The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  Watching him sip a dark beer.

  Watching him snap open peanuts from a wooden bowl.

  Watching him check his phone.

  Just watching.

  He looked comfortable sitting alone. He didn’t seem self-aware, like he wanted anyone to think he was waiting for someone. This was a new Mark; the Mark he was when she wasn’t around.

  Actually, she had seen him like this before. The night they met. It was Evie’s book club friend’s Christmas party in Park Slope. By the time Willow and Evie arrived, it was already half-full: shouty, sweaty, with cheese platters that had been worked over by wolves. Willow and Evie had started hanging out pretty constantly, but house parties in tiny walk-ups without doormen that were full of people talking about PhDs instead of club nights were still somewhat of a novelty. Willow ended up in a corner in the kitchen, sipping Prosecco and listening to Evie monologue about white privilege to an Asian boy who kept nodding and stealing glances at her boobs. Her mind drifted into thoughts for a new photo project that had something to do with Saturn’s rings and Dante’s Inferno and newborn kittens with their eyes still squeezed shut, when she noticed Mark. He stood in front of an enormous bookcase in the living room, talking to a short girl with cat-eye glasses. There was something about him that was so instantly . . . agreeable. His eye contact was steady without being invasive, he smiled when he talked, he laughed when it looked like she’d made a joke. Willow, who at that time was sleeping with an NYU film major who was more in love with cocaine than with her, found herself staring at him sadly, thinking that was the kind of guy she should be with. At that exact moment, apropos of nothing, he looked up, right at her. When he smiled, it felt like an embrace.

  She was staring at him now. But he wasn’t looking over.

  “Sweetheart?”

  She jerked her head up guiltily. The bartender—an older guy, not one she recognized—was giving her a look. “Sorry, what?”

  “Do you want another wine?”

  “Um. No. Thanks.”

  The bartender cast a weary gaze at Mark. “Sometimes you have to make the first move.”

  “What?”

  But he’d already turned his back to start putting away clean beer glasses.

  “Sometimes you have to make the first move.”

  How many girls had the bartender told that to? How many girls had hit on Mark when she wasn’t there? How many had he let? How many had—

  Mark swiveled around. She stiffened. His eyes raked around the handful of other patrons. Landed on her. A thrum of energy shot through her. Then his gaze moved on, to the bartender. He signaled for another beer and resumed watching the game.

  Willow’s heart was racing. She felt relieved, of course, that Mark didn’t try to catch her eye. But at the same time . . . disappointed.

  She slid off her stool. When she was a few feet away, Mark sensed her, glancing up. She was searching his gaze, anticipating a sense of expectation met. But there was nothing. Just polite curiosity, morphing quickly into confusion, as she stood there awkwardly. “Could I . . . borrow your phone?”

  “Oh. Sure.” Mark slid his iPhone across the bar toward her and smiled. A helpful, friendly smile, complete with helpful, friendly boundaries.

  She picked up his phone gingerly, not sure what to do. Her fingers entered his code automatically, 9891. The year he was born, backward.

  Mark’s head snapped up. “How did you know my code?”

  “That . . . that’s your code too?”

  “What?”

  “I . . .” She exhaled nervous laughter. “Oh, that’s so weird. I just entered my code, on instinct—”

  “It’s the same as mine?”

  “Guess so.”

  They stared at each other. Mark’s face broke into a smile. “That’s crazy. The odds of that are . . . That’s really crazy.”

  Willow glanced down at his home screen. What now? Who could she possibly call? “I’m locked out of my apartment.”

  “That sucks.”

  She handed the phone back. “I don’t know my roommate’s number.”

  He gave her a look: Then why did you ask for my phone?

  “Sorry.” She shrugged, laughing at herself weakly. “I’m a bit out of it.”

  “Why don’t you email them?” Mark suggested. “Or tweet them? Are they on Twitter?”

  Typical Mark. He could even solve nonexistent problems. “No, that’s okay. I left a note. She’ll be here soon, I think.”

  “Okay.”

  The two regarded each other. This is it, Willow thought. This is the test. Would he offer to buy the hopelessly pretty blonde with the perfect pink mouth a drink? Was he imagining kissing her?

