I don’t need it. Not anymore.” Reagan glanced up at me, strength shining in her eyes before turning back to her parents. “You heard Josh. If you can’t be supportive, you can leave.”
Their faces pinched, Reagan’s parents quickly put on their coats and made their way out of the theatre, ducking their faces away from any cameras pointed in their direction. As soon as they were gone, Reagan let out a long, harsh breath.
“Oh my god.” She put a hand to her head. “I can’t believe I just said that to them.”
“They needed to hear it,” I said, wanting to hold her, but not knowing if I had the right.
She looked up at me. “And you,” she seemed to be searching for the words. “You came.”
I nodded. “The show is wonderful,” I told her, meaning it.
A smile spread across her face. “Really?”
“Really.” I shoved my hands in my pocket, not knowing what else to do with them. “I talked to Kelly,” I managed, and then wanted to face palm. Out of all the possible things I could have said, that was what I went with?
“Did you patch things up?” she asked.
“Hell no,” I told her. “He betrayed me. Personally. Professionally. But I needed to tell him that. Because I guess I needed closure.”
“I’m happy for you,” Reagan said, touching my arm.
It gave me strength.
“It made me realize,” I took a deep breath, “that I had been putting a lot of energy into being angry. And when I found out about you—about the secret you deserved to have, that you weren’t obligated to tell me at all—it gave me something to be angry about. Gave me a reason to fall back into the place I had been before. Because I thought it was easier to withdraw. To convince myself I didn’t deserve to be happy.”
“Oh, Josh.” Reagan stepped towards me.
“I know.” I ran a hand through my hair. “But you were right. It takes more work to be unhappy.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Reagan said.
“That’s not the only thing I feel,” I told her, my heart racing. I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff. “I love you,” I said. “And I know I don’t deserve you—”
“Wait.” Reagan’s eyes were round. “How could you ever think that you don’t deserve me?”
“Because you’re incredible,” I managed, everything pouring out of me in a rush. “You’re luminous and inspiring and I feel happy around you. So damn happy. I would do anything to make you smile. And you’re sexy as hell,” I added, pleased when she blushed.
“I—” She seemed at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said, trying not to be disappointed. “I know I’m just springing this on you. You have the play to be thinking about, and you’re probably still mad at me, and—”
But I couldn’t finish that sentence because she had thrown herself into my arms and kissed me. It was a hell of a kiss.
“I love you too,” she said against my lips.
I smiled and hauled her into my arms. I was pretty sure I saw fireworks as I kissed her again, losing myself in the happiness that coursed through me. Then I opened my eyes and realized that the bright lights were all the cameras going off around us.
We pulled apart slowly, but I kept my arm around her waist, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I’m guessing this will be all over the internet soon.”
She nodded, her cheeks pink.
“Well, then,” I tugged her against me. “Let’s give them our best angle.”
And then, amidst flashes, in front of everyone, I bent her back over my arm and kissed the woman I loved.
Epilogue
REAGAN
The door to my building was locked when I got home. It had been broken for over a year, and I had given up on my landlord ever getting it fixed, so I was pleasantly surprised and had to dig through my bag to find the key that let me into the building.
When I got into my apartment, I barely made it a few steps before my shoes were flung off, my jacket tossed over a chair and my bag dropped onto the floor. With a groan, I made it to my bed, flopping down face first.
“That was a dramatic entrance,” Josh said, sitting on the other side of the bed.
He was leaning back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him.
“I’m feeling very dramatic,” I told him, rolling onto my back, putting my hand on my forehead. “It is my wont, as an artist.”
“Auditions went well, I take it.” He put down the paperwork he had been going through, leaning down to kiss me.
“Mmhmm,” I said, arching up into the kiss.
I felt Josh smile against my lips and before I knew it he was pressing me down into the bed, his body covering mine. I wrapped my leg around his waist, loving how he groaned as my hips made contact with his long, hard length, straining against his jean’s zipper.
“I really wanted to hear about your day,” he said, dropping kisses along my throat, his hand snaking up under my shirt. “But clearly you’re not keeping me around for my conversational skills.”
I dragged my fingers down his chest, sliding them into his pants.
“I’m fond of your conversational skills,” I told him. “But I’m interested in a different set of skills right now.”
Before he could do anything, I was moving down his body, unzipping his pants and pulling them and his boxers down. With a fluid motion, he grabbed the back of his shirt and took it off, tossing it across the room, lifting his hips to help me discard of the rest of his clothes.
Then he was gloriously naked, lying on my bed, spread out for my enjoyment, my pleasure. But it was his pleasure I was interested in at the moment as I took him into my mouth. His f
ingers slid into my hair, tightening just a bit as I took him as deep as I could.
“Fuck.” His voice was harsh, his other hand gripping the blanket, knuckles white.
I drew my tongue up the length of him, swirling it around the head, enjoying the taste and salt of his skin. But before I could take him deep again, he was hauling me up his body, stripping my clothes off with ruthless efficiency. I reached across him for a condom, my knees straddling him.
“I like this view,” he murmured, running his hands up my hips, his palms coming up to cup my breasts.
I leaned into him, moaning as his thumbs plucked my nipples, heat racing through my body. I pressed my own palms on his naked chest, loving how I could feel the muscles flexing beneath me, tensing as I drew patterns across his skin.
“I imagined fucking you in this bed,” he growled, his hand sliding down my stomach, finding me wet.
I bucked against him, his thumb finding my clit with ease, drawing an agonizingly slow circle that drove me right to the edge.
“The night I brought you home,” he said as he sat up, taking my nipple into his mouth while his fingers continued to tease me, his cock pressed between us. “I carried you in here and dropped you down onto the bed.” His teeth scraped against my skin as a finger slipped inside me, making me cry out at the pleasure it brought. “I wanted to follow you onto it.” He stroked me. “Wanted to do this to you.”
“Yes.” I arched my back, my hips tilting towards him, another finger teasing me.
Pleasure built inside me, exploding with a single press of his thumb against my clit. I was still catching my breath when he rolled the condom on and guided me onto his cock. I sank down, taking him deep. Deeper.
I watched his head fall back, the muscles in his neck deliciously tense as his fingers clutched my hips. Reaching over him, I grabbed the brass headboard and began to move. I rode him slowly at first, enjoying the slow slide of our bodies together.
But I couldn’t keep the pace, everything inside me urging me to go faster, to rock against him harder. His thumb found my clit again and he teased me as I rode him, arching my hips to take him deeper.