21 Stolen Kisses

by Lauren Blakely

  “Just my mom giving me a hard time,” I say in my best irritated-with-my-parents voice. “She doesn’t want me to stay at my dad’s tonight, so she’s insisting I come home for dinner now.”

  Amanda looks at her watch. “It’s two. It’s not dinnertime.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know that. But she wants me to read a script before dinner, so I really have to go,” I say, then I lean in and give Amanda a big hug, so she can’t see my eyes, and know that I am half—half truth-teller, half liar, half daughter, half person. I assemble myself for the people I am with, to shield my secrets and to hide theirs. Right now, I loathe this chameleon I’ve become. “I’ll go say ‘bye to Lane.”

  “I’m calling you later. You’re not acting like yourself,” Amanda says. “I wish you’d tell me what is really going on with your mom.”

  I wish I could. I wish I could stop it. I can’t though, so I’m just going to duck and hope it doesn’t hit where it hurts.

  “She’s just …” I trail off. “You know. Moms. They exist to drive you crazy.”

  “I do know that,” she says, and drapes an arm around me as we walk back inside Dr. Insomnia’s. She kisses me on the cheek and excuses herself to the restroom, while I say a quick good-bye to Lane.

  “You cool with me leaving you here?”

  “I am always cool,” he says. “I will be so cool in my powder-blue tux at prom in two weeks, don’t you think?”

  I fake laugh. Or I fake a laugh. I can’t tell.

  “Will you wear a powder-blue dress with ruffles?” he asks.

  “Definitely with ruffles,” I say, even though the words that should come out of my mouth are I’m back together with my boyfriend so I can’t go.

  How does my mom pull this stuff off? How does she manage to juggle all those guys when I don’t even know what to say to Lane about Noah?

  Shakespeare was right about tangled webs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Noah

  My stomach drops when I see the name flashing across my screen. I take a deep breath and steel myself. As I leave the library I answer.

  “Hey,” I say, mustering up my best confident voice, reminding myself that Jewel hasn’t a clue I’m on my way to see her daughter. At least, I hope she doesn’t. And as crazy as this may seem, I’ve never truly lingered on how she’d react if she knew about Kennedy and me. I suppose I’ve always assumed that at some point Kennedy would be old enough for us to be open about it, and no one would need to know we started when she was younger.

  Yeah, that probably makes me naive.

  “Hello, you darling man. I wanted to check on the licensing deal we made for Lords and Ladies lipstick,” Jewel says, launching right into business, as she always does. Doesn’t matter to her that it’s two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me either. I’ve always loved talking business with her, or any client. Right now, I couldn’t be happier to chat about lipstick with her because it means she doesn’t know the things I keep from her, so I do my best to ignore the prickly knot of guilt inside my chest.

  “And do you think the ruby red shade accurately represents the Lords and Ladies brand promise?” she asks.

  “Absolutely. It’s the color of the show,” I say, then answer her other questions about other hues. As I walk and talk alongside the slow pace of Sunday traffic, I try to convince myself I can juggle Jewel’s career and romance her daughter at the same time.

  Surely, I can walk this tightrope. It is worth it. No one will ever know.

  When the call ends, I ring my friend Matthew, because I need distance between Jewel and Kennedy. I need him to bridge the call with her mom, and my date with my girl.

  We chat about sports, the new band he’s covering, then his trip to visit his brother in LA soon.

  “What are you up to now?” he asks, as I hail a cab.

  Once inside the yellow car, I tell him. “Meeting Kennedy. Seems we got back together.”

  He sighs heavily. “Be careful, mate. That’s all I can say. You just need to be careful.”

  “You’re not going to tell me to stop?”

  There’s a pause, and in that pause I almost want him to say yes. I want someone to hold up a hand and knock some sense into me. “Not my place to. And hey, you never know. Plenty of relationships have started on rockier shores.”

  “Right,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair, and leaning my head back against the seat.

