by Serena Grey
She springs up from the couch, looking apologetic. “Rach... I’m sorry about the things I said yesterday.” She pauses. “You came in crying, obviously distressed. I should have been supportive, instead of blaming you.”
“Yeah, you should have,” I reply, not ready to be mollified.
She makes a contrite face. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, at least you did good right up to the moment I mentioned Jack.”
She gives me another small grimace. “I may not understand why you agreed to go out with him, and for the record, I will never understand or support Jack’s continued presence in your life.” She sighs. “But I understand how hard it must have been to have no clue where you stand with Landon.”
I draw in a breath, willing myself to forget Landon, and how my body reacted to him only a few moments ago. “How are you doing?” I ask Laurie.
She shrugs and drops back on the couch. “Trying to stop refreshing Brett’s Facebook page. We’re still in a relationship, it seems.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“A few times.” A pained frown flits across her face. “He asks how I am, I say I’m fine. Long awkward silence. Then bye-bye.”
My shoulders drop. Momentarily forgetting my own heartache, I join her on the couch. “You think you guys will work it out?”
She is silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she says finally, shaking her head. “What about Landon? Is it really over with him?”
I nod, filled more with the hope that I can let him go than with any kind of certainty.
Laurie sighs. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll just have to forget about him.”
She laughs humorlessly. “If only it was as easy as saying it.”
I get up, my mind going back to just a few minutes ago when my body succumbed so easily to Landon’s touch. “I’ll just have to try.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Okay.” She puts her glasses back on and gives me a small smile. “Night. Night.”
THE next morning, Mark Willis dumps an article from one of our celebrity writers on my desk. I spend the morning reading about her two-week stay in a three-hundred-year-old St Petersburg palace owned by some Russian billionaire and making notes for Mark.
Thankfully, it’s engrossing. I read about the ill-fated noble dynasty that once lived there, their beautiful gardens, paintings, and furniture, and somehow I succeed in pushing thoughts of last night to the back of my mind.
I’m just about done when my phone rings. I frown at Brett’s name on the screen. I haven’t seen him, or spoken with him since the night he told Laurie that they needed some time apart.
“Brett.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice, but I’m still pissed at him and it shows.
“Hi.” He releases a breath with the word, like he’s relieved that I picked up. “How’re you?”
“I’m okay.”
I hear him sigh. There’s none of his usual playfulness in his voice. In fact, he sounds as dejected as I know Laurie feels. “And Laurie? How’s she?”
“You know you could call her and ask her yourself,” I say with a small snort.
He is quiet. “Can we meet, for lunch or something?”
I frown. “Today?”
“If you have the time. I’d really like to talk to you.”
There’s a hint of a plea in his voice, I sigh and look at my watch. It’s almost noon. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Great.” He sounds relieved. We make arrangements to meet at a deli close to my office, and he’s already waiting when I get there. He’s seated at a table close to the window, restlessly tapping his fingers on the formica surface. His T-shirt has the logo of his gym printed on the front, and his black, curly hair flops endearingly over his forehead and ears. He’s always been fit, especially since he started the gym, but now he looks like he’s lost some weight, and not in a good way.
I slide into the seat opposite him. “You look awful,” I tell him, feeling a little sympathy.
“I know,” he replies with a long, tired sigh.
An impatient looking waitress comes around to take my sandwich order. Brett orders the same thing, grilled chicken and vegetable, with a large mixed fruit smoothie. When she leaves, Brett leans forward. “It’s not that I haven’t asked Laurie, or spoken to her. I have.”
“She told me,” I say with a shamefaced look. “I was just being a bitch earlier.”
He sighs. “I deserve it, don’t I?”
“Yeah kinda.”
He is quiet. The waitress returns with our drinks. This time, she pauses to smile at Brett and ask him if he needs anything else.
I notice that he hardly looks at her when he says no. “What do you think?” he asks me. “How is she really?”
I sigh. “What do you want, Brett? Do you want to be with Laurie or not?”
“You know I do.” He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, and I see the pain etched on his face. “Did she ever mention… do you think she wants to break up?”
I shake my head. “Now or before?”
“Before.” He pauses. “Now too. Does she want to end things?”
“No,” I reassure him. “She never mentioned anything like that to me.”
The waitress brings my food, sullen and impatient again. I wait for her to leave before biting into the sandwich.
“Good?” Brett asks.
I nod.
He sips from his smoothie, ignoring the sandwich on his plate. There’s a small frown on his face, and I can tell he’s deep in thought.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Come on, eat something.”
He smiles and picks up his sandwich. We eat silently, but it’s clear he has a lot on his mind.
“We’ve been fighting a lot,” he says, once we’re done eating. “One minute it’s all good, and the next, I’m walking home, miserable as hell.”
I keep silent, not sure what to say to that. Some useless platitude? Everybody fights?
“When she makes a big deal about the little things,” Brett continues. “I just feel like maybe she really wants me gone. We’ve been together for four years, Rach. It’s scary. I know I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I know I love her more than anything in the world, but what if deep down she feels trapped and it’s my fault.”
