by Stella Gray
Flopping back onto the sofa, I stare at the ceiling. Mr. Kibbles whines at me from his place on the floor. I know that whine. It’s one of the few reasons I leave the apartment anymore.
As we take a long walk around the neighborhood, I ponder what to wear tonight, and what kind of legitimate-sounding excuse I can give Tori and Emzee if I get mopey and want to leave early. Since nobody knows that I don’t have any jobs booked right now—I’d kept my schedule wide open this month in anticipation of being busy with the Maxilene gig—I figure I can just pretend I have a shoot in the morning.
I still can’t decide if my open calendar is a curse or a blessing. On the one hand, I’m glad I can just veg out and mourn the ruination of my marriage, but on the other hand it would be a welcome distraction to have a paid gig right now. And it doesn’t seem likely that any new jobs are going to come in without Luka pitching me…so I can only imagine what will happen to my career if I go through with the divorce.
Once we get back, I put Mr. Kibbles in his crate with some toys and a treat-stuffed Kong and start digging through my luggage for the outfit I have in mind. I find it and leave it hanging in the bathroom while I shower to let any wrinkles fall out. It’s a shimmery black dress with a lace overlay, the back scooped low to my mid-back. It might be too fancy for a girls’ night out, but after all this time slouching around Shay’s apartment, I’m excited for any excuse to dress up.
I quickly dry off and apply a touch of makeup, hoping to be out of here before my roommate gets back. Shay’s nice and all, but sharing six hundred square feet of space with her is starting to wear me down and I’m not in the mood to get caught up with unnecessary chatting.
I’d love to move out already. The problem is that I don’t have much in my savings, and it’s going to be almost impossible to get approved for an apartment when I don’t have proof of income or any sense of how many jobs I’ll actually be able to book over the next few months. And deep down, I’m still naïvely holding out hope that Luka and I can work things out.
I shake off the thoughts as I finish getting ready.
By the time I arrive at the Top, I’m feeling a little better. Girls’ night is just what I need. A hostess shows me to a private room in the back, but I’m so busy taking in the fun 1920s decor that it takes me a moment to realize that the table she’s leading me toward has more bodies around it than just Tori and Emzee.
Luka is sitting there. Stefan, too.
I pull up short, the lightness in my heart turning to instant anxiety. It must show on my face, because Tori’s smile falls as she stands to greet me.
This whole night was a trap.
“Sorry,” Tori whispers as I take a seat between her and Luka. “It was Stefan’s idea.”
I turn toward Luka, but he avoids my gaze when I try to catch his eyes.
“Hello, boys,” I say with a tight smile. “So nice you could join us for girls’ night.”
Emzee snorts and looks away, studying her manicure. Her nails are a shimmery midnight blue, speckled with tiny gold stars. “I love your nails,” I tell her, and she rewards me with a grin.
“I get them done at this tiny shop in Near North Side. I’ll invite you next time.”
Before I can respond, Stefan clears his throat pointedly. “The reason we’re all here is—”
“Can I get you all started with some drinks?” a waiter asks, appearing out of nowhere.
With a humorless smile, I grab the little menu on the table and ask for the most alcoholic-sounding thing I can find. “Make it a double,” I add, noticing Emzee flash me a little thumbs-up.
Once we’re all done ordering, Stefan crosses his arms on the table and takes a breath.
“Look. I just need to know if whatever—” he pauses to gesture between me and Luka “—this is, will negatively impact all the hard work we’ve done to boost DRM’s image, or if the two of you are going to work it out on your own before it gets to that point. Because for weeks I’ve heard nothing but nonstop gossip about your marriage, and frankly, I’m over it.”
“I hardly think I can be held accountable for malicious rumors—” I start, but then Stefan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a few photos, slapping them down on the table. They’re of me and Mateo at a club in LA.
My stomach sinks. Beside me, Luka says nothing.
Stefan scrubs his hands over his face and then addresses me and Luka both. “How bad is this? Luka, is your drinking becoming an issue again?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Well, maybe a little. But not like it was before.”
“That’s really not it,” I say, backing him up.
“Are either of you having an affair?” Stefan prods.
“It’s not my place to speak about Brooklyn’s extracurricular activities,” Luka says sourly.
“I’m not,” I say. “Mateo’s a friend. Just a friend.” For some reason, knowing my husband is suspicious of me and Mateo doesn’t make me feel any better. But who knows what Luka’s been up to since I moved out. “Are you having one?” I ask Luka, in front of the entire family.
