21 Stolen Kisses

by Lauren Blakely

  “Hey,” Catey says, and walks over to me.

  “Hi.”

  “I kind of have a thing for Rembrandt,” she says, tipping her forehead to the self-portrait the Dutch artist painted.

  “It’s hard not to. He pretty much rocked the paintbrush.”

  “He did amazing things with light.”

  “And with dark,” I add, and we’re right back in it. Talking, chatting, bantering. We always had the gift of gab. That hasn’t gone away, even despite the missing years.

  “Look at us. Like we’re a couple of art critics,” she says with a wry laugh, the nerves falling to the wayside the more we talk. I tell her I’m going to NYU, and she tells me she’s heading to Columbia to study art. Every word, every sentence is easy. It’s not like a slide back to the past. It’s more of a simple step into the comfort of the present.

  Even when she says, “I’ve been following you.”

  “You have?” I say, and now the familiar worry rears its head again. Maybe the banter was just a farce.

  She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut so tight it’s like they’re sewn together. She opens them. “I wanted to reconnect. But I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. And then I saw you and that hot guy taping up letters near my house one day. I followed you more, and I started putting two and two together, especially after one showed up in the mail for my mom. And that’s when I started sending them back to you. Just to get your attention,” she says, biting her lip as she finishes her confession, the expression on her face telling me she’s not sure how I’ll react.

  Honestly, I’m not sure how to react either. But that’s okay. I’m learning to live with not knowing. “Oh, it got my attention all right. Why didn’t you just call or e-mail if you wanted to reconnect?”

  She shrugs, then whispers, her voice wobbly. “Probably because I still felt like crap that I never talked to you again after what happened with our parents.”

  “Me too,” I say in a small voice.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to handle any of it,” she says, and the honesty in her voice hits me hard, a reminder that so few of us know what we’re doing. That figuring out how to handle something so big at such a young age is a monumental task.

  “Are yours still together?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Yours?” she asks, her tone laced with the slightest bit of anger toward her parents. An emotion I know too well.

  I shake my head. “Divorced three years.”

  She blinks once, twice, as if holding back her emotions, but she pushes on and gestures to a Vermeer on the wall, to the details on the folds of the woman’s blue skirt. “We should stay in touch. Especially if we’re both studying art. We can help each other, you know?”

  I nod. “Definitely.” I don’t think we’re talking about art anymore.

  “Do you want to get a coffee? Do you still drink the froufrou drinks?” she asks, her eyes lighting up. The sadness that was in them is erased.

  I smile broadly. I can’t contain it. I want nothing more than to get a coffee with an old friend who’s now a new friend. “I am hard core all the way. I can drink anyone under the table in a caffeine consumption contest.”

  “You’re on.”

  We walk up the stairs, then down a long hallway. “My friend Amanda is waiting outside for me.”

  “In case I turned out to be a psycho stalker?” she asks, arching an eyebrow playfully.

  “Yep. But I suppose she wouldn’t have been terribly useful outside. And speaking of stalking—”

  “—I’ll call or e-mail from here on out,” she says, with a laugh.

  I laugh too. It’s so good to see her again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Noah

  Matthew and Jane try to pay the lunch bill, but I insist. I can already see the pity in their eyes; I don’t need them paying for lunch because they think I’m a sad sack.

  “I got this,” I say, laying a few bills on the table at a Korean restaurant Jane likes. On the way out, she drops a hand on my arm.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  I flash a smile. It’s completely fake. “I’m all good. Don’t worry about me,” I say, drawing on my best phony confidence. But somehow it fools her.

  The midday June sun blares at me as we reach Sixth Avenue. I grab my shades to block it out.

  “Seriously, mate. You okay with everything?” Matthew asks, weighing in.

  “I told you all, I’m fine,” I say, emphasizing the last word. I will be fine. Eventually. Maybe even someday soon. For now, the loneliness is like a cloak I can’t shed, even as I surround myself with work, and events, and scripts, and shows, and people. I have buried myself in the client hunt, Jewel’s exodus a reminder that you always have to keep swimming in this business. Fins up. “Besides, David Tremaine is coming by this afternoon to sign the agency papers. You lose some, and you win some,” I say, trying to look on the bright side. Jewel is gone, but I’ve landed another top-tier writer.

  Matthew sighs heavily, then shoots me a rueful smile. “We weren’t really asking about work,” he says. “But I’m glad it’s keeping you busy.”

  Jane gives me a hug, pulling me close. “Hey. I know you miss her like crazy. But there will be others. I promise. There always are.”

  I scoff, even though it gives me away. “I’m sure,” I say, and after Jane takes off for an appointment, Matthew and I return to our building. Inside my office I do my best to drown in a sea of work. It’s barely been a week, but I’ve already given up hope that there will be a text, a picture, a message from her. This time it’s for good, and hell, I’m sure it’s for the best. She wasn’t ready, I was, and that’s that; that’s the great divide.

  At least I’ve got my job. Luck landed on my side and I managed to slide under the radar, unscathed from scandal.

  As I finish a contract for a junior TV scribe who nabbed a gig writing for a hospital drama, I check the time on my computer. Tremaine will be here soon, so I tuck the papers away.