I’ve never seen anything to make me think that Laurie feels trapped and I rush to reassure him of that. “I can bet she doesn’t feel that way, Brett.” I sigh. “Why not tell her how you really feel? Your fears and everything. You love each other, you can work through it.”
He nods gratefully. “You’re right. I will. I’ll talk to her.”
I smile, but deep inside, I feel like a hypocrite. I haven’t been able to apply the same principle in my life. I haven’t been able to tell Landon how I feel, but here I am doling out advice.
We say goodbye outside the deli, and I wade through the lunch hour body traffic towards my office, truly hoping that Laurie and Brett would work it out so things can go back to the way they were.
At least the way they had been before I met Landon.
I want you, and I’m not going to walk away from this.
My mind fills with images of last night and need courses through me. I struggle against the memories, pushing into the Gilt lobby and practically bumping into Jack.
“Whoa,” he holds out a hand to steady me, and somehow I end up being pressed against his body in the most awkward hug ever. It’s clear that he doesn’t feel that way about it, as there’s a teasing grin on his face. “What’s the hurry beautiful?”
“Nothing,” I return his smile, stepping back so he has to let me go. My face is still flushed from all the carnal images of Landon that had been rolling through my mind only moments before. “Just escaping my demons.”
Jack arches a brow. “Your rich, handsome prince not slaying them for you?”
I ignore the dig. My ‘Prince’ is the demon I’m trying to escape anyway. “I gotta get
to work.”
“Hey,” he sounds conciliatory. “Last night was great. It was good to catch up.”
I give him a small smile. “Yea.”
“So…” There’s a hopeful look on his face, “still coming tonight?”
To see his mother. I nod. “I already said yes. Just tell me when.”
“Whenever you get off work.” He pauses. “I really appreciate this. It means a lot.”
Don’t let it mean too much. I start to say, but I shrug and let it go. “It’s no bother, really.” Every moment I spend busy with something, anything at all, is a moment that I don’t think about Landon.
I get off work later than usual, but Jack is waiting for me at the reception on our floor when I finally leave the office. We take the elevator down together, sharing it with a group of interns who can’t stop looking at him. On the ground floor lobby, Chelsea is having a conversation with one of the downstairs receptionists. She sees me with Jack and her eyes widen. “What. The. Hell,” she mouths slowly.
I shrug, and she wags a finger at me.
Outside, Jack hails a cab. During the short journey, he’s mostly silent, and I assume that he’s nervous.
His mother has an apartment in Gramercy Park. The doorman eyes Jack suspiciously while checking his name on the visitor’s list, then he directs us to the elevator, which soon deposits us in a thickly carpeted vestibule. There are four doors with gold-lettered apartment numbers, and one of them opens just as we exit the elevator. The woman in the doorway is petite, her black hair held up in a ballet bun, which brings the elegant angles of her face into focus. Her eyes are gray, like Jack’s, and very sharp. She’s dressed all in black, the only color, a hint of red lipstick.
Her eyes lose their sharpness as they settle eagerly on Jack, roaming from his hair to his shoes, almost as if she needs to reassure herself that he’s really there. Then she lets out a breath and her glance flicks towards me.
“I see you brought a buffer,” she says with a small chuckle.
“Hello mother,” I’m surprised at how subdued Jack sounds.
She ignores him. “Who are you?”
“Rachel Foster,” Jack says before I can respond. “We work together at Gilt. Rachel, my mother. Gertrude Weyland.”
“I’m an admirer of your work,” I say sincerely.
She snorts, unimpressed. “When you’re my age, you won’t be very flattered that the ‘work’ everyone loves is something you wrote in your early twenties when you were young and foolish.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. She disappears from the doorway. I hear her voice inside the apartment, telling someone. “My son is here.” I follow Jack inside. The large living room is stark, which is to be expected since she lives abroad. There are only a few pieces of furniture, but the ceilings are high and vaulted, and a few walls are covered with modern art. I even recognize one of my mother’s paintings hanging on a far wall.
She drops gracefully onto a white leather couch, where a distinguished looking older guy with beautiful silver hair and intelligent green eyes is already seated.
“So you’re Jack,” he says, getting up to shake Jack’s hand.
“I have no idea who you are,” Jack says churlishly, ignoring the hand extended towards him.
“I’m Curtis James,” the man tries again.
“Well, you have nice hair. Maybe you’ll last longer than the others.”
I’ve never seen Jack act so childish, and it would be funny if I weren't so shocked. Curtis gives up and puts his hand back in his pocket. As he goes back to his seat, I catch a small smile flit across Gertrude’s face.
“Curtis is my dermatologist.” She directs her reply to me. “He’s been showing me wonderful ways to keep my skin looking young.” Her lips lift in a small, naughty smile, and Jack snorts, muttering something under his breath. She ignores him. “Why don’t you sit, Rachel? You too Jack.”
“Thank you,” I choose one of the single armchairs. Curtis is smiling at me, I smile back.
“You’re not exotic in any way. You’re not a model,” Gertrude is peering at me. “You’re nothing like any of the girls the gossip magazines like to link with my son. What’s your attraction?”