“How could you think that?” he says incredulously, finally facing me. Shaking his head, he moves his chair farther away. We’re getting nowhere here.
“O…kay,” Stefan says, sighing. “So what is it, then? Are you two together? Not together? For the sake of DRM and our family, I need to stay on top of this. Whatever it is.”
“I…don’t know,” I say.
Just then the waiter comes back with our drinks, and we all take a few healthy swallows. Except for Tori, who ordered a cranberry juice. She just stirs hers around with the straw, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
The silence continues as we nurse our drinks. It’s the uncomfortable kind.
“So?” Stefan says impatiently, setting his whiskey tumbler down with a heavy clunk. “Speak! Somebody. Anybody. Is this about Maxilene?”
My cheeks go hot, and I feel embarrassed that Stefan thinks I threw my entire marriage under the bus over a single lost contract. In reality, it was simply the final straw.
“Luka and I are…having some issues,” I finally volunteer, once I realize that Luka plans to say nothing. “But I know that if I want a career, I’m stuck. This is what I signed on for, right?”
I hear Luka scoff beside me, and Emzee shoots me a sympathetic look.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stefan says. “You have a job at DRM no matter what. But if we don’t come to some kind of arrangement, everything will be ruined. And if the agency collapses because our image is destroyed, none of us will have jobs.”
I glance over at my husband, wondering if he’s on board with what Stefan is saying. But it’s impossible to read his expression. He won’t even look my way.
Clearing my throat, I grind out the words, “I can stay through the term of my contract.”
Stefan’s shoulders slump with relief. “Great. That’s great news. Luka?”
Luka looks over at me, and then adds, “I can behave, too. But there’s one thing I want.”
I know what it is. I don’t even need to ask. “Yes, Luka. I will move back in with Mr. Kibbles. He misses you, too.”
“He needs both his parents, Brooklyn,” Luka says sincerely. “It’s important. He’s already had such a hard life.”
We share a smile and for a brief second, I feel like things might eventually be okay again. There’s a glimmer of hope unfurling in my heart. I want to feel happy about it. But as I look away from my husband and take a drink, I temper it.
I’ve been down this road before—and I learned my lesson. So I’ll need to do everything in my power not to get burned.
I’m not holding out any hope.
Brooklyn
Chapter 7
I never claimed to be a professional interior designer.
Balancing precariously on my rolling desk chair, I reach up over my head for the curtain rod that’s mounted above my bedroom window and attempt to lift it off the brackets. But the rod comes apart at th
e connecting seam, and after flailing my arms like a cartoon character, I somehow end up crouched on the chair, hugging the seat back for dear life, the dark, heavy curtains falling all around me like a collapsed tent.
“Shit!” I yelp, my voice muffled.
“You okay, babe? I told you not to stand on that chair,” Mateo scolds from my cell. We’re FaceTiming, my phone propped up on the bookshelf across the room so he can supervise. “This is why you need a man around. A man with a ladder and tools.”
“Don’t be a sexist pig!” I shout, frantically batting fabric out of my way. “I’m fine. The curtains just decided to attack me.”
“You sure this room makeover is actually going to make you feel better about your living situation?” Mateo asks skeptically.
“I never said it would,” I snap. “I just want to be able to look around and see some colors other than black and gray. It’s depressing.”
“I get it. And I know things with Luka have been…complicated. But don’t force yourself to stay at his place if you’re not happy there,” he says gently. “Shay loved having you and Mr. Kibbles. She said the fridge was always stocked and you kept her apartment so clean it was like having a housekeeper. Maybe you two could work something out. Get a bigger place, or—”
“Nah,” I tell him stubbornly. “I’m where I need to be. At least for now. This is all temporary anyway, right?”
He doesn’t respond, and I make my way over to the phone and grab it so I can look him in the eye. “I’ll be okay,” I say, more firmly this time. “Really.”
“Come and visit again soon,” Mateo begs. “I’ll buy you a plane ticket to LA. Hell, I’ll do it now. When can you fly out? The palm trees miss you. Stay as long as you want.”
I finally crack a smile. “Let me look at my calendar and get back to you. But yes, I’ll come see you again, I promise.”
“Ugh, call time for my shoot is at the crack of dawn. I better go get my beauty rest. But send me glamour shots of the room when you’re done, and call me tomorrow.”