  “I just want you to look out for yourself too. It’s a really risky situation.”

  I nod, then thank him as I hang up.

  But honestly, I’m not even sure anymore what the greater risk is. I could lose Jewel, or I could lose Kennedy.

  At the moment though, there doesn’t seem to be any question which way I’m leaning.

  Especially not when the car pulls up to Eighth Avenue and Jane Street. She’s waiting on the corner, and a grin lights up her face that makes me forget anything but her.

  Kennedy

  I try not to breathe in the scent of the sunflowers.

  Sunflowers reek, which is ironic considering how big and blazingly colorful they are. But the orchids are blooming by the lily pool terrace and they smell wonderful. We walk away from the smelly flowers and closer to the deliciously scented ones and now, here, and forever, all is right in the world. Noah’s hand is in mine, we are far away from Manhattan, and I’m surrounded by blankets of flowers, of succulent reds and delicate pinks and blinding oranges.

  I pull him into a secluded section of the gardens. The butterflies and dragonflies shield us as we kiss. I run my hands through his hair, my fingers sliding through the soft brown strands. It’s like coming home, the feel of him. He slants his mouth to me, his lips finding mine; the slow, sweet connection that was severed for months is back in full force. He tugs me closer, his fingertips trailing along my cheek in a way that feels tender and hungry at the same time. As our lips fuse, and our breath mingles, I know right now neither one of us cares what anyone thinks of us, or if anyone is saying he’s too old for her or she’s too young for him, because this is New York City and we aren’t the only ones doing this.

  We aren’t the only ones with a few years between us.

  “Are you really mine again?” he whispers with some kind of wonder in his voice.

  I nod, sighing happily into his embrace. “Yes. I really am.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering. First the Herb Garden. “This is my kind of place. What’s better suited for a vegetarian than rosemary and sage?”

  “I’m suddenly hungry for a salad,” he says, stroking his chin playfully.

  Then we stroll through the Shakespeare Garden, which is bathed in green, with its lush bushes, trees, and shrubbery. “It would be funny if Shakespeare really wrote here,” I say.

  “The Bard in Brooklyn,” Noah says, musing on the words. Then he snaps his fingers. “Hey! That sounds like the name of a musical.”

  “You should produce The Bard in Brooklyn. That could be your next career move. Backing musicals. You know that’s what you really want to do.”

  “I’m going to be a revival man all the way though,” he says. He holds out an arm grandly, like a character in a musical about to launch into a show-stopping number. “I can see it now.”

  “You should work with Davis Milo. Wasn’t he going to direct that revival of Chess?”

  He nods. “Supposedly it’s being workshopped. But those things take forever.”

  “I’ll wait for it. I’ll be there opening night.”

  He stops walking and faces me. “I’m taking you.”

  “Or I’m taking you,” I toss back. “You know what you need to do? Once you start producing musicals, you need to have this kick-ass one-line bio in Playbill, like the one Cameron Mackintosh has. You know what his Playbill bio says?”

  “Of course. And I would do the same.” So, we say the next line in unison: “Noah Hayes produces musicals.”

  “See? How much better does
it get than that?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It’s as if it says, ‘This is my mark on the world, and it’s so powerful all I need is one verb and one noun.’”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted too: name, verb, noun. Done.”

  Out of nowhere, I spot a flash of gray hair. A familiar lopsided grin. A pair of narrow brown eyes. The hair on my neck stands on end. Jay Fierstein. My mom’s former lover, my dad’s former business partner. I spin around, my heart racing, my skin crawling. But I don’t see him anywhere.

  Noah keys in on me. “Hey. You okay there?” he asks, concerned. “Did you see someone you know?”

  “Jay Fierstein,” I say as I scan for the bastard.

  “Your dad’s not in business with him anymore, right?”

  I stop searching for Jay’s beady brown eyes. He’s gone. I look at my boyfriend. “How did you know?”