“Mother…”
“Like you said, I’m only the buffer,” I reply pleasantly, wondering inside if I had just willingly walked into the definition of dysfunctional.
“I did say that.” She arches her brow at me. “So you work at Gilt?”
“Yes, Gilt Traveler.”
She nods. A man comes in with drinks on a tray. Four large black tumblers with green veggie straws sticking out of them.
Gertrude sighs. “I don’t do dinner anymore. I hope you don’t mind smoothies. They’re very healthy.”
We each take a tumbler, and the man disappears. Jack glares at his glass like he’d rather die than taste the contents.
“So you’re a travel writer?” Curtis asks, he’s talking to me.
“I write for a travel magazine.”
“I’ve never liked travel writing,” Gertrude says. “Anybody can write about climbing mountains and jumping out of airplanes.” She gives Jack a meaningful look. “Real Fiction demands imagination.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t inherit your imagination gene,” he mutters.
“You’ve tried very hard to make up for it. I labored for fourteen hours to bring your body into the world, but every time I open your magazine or take a look at those damn TV shows, I have to watch you throw that body around and risk breaking it into pieces.” Her voice doesn’t rise as she says this, but I watch Jack retreat into himself. He looks miserable, and it’s hard not to pity him.
“Jack’s a brilliant writer,” I say, facing Gertrude.
She sighs. “We’re saying the same thing.”
There’s a short awkward silence.
“I subscribe to the Gilt Review,” Curtis says. “The short stories are brilliant.”
“You think so?” Gertrude is smiling, like she knows a secret. She looks at me. “Do you read it?”
I nod. “Every issue.” I’d initially applied to work at the Review and ended up as an assistant at Traveler. I still hoped to one day make the move to the Gilt Review.
“What do you think about it?” She leans forward, her eyes bright, like she really needs to know my opinion. At that moment I see the similarity with her son, they both share the charm that can make their audience forget everything else.
“I think it’s fair to call it the modern voice of literature. However, I’d include less work from established authors and more from unknown, fledgling writers. After all, it’s the job of a magazine like the Gilt Review to widen the reader’s scope.”
Gertrude considers me for a moment, still smiling. “That’s an informed opinion,” she observes.
“Rachel always wanted to work at the Review,” Jack offers. “She applied there, but they sent her to us.”
“Is that right?” His mother smiles at me. “Why don’t you apply again?” She gives me an encouraging smile and I’m reminded of Jessica Layner, my boss. “You might be surprised.” She pauses. “You haven’t touched your drink,” she observes.
I steel myself and take a sip. It’s surprisingly delicious. “What’s in this?”
“Fruits and vegetables,” she grins and it’s exactly the same as Jack’s grin. “I’ll bet you thought it’d be awful.”
“I did,” I confess.
“Not everything about me is awful,” she says. “My relationships with the men in my life, maybe.” She looks at Jack. “Stop sulking, dear. Tell us about your work. I’m sure you haven’t outgrown talking about yourself.”
Jack is braving the smoothie, then with a pained expression in his mother’s direction he starts to tell us about his trip to South America and falling ill. Gertrude listens intently as he tries to impress her with his narration and his experiences. She asks questions about his safety, health risks he took, places he stayed. She’s genuinely worried
about him, regardless of how unimpressed she is with what he does. He, on the other hand, wants her to appreciate his work, while being very unconcerned about his own personal safety.
The conversation continues in the same vein for the rest of the night. By the time we’re ready to leave, I feel a bit sorry for Jack. He’s silent all the way downstairs. The doorman asks if we need a cab, but Jack shakes his head.
“I think I’m going to walk for a little while,” he tells me.
I shrug. “Alright.”
We start along the sidewalk. “I’m sorry about…” Jack searches for the words, “all that. It’s just hard to be in the same room with her.”
“I thought she had a weird kind of charm,” I say gently. “Of course it’s different when it’s your relative.” I pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m angry,” he sighs. “All my life I’ve never seen her for more than a month every year, but every single hour I’m with her she makes me feel like my choices are shit.”
“Your choices aren’t shit,” I assure him. “You’re really talented as a writer, and people love your TV shows.”
He stops walking. “You really think I’m talented?”
“Yes, and so does your mom, by the way.”
He snorts. “But no one can compete with Gertrude Weyland, author of the great American novel.” There is a heavy bitterness in his tone.
“What about your dad?”
He stops walking. “I don’t know who he is. She never told me. Probably some poor sucker like Curtis whatshisname who fell for her ‘weird’ charm.” He frowns and looks up and down the street for a cab. “I’d better get you home. Thanks for being here with me tonight.”
“I’m glad I was,” I say with a smile.
Maybe it’s because I feel so sorry for him, but I don’t stop him when he moves towards me. I ready myself for a hug, but I’m shocked when he places his hands on my shoulders and starts to kiss me.
Confusion keeps me frozen, but only for a moment. I push at his chest, freeing myself from the unwanted embrace. “Stop it,” I mutter. “For God’s sake Jack. I thought we’d gone past this.”
“You thought…?” He shakes his head. “Look, I know you think the worst of me right now, because of what happened two years ago, and that night at the Swanson Court when you found out I’d gotten engaged…”