  Fucking her?

  “Good luck,” Mark said. “Hope you’re not waiting too long.”

  He turned his attention back to the Red Sox.

  “Can I sit with you?” Willow took a step forward, moving through the doorway before it closed. “While I’m waiting?”

  Something flickered around Mark’s face. There was a pause, but before it became uncomfortable, he said, “Sure.”

  Willow took a seat, careful and triumphant. She was a vampire who’d been invited inside. A killer let in for tea. It was Krista’s hot pink purse she put down on the bar, but it was unlikely Mark would recognize it.

  “You live around here?” Mark asked. Friendly. Helpful.

  “Uh, yeah. Eighth Street.”

  “I’m on Tenth, between A and B.”

  Willow nodded. I know. “Nice area.”

  He cocked his head, considering the sentiment. “It’s okay. My girlfriend and I are moving to Brooklyn later this year.”

  This caught her by surprise. The word girlfriend was deliberate, she knew that instantly. Good, reliable Mark was telling the helpless blonde who’d locked herself out that he had a girlfriend. But they’d never discussed moving in together. It had been hinted at, the joking When we move in together, we’ll have this or that. Was he just setting the blonde straight? Or was this Mark’s plan, something she—his actual girlfriend—didn’t even know about?

  “I’ve never lived with anyone,” Willow said truthfully. Neither had Mark. Moving in together would be a first for both of them.

  Mark blithely cracked open a peanut. “I have.”

  Willow hid her surprise behind a bland expression. “Really?”

  “Year after college.”

  The year after college, Mark was dating . . . Michelle? Marissa? Some M name. Willow’s memory scraped for the details. The relationship was shitty; she drank a lot of cheap gin that turned her quick wit nasty so he was only half in it, emotionally. They fought a lot. They lived together? Willow tried to recall if she’d ever asked Mark outright about living with someone or if it had just never come up, if she’d just assumed he hadn’t. She couldn’t remember.

  “How many roommates do you have?” Mark asked.

  “What? Oh, one.” Willow grasped for words, floundering. “Just one.”

  “Cool.” Mark took a long swallow of beer. “I live alone.”

  Silence settled. Mark gulped more beer. His gaze flitted from her, to the game, to his phone. Was he nervous? Or just bored? She was reminded again of the Christmas party in Park Slope. By the time he’d managed to casually bump into her, hands knocking as they angled tortilla chips to an open jar of black bean dip, it was past midnight. Neither of them could remember what was said in those first few moments of awkward small talk, but Willow remembered worrying that he was bored. He watched her talk, head cocked to one side, a strange half smile on his face. She asked, “What?” wondering if she was slurring or had dip on her face. He said, “You remind me of someone.” Weeks later, in a moment of shared breath and punch-drunk love, he’d confessed she’d reminded him of his future girlfriend.

  “Are you looking forward to moving in with your girlfriend?” The question pulled Mark’s attention from the game. “That’s a big step,” she added. “Living together.”

  Mark no
dded slowly. His face looked complicated. “Yeah. I am. I mean, it’s the next step, isn’t it?”

  Willow shrugged. “Is it?”

  He chuckled a little. “Yeah. Date, move in, marriage, babies. All that good stuff.”

  “Do you want to marry her? Your girlfriend?”

  And even though Willow had tried to ask lightly, playfully even, Mark still stared at her in surprise before fumbling out, “I don’t know if . . . that’s something—”

  “Oh, sorry. Just making conversation.” Willow drummed her palms lightly on the bar. “It’s just—you’re so young.” She leaned toward him, arching an eyebrow, faux lascivious. “Don’t you want to spread your seed before you settle down?”

  Mark raised his glass to his lips. “I didn’t think anyone actually said that.”

  “Said what?”

  He swallowed before answering. “Spread your seed.”

  “I guess it’s something I say.” She made a face at herself—dummy! You can’t even flirt with your own boyfriend!

  Mark chuckled, and when she looked up, he was studying her. “What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  Mark shook his head and drained his beer. He set the glass back on the bar and leaned forward a half inch. His eyes were warm liquid brown. “You remind me of someone.”