  There’s a rap on my door. It’s barely open so I say, “Come in,” but Jonathan is already inside. “Hayes, we’ve got a problem,” he says, smacking his palms together as he huffs out a sigh.

  “What’s that?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

  “I’m going need to let you go.”

  I sit ramrod straight. Shock courses through my bloodstream. “What?”

  “Yeah,” he says, holding out his hands as if he’s sorry. “Here’s the thing. I thought it was a little odd that Jewel left us. Jewel never said why when she parted ways, and that’s what was so strange to me. We made her shitloads of money. She had you over her house all the time,” he begins, scratching his head as he paces across the carpet of my office. My face turns flush, and I swallow, knowing where this is going. “So when she took off for my competitors last week, I did a little digging. Talked to Bailey on Lords and Ladies. Talked to some others. And let me tell you something: I don’t give two shits what our clients do in their personal lives. Jewel Stanza can do whatever she wants. And I don’t give a shit about my agents’ private lives,” he says, and he stops pacing to stare hard at me.

  Shame washes over me, but I stay strong. I don’t look away. I will take what’s coming like a man.

  “You might think because this is showbiz that anything goes. And while I’m fine with you pursuing deals and grabbing them by the throats, the one thing you don’t do is fuck a client’s kid.”

  The shame disappears. It turns into anger and righteousness as it burns through me. But I tamp it down as I say through clenched teeth. “I didn’t have sex with her.”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’m not interested in the semantics. You have fifteen minutes to pack your stuff. Get out.”

  Fourteen minutes later, I carry a box of scripts, picture frames, a few books, my favorite mug, and my laptop to the elevator. The momentary rage that resides in me has disappeared. Because I knew this was coming. It was a distinct
possibility from the day I started letting Kennedy come to my office. It’s been more than a year in the making, and today is only the sealing of what was always my eventual fate.

  It’s hard for me to have expected anything else.

  As I reach the lobby, I spot Tremaine in the elevator across from me, looking down at his phone. The doors are already closing on him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kennedy

  I blow out the candle on the cake my dad made for me, still amazed that he actually baked.

  He slices me a piece, and I take a fork and dig in. It’s chocolate and it’s not bad, but I can hardly get it past the lump in my throat. Still, I try. For him.

  He gives me a new phone as a gift. “I’d have gotten you a car, but you never drive in Manhattan,” he says jokingly.

  My eyes widen. “I don’t want a car, but can I get the equivalent in cash value?”

  He laughs, and I try to join him, but it’s too hard. He’s not the one I want to spend my birthday with. Nor are Catey and Amanda either, but even so I meet up with them to do karaoke and try to laugh, as if Bruno Mars and Imagine Dragons will somehow make me forget my real plans for today.

  It works. For a while. Until darkness falls, wrapping its arms around the city. Tonight I was supposed to be with Noah, and the empty ache inside of me is so strong that I make excuses with everyone so I can be alone in Madison Square Park.

  I find our bench and turn on a playlist on my new phone, wishing I could feel his arms around me, instead of feeling so alone.

  Noah

  The inn calls to ask if I’ll still be there tonight.

  “I canceled it a few days ago,” I say as I run along the reservoir in Central Park, not bothering to hide the irritation from my voice.

  “Oh that’s right. I’m so sorry for the mix-up, Mr. Hayes. I apologize and hope you have a good evening.”

  I hang up, my hand still clutching the phone as I sprint past a group of heavyset, middle-aged men ahead of me. I’ve logged five miles so far tonight, probably one hundred since Jonathan canned me; maybe I’ll run the whole night. Anything to distract me from the date on the calendar, and the downward spiral my life has taken in one short week.

  Later, after another lap around the water, and a hot shower, I sink down on my couch, checking the time once more. It’s nearly ten, and I only have two more stinking hours to go before this miserable day is in the books. Reaching across to my coffee table, I grab the one gift I couldn’t cancel—the charm I had made for her necklace. It’s a silver locket with a picture of the deer with the white heart on its butt. She would have treasured it, and I would have been so damn happy to give it to her.

  I run my thumb across the smooth silver surface, and am so tempted to throw it at the wall. Anything to get her away from me. But I can’t because my entire body is hollow, and I’d do anything to get rid of this gaping hole in my chest. Instead, I spot a wooden box that’s used to hold coasters, so I drop it into that.

  Even out of sight, it taunts me, reminding me of the night I gave her the necklace this was supposed to become a part of. We went to Madison Square Park that night.

  Maybe that’s why I can’t shake the feeling that I know where she is right now. I grab my keys and phone and head for the park.

  A dangerous kernel of hope starts to take root, but when I reach our bench, it’s empty.

  She’s nowhere to be seen, but I swear I can smell her.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Kennedy

  “What do you think?” Amanda asks, turning in front of my mirror.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Look at you. You’re hot,” I say, and connect with her in the mirror that hangs behind my bedroom door. She’s wearing a shimmery red dress with the thinnest of straps. The dress falls to just below her knees. She scored a pair of matching heels—four-inch cherry-red ones with a sparkly pattern on the spikes.