  “K, it’s been a few months. I hear things.”

  “Did my mom tell you that?”

  “Probably,” he says, flustered a bit at my questions.

  “What do you know about him?” I park my hands on my hips. For some reason, it bothers me that this family secret has leaked out.

  “Not much, counselor. Why are you quizzing me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, sighing and jamming my hand in my hair. Now I’m pissed at myself for being pissy with Noah. “It’s just …”

  “Hey,” he says softly. “You can tell me.”

  A thought flashes through my mind. Can I tell him that I threw Jay under the bus? If Jay is following me, does that mean Jay’s back together with my mom? Why is Noah even asking me these questions?

  A horrible thought attacks my brain. Would Noah use me to stay close to his biggest client? To ferret out information about my mom that would help him keep her? My mind races rapid-fire over our relationship, hunting out moments that would reveal his intentions were less than pure.

  I don’t find any, but just like that, I’m doubting him. Try as I might to swat the thoughts away, they’re in my head, implanted, like a listening device.

  I remind myself that he has so much to lose by being with me. He’s only with me for me. But as we leave the Gardens, I want to punch both my parents.

  This is what happens when you know too many secrets and you’ve grown up with too many lies.

  Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. You both suck.

  *

  That evening I join my dad at the dining room table. He has an intense look on his face as he flips through several crisp white legal-size pages. My mom, I bet. She’s probably bugging him for something. I bet she wants to stop paying him alimony. Part of me was shocked when I learned he was taking alimony. The guy was steel and never let on he knew she cheated, but he deigned to take money?

  “What’s going on?” I ask as I plop down onto the chair.

  He doesn’t answer. I watch him as he shifts his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth.

  “What’s wrong, dad?”

  He sighs, his shoulders rising briefly, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Jay,” he hisses in a low voice.

  I stop breathing. Air whooshes out of my lungs. “What do you mean?”

  “This,” he says, and stabs the papers with his index finger. “He’s suing me.”

  My jaw drops. “What? Why?”

  “Breach of this. Breach of that. Trying to put me on the line for the business split.”

  My blood turns cold. He banged my mom, he follows me, he sues my dad. My father gives me a pointed look. “Kennedy, I don’t know what you ever saw in him. I truly do not understand how you even wanted to kiss him. Even if it was only three seconds.”

  My father looks sickened. I cast my eyes downward, ashamed that I have to keep up the lie.

  “Dad,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next or what else I’m supposed to say. All I know is I don’t want him to know the truth. He thinks I was in love with Jay.

  “I’m going to call him and let him know exactly what I think.”

  “No,” I say as my heart speeds up. I don’t want my dad to know I lied to him all these months about Jay. I don’t want him to think I’m just as bad as my mom in the honesty department. “I mean, it’s not worth it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m over him,” I say, proffering up a lie, another layer to the big lie. “Just leave that part alone, Dad. Please. Please, just don’t talk to him about me. I don’t feel a thing for him anymore. I promise.”

  He presses his teeth together again, gritting them behind his closed lips. This is gnawing away at him. I can tell by the way he holds everything in, the way he tries to be impervious. But the act of keeping it all together ties him in knots instead. Watching him, I am awash in guilt because of the lies I’ve told, the lies I tell.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  He shakes his head. “Kennedy, the man let you kiss him for three seconds. Do you have any idea how much I want to erase those three seconds from recorded history?” He slams a fist against the wood table. “But I shut my mouth then. For you. Because you begged me to. And now, he has the audacity to sue me? Me? To sue me?”

  I want to tell my dad that I think Jay is horrible, that he is a backstabber. Because Jay is. But if I say the truth, I’ll look suspicious. So I weave more fables. “It was one tiny kiss and he pushed me away. I swear. It was nothing,” I say, and I wonder if my mom ever felt as awful as I do now when she lied to my dad. Because I feel disgusting. “And if you talk to him, you’re just going to get mad. And it’s going to inflame him. It’s going to set him off and things will be worse. You have to be cool. You have to be above it all. You have to handle this through a lawyer and not let on anything about”—I suck back in the gulp I feel as I spew a lie—“about one stupid three-second kiss.”