  Willow’s heart stopped. Sound sucked into a vacuum.

  You remind me of someone.

  A phone started ringing. It took her a full five seconds to realize it was hers, bleating from inside Krista’s purse. Insistent. Incriminating. She snatched at it, but it was too late. Mark’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered. She slid off her stool. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Wait a second—”

  “No, really.” She stepped back from his outstretched hand. Shame burned behind her eyes. “You don’t deserve me.”

  14.

  Krista’s hangover was a vicious, circling thing: giant birds of prey pick-pick-picking over a rotten carcass in some far-off desert. Rogue eyeliner turned her into a sexy zombie. She yanked feebly at the bathroom door. It opened. A stranger stood in the doorway.

  Krista screamed.

  The stranger screamed.

  Willow jerked upright from the couch.

  “Kris, it’s me. It’s”—the stranger gulped—“Evie.” The girl was wearing Evie’s bathrobe and a stunned, guilty expression. From beneath damp brown bangs peeked eyes as round as planets and so brilliantly blue they were almost purple.

  Krista choked in a gasp, her hangover momentarily forgotten. “Dude.” She swiped away sleep to take in the girl’s porcelain skin, raspberry-red lips, and extra few inches of height. “You look like Zooey fucking Deschanel. What do your tits look like?” She tugged at Evie’s robe.

  “Kris!” Evie slapped Krista’s hand away. “Prison rules: no touching.”

  Willow padded over sleepily, stretching limbs as long as evergreens. “But you said you wouldn’t do it.”

  “It’s just for a week,” Evie insisted, tightening her robe. “And I have a plan.” She drew herself up, affecting bravado. “I’m going to become the new host of Extra Salt.”

  “Awesome.” Krista grinned knowingly, nodding. “Right on.” Then she frowned. “Wait, what is that?”

  Evie put on the kettle and opened a tin of coffee, explaining that today was the last day of the web series’ auditions. She’d already emailed Ella-Mae, claiming her grandmother had passed away and she had to fly to Florida for the funeral. That would buy her a week.

  “Cool.” Krista yawned. The last time she’d been up before 8 a.m. was never. She sat slumped into one of three mismatched wooden chairs, all street finds, circling a matchbox-sized kitchen table. Willow was showering in the bathroom, which had just been thoroughly cleaned for the second time in the last twenty-four hours. “And . . . then what?”

  “Then I Trojan horse it. The host can write her own stories.” Evie spooned out three tablespoons of coffee into the French press, took note of Krista’s appearance, and added a fourth. “I’m using beauty to subvert the system. Like Glamorama. Except for all the terrorism.” Evie glanced at her reflection defiantly in the microwave door. The outline of a stranger’s face stared back at her. The world tipped and wavered, dreamlike and wholly unreal. But as she held her reflection’s gaze, it steadied again. Even with damp hair, even while still feeling vaguely nauseous, the girl in the microwave was so . . . pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. Flustered, she averted her eyes, flushing with embarrassment.

  She had a plan. She was subverting the system. And that did not involve mindlessly ogling oneself in a microwave.

  “Awesome.” Krista rubbed her face blearily. “So, is it an open-call thing?”

  Evie busied herself with pouring boiling water over the grounds. “Hm?”

  “An open call. You said it was a web series?” The subtext was clear—can I audition?

  Evie willed her voice to sound flat, reasonable. “No. Invite only. They had me managing the list. Someone called in sick, so I’m going to take her place.”

  “Sneaky. That’s not like you.”

  “Isn’t it?” Evie asked, but she knew Krista was right. It wasn’t like her to pull something so brazen. But it also wasn’t like her to steal her best friend’s audition spot, the spot Evie herself had gotten for her. Did the Pretty affect behavior as well as looks? Or was that just the effects of being pretty: an ingrained sense of entitlement or a survival-of-the-fittest-type cunning?

  “No. It’s not.” Krista cocked her head at Evie, searching her new face. She was frighteningly good at detecting Evie’s lies—a skill that had made her a pretty good lawyer-to-be—but right now she looked unsure rather than suspicious.