  I’m wearing a green dress. It’s the color of money, the color of envy, the color of lush green grass after it rains. But it’s not as pretty as Amanda’s and that’s the point. I pull my hair up into a French twist and clip it.

  “You never wear your hair up and you should because it looks amazing,” Amanda says.

  I fasten the necklace my mom gave me a few weeks ago and the silver pendant drops down against my bare skin. I touch it once, thinking of her¸ wishing she could see me going to prom. But she can’t, and she won’t, except through the pictures my dad will take that I’ll send her tomorrow. I run my fingers over my three charms next. I still wear the necklace Noah gave me. I don’t think I’ve ever taken it off.

  “You should just call him,” Amanda says.

  I pull my fingers away and brush an unseen piece of lint off my dress.

  “What? You just like the way the necklace feels in your fingers?” she continues.

  I roll my eyes. “Not gonna happen for so many reasons.”

  “By the way, I can’t believe you wore that thing for a year and I had no idea where it came from.”

  I pretend to blow on my fingernails, like they’re hot. “What can I say? I’ve got game. This girl knows how to keep a secret.”

  Amanda takes out a bottle of lotion, the kind that leaves a shimmery sparkle behind and tosses it to me. “For your shoulders,” she explains.

  “Yeah, figured that much out already,” I say and put some on. I toss the bottle back to her and she tucks it away in her bag.

  “We look perfect,” she announces.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not. It’s totally normal for a guy to take two girls to prom, right?”

  “And to think you were worried about going to prom with an older guy.” Amanda knows pretty much everything about Noah. I’ve told her tons of details in the last two weeks, and she loves slinging them back at me when she can. She also likes Noah. Well, she likes what I’ve told her of Noah. How could she not? He was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. He was my beautiful escape, and I only miss him when I’m breathing.

  The buzzer rings and Amanda squeals. I point at her. “You squealed!”

  She covers her mouth, feigning embarrassment. “What is wrong with me?”

  “You smeared your lipstick now. I can’t take you anywhere.” I reach for a tissue and thrust it at her. She peers into my mirror and fixes her makeup.

  I hear my dad open the door. “Good evening, Lane.”

  “Hello, Mr. Stanzlinger.”

  “Nice job with the double corsages. I trust you’ll have the girls home at a reasonable hour.”

  “Of course, Mr. Stanzlinger.”

  Lane sounds nervous.

  “I’ll go fetch them.”

  Fetching, of course, involves walking five feet to my bedroom, since this is New York and space it at a premium.

  My dad appears in my doorway. He raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his lips quirks up. “Your threesome is complete,” he says, enjoying our unusual arrangement for prom. He gestures to the hall. “Allow me to present you to your suitor, please.”

  We leave my room and there’s Lane waiting in the foyer. He looks gorgeous and then some, but that’s what I have come to expect. He is, quite simply, empirically handsome. Amanda walks out and I watch her inhale Lane. I can tell she’s knocked off her feet by him, from the way his auburn hair invites fingers to be run through it to how his hazel-green-brown eyes can hypnotize you. He wears a tux, black pants and jacket, crisp white shirt, and bow tie. There are no powder-blue ruffles in sight. He watches Amanda, who looks gorgeous in her red dress, then he shifts to me. He hands me the corsage, then gives one to Amanda.

  My father leans in to stage whisper to him. “You’re supposed to put it on them.”

  “Oh, right,” Lane says, and his cheeks flush. He’s used to girls, but taking two to prom in our most unusual trio would try any boy. He fumbles with the plastic container
that holds a red rose. I watch as his fingers stumble across the opening. He flips the container open and takes out the flower. Amanda holds out her hand and he slides the corsage onto her wrist. He does the same to me with my flower.

  My father snaps some photos and then sends us on our way.

  Noah

  It’s a Saturday evening in early June and even though Tremaine’s not my client anymore, I still dress the part as I head to Speakeasy to meet him for a drink. He called earlier and said he wanted to catch up, so I return to my agent wardrobe, opting for the cobalt-blue shirt. I’m still an agent; my client list is just much thinner.

  But hey, it’s bigger than a week ago when I had none. I’m working from home, manning my own phones, trying to land deals like I did before. I’ve nabbed a junior writer on a fledgling late-night comedy series, and I’m betting he’ll go big.

  When I enter the bustling midtown establishment, I spot Tremaine with his wife and join them at a table.

  “Can we get you a drink?” she asks.

  “Just an iced tea for me,” I say.

  “I’ll head to the bar to order,” she says, then excuses herself.

  Tremaine shoots me a strange look. “What was that that all about?”

  I furrow my brow. “What was what all about?”

  “You leaving the agency and not going after me?”

  I laugh because I’d thought he was talking about his wife heading to the bar. “Sorry if I offended you by not trying to steal you from Jonathan. Figured that was the least I could do to my old boss.”

  “So you’re gone. What’s the story? I heard some chatter about a girl.”

  “You heard right,” I say, then give him the CliffsNotes of the CliffsNotes. I’m tired of pretending. I’m worn out from covering up. Besides, I like the guy and I’ve always been up front with him. No need to be a different person now that I’m not his agent.