  He eyes me suspiciously. “Was it only one kiss?”

  “I’ve told you. That’s all it was; the rest was me making up stuff I thought I wanted,” I say, and to have to tell these fibs again tastes like gravel in my mouth, though I’m ever grateful he only saw pieces of the letter. “Just go through your lawyer and I am sure he can get Jay to back off.”

  I reach out and pat my dad’s hand, then grasp it. He squeezes back, holding on tight, and I watch him for a moment, so unraveled, so rattled by this. I am responsible, I’ve brought him to this. I feel dirty, I feel tainted, but I also feel relieved. I’m getting my way, I’m getting what I want, and I’m keeping my own secret.

  It’s worth it, right? This kind of love doesn’t come around often, and you have to seize it, fight for it, and protect it if need be. To finally return to a good love—well, I’ll gladly pay the price for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Noah

  “And I can reserve the booth in the back?” I ask, tipping my forehead to the quiet table, tucked out of the way.

  “Absolutely, sir,” the woman in the crisp black skirt and white blouse tells me, as she taps on the computer screen at the hostess stand. She studies the screen, then lifts her face to flash a smile. She rattles off the date – Kennedy’s birthday. “Eight p.m. that evening. It’s all yours.”

  “Great,” I say, then give her my name for the reservation at Happy Cow, a vegetarian restaurant that Matthew’s wife, Jane, raved about as the best in the city since she, like Kennedy, doesn’t eat meat. I could have made the reservation online or on the phone, but I wanted to see the restaurant first, check out the tables, and make sure I secured the best one for her birthday night.

  I have gifts for her too—a new addition to her necklace that I had specially made, and a night to ourselves at a quiet inn in a small town along the coast of Connecticut, far, far away from New York City.

  As I leave and enter the details in my phone, I imagine a red circle around the date. The red circle would say “FREE.”

  But does her eighteenth birthday really change a thing?

  Yes. No. Maybe.

  An arbitrary line in the sand, she’ll still be barely starting college. A
nd I’ll still be here—a guy in a suit, owning an apartment, doing all the things I do on the other side of college.

  The age difference doesn’t bother me, but I’d be an idiot to think it wouldn’t bother others. My only hope is that it won’t matter to the people I need in my life—my boss, my clients, my business. But then I remind myself that showbiz is the world where anything goes, where labels and judgment are reserved for critics and about content. Not about personal choices. Lifestyle choices. Romantic entanglements.

  I click over to my playlist and turn on “There’s No Business like Show Business,” sending a wish to the panel of imaginary judges of my life and choices, that my chosen field will somehow give me some immunity.

  My cell phone buzzes as I reach the crosswalk.

  I grab it. I don’t recognize the number. For a split second, I flash back to the gardens, to Kennedy’s worries about Jay, to the unfounded fear that somehow Jewel has me by the balls now.

  I tell the fear to screw off and answer it anyway.

  “Hayes here.”

  “Hey, it’s Tremaine. Want to get lunch and talk about The One That Got Away?”

  “I do.”

  Kennedy

  A few days later I ride around the city in a town car with Noah after school. He has thirty minutes free before an early dinner with a client. We talk and make out, but mostly we make out. He drops me off two blocks from my mom’s house, and I cup his cheeks and plant a searing good-bye kiss on his lips.

  “See you tomorrow. Somehow,” I whisper.

  “Somehow,” he echoes and then I walk away.

  I reach my block and stop short when I see another letter. It’s tacked up to the street sign a few feet away from our front steps. Unease runs through me. How many letters have I dropped? How many have fallen from my backpack? I look at the letter on the street sign. It’s the James Joyce we left for Bailey last week. Again. I see a note scrawled in pencil on the bottom.