  Evie ducked her eyes, pretending to busy herself with the French press. “You’re up early. Don’t tell me this is the start of a whole new Krista.”

  Krista nodded emphatically, pulling herself up straight. “Today is the first day of my real—” She winced, and crumpled forward. “I feel like dogs’ balls.”

  “You should be careful. Maybe it’ll wear off faster if you’re hungover.”

  Krista shook her head. “Penny said it’d last a week. Plus, she was in a bar when I saw her. She was drinking. We can trust her.”

  “Neither of us really knows her,” Evie said. “Or what this stuff is. What the side effects are. Or the long-term effects.”

  Krista opened her mouth, immediately defensive. But then she paused. There was no denying what Evie said. Evie handed her a cup of coffee uneasily. This could have been a mistake. But it was too late for regrets now.

  Krista whimpered and rubbed her eyes.

  Evie regarded her doubtfully. “Still going in to see your superfancy agent?”

  “Yes,” Krista shot back. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Don’t get defensive.”

  “I’m not getting defensive.” Krista pouted. “It’s just, I could totally use your support here. Can’t you come with me?”

  “Sorry, babe. I have an audition to nail.” Evie paused in the doorway. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  Evie sipped her coffee, trying to morph unease into excitement. “That’s usually your line.”

  “Yeah,” Krista said. She stared at Evie long enough for it to send a surge of guilt through her. “Guess you’re playing my part today.”

  Evie almost choked.

  Getting into the Heimert Schwartz building was an exercise in playing dumb. Can’t use my security pass. Can’t say hi to anyone. Can’t remember Lukas’ name. After signing in as a guest, Evie caught sight of herself in the elevator mirror. It took her a long moment to realize the pretty, timid face staring back at her was her own. She could swear the other two guys in the elevator were checking her out. It was such an unfamiliar sensation she was completely at a loss about how to react. Did this new girl like that sort of thing? Or was it passé, too familiar to even be exciting or annoying?

  At least she kn
ew what to expect at the casting. A foyer full of primped girls, all exuding a carefully constructed nonchalance. It had taken a blowout and four outfit changes to join their ranks. She’d settled on a vintage floral-print dress with a Peter Pan collar that had never actually fit her—one of her “when I get a stomach virus and lose fifteen pounds” outfits—and a pair of Krista’s red peep-toe pumps. The most unusual inclusions were two subtractions: first, she no longer needed glasses. Evie had been wearing them since middle school. There was a lightness to her face, a distinct absence she was still getting used to. And second, her tattoo was gone. This struck her as odd: she was fond of her tat, but the ink had spread over the years and was sun-faded. By comparison, the space where it used to be on her forearm resembled pristine carved marble.

  Like yesterday, the waiting actresses looked up en masse when she rounded the corner. But unlike yesterday, they didn’t immediately glance away. Their eyes lingered for a second longer, taking in the dark-haired girl with the heart-shaped face: her ballerina shoulders and anime eyes. And when the girl closest to her looked back down, Evie could have sworn her shoulders sagged a little.

  Yesterday, she had been dismissed. Today, she was competition.

  “Hi.” Lukas appeared at her shoulder, Groundhog Day style. “If you can fill these out, you’ll be called in the order you arrived.”

  Evie took the forms, too nervous to say anything in case she somehow blew her cover: Thank you and I’m Evie Selby, and this morning I took a magic potion and now I’m different!

  She sat down. The girl next to her, a very tan platinum blonde who smelled like peppermint candy, shifted over soundlessly. Time trickled by. Every few minutes she reaffirmed she was still a different person by pretending to check her makeup; a seesaw of anxiety, relief, anxiety, relief.

  Finally, she heard her name. Her new name. “Chloe Fontaine?”

  Evie had been mentally psyching herself up for this moment ever since the tiny drop of purple splashed down onto her tongue and released her bowels in a truly spectacular fashion. The moment when her boss, a casting agent, and the rest of the team would smile their hellos to someone hiding behind an impossible mask. It was a time loop, a bucking of reality, and she held the reins. Her heart felt like a hummingbird in her chest. When Lukas let her into the room, she was so disoriented that she began making her way to the seat she was in yesterday.