After we say goodbye, I fling my sweaty self backward onto the bed and look up at the ceiling, absently stroking the Belgian flax linen comforter I bought. It’s made of the softest fabric I’ve ever touched, and it goes nicely with the faded pink, tan, and cream of the Moroccan rug Mateo sent me from Etsy and the dusty-sage velvet curtains I have yet to hang. I love all the calming colors.
But I still don’t feel…at home.
I’ve been at the penthouse for a few weeks at this point. I thought I’d feel better once I moved back in, but it’s just been weird all around. Part of the discomfort is that I’m still in the guest room. I thought Luka and I would sort of naturally find our old rhythm—and I’d be back in his bed soon enough—but the wedge between us is too big. And it seems to be growing.
We seem to have silently agreed to ignore each other and just focus on work, which makes sense given that Danica Rose Management is the center of both our universes right now. Luka has been putting in crazy hours at the office, and I’ve been helping Emzee with some PR stuff when I’m not auditioning for jobs or swinging by Heart and Home Chicago with supplies for the shelter’s soup kitchen and donated toys for the kids there. I’ve landed a few smaller print gigs here or there, but nothing major—and meanwhile Luka’s been blending into the background at my shoots or managing my career behind the scenes, as always. So yes, we’ve both been very busy. But the lack of meaningful human interaction between us is getting unbearable.
Like when I walk into a room and then right back out because Luka is already in it, giving off “don’t fuck with me” vibes, or when he waits to fix his own meals or order takeout after I finish up in the kitchen instead of eating the extras I always leave out for him. We used to walk Mr. Kibbles together, but now I take the morning shift while Luka takes the evening. Even our text messages are basically transactional and devoid of any emotion or warmth. Thank God for my sisters-in-law, who’ve been keeping my spirits up and my social calendar somewhat full.
I thought redecorating my room might help. Give me a sense of belonging here, of my own personal space. But once the curtains are finally up, an eclectic mix of throw pillows on the tufted reading chair and the bed, my new brass lamp glowing softly from the desk…I have to admit, I still feel out of place. Alone. Nothing has really changed. Mateo was right.
It’s almost midnight. I’m exhausted. And if I’m being honest with myself, I want nothing more than to climb into the massive bed in the master suite and curl up next to my husband. But I can’t even imagine crossing that line with him. And I’m pretty sure he’s been letting Mr. Kibbles out of his crate at night and having him sleep on my side of the bed anyway.
Sighing, I head to the kitchen for a glass of wine, only to find an open bottle on the island and Luka on the couch in the living room, flipping through channels with the dog at his feet.
“Have as much of that as you want,” Luka calls out to me from the other room, in a rare display of verbal communication. “I’m only having one glass, and I’m nursing it.”
Checking out the label, I see it’s all in French. I’m sure this bottle cost him at least two hundred dollars. It’d be a shame to waste it.
After pouring myself a generous glass, I’m about to head back to my room, but something gives me pause. With all the silence and tension lately, I can’t help but wonder if there’s still something between us that needs to be addressed. Otherwise, why would this be so hard? If we were truly over each other, we’d be friends by now—right? Or at least better roommates. But instead it’s like there’s always something lingering in the air, words unspoken, conflict unresolved. Even at my shoots, he’s either totally avoidant or politely business-like.
I take a deep breath. Then I make my way into the living room, hoping this isn’t a huge mistake. Settling into the big puffy chair, I put my wine glass on a side table and then give all my attention and sweet words to Mr. Kibbles, who patiently waited for an official invitation before jumping up into my lap.
“Who’s a good boy?” I coo, planting a kiss on his pointy snout. “Him’s a good boy.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Luka watching us and smiling. But he doesn’t say anything. When I glance his way, he quickly shifts his gaze back to the TV.
“I can change it,” Luka offers.
I look at the screen, realizing that BoJack Horseman is on, offering up just enough silliness to make me smile. Luka and I had binged the first few seasons of the show one weekend, staying glued to the couch for hours to watch “one more episode.”
“This is okay,” I say.
As we settle in to watch, I sneak another look over at him, taking in the long, strong lines of his body. I miss that body. And so much more. It’s almost painful to be so close to him knowing that he isn’t mine to touch, that I can’t just go over there and lean my head on his shoulder, let my hand wander lazily down his chest, tug his belt open, his zipper down…
Get a grip, Brooklyn. I force my eyes back to the cartoon.
It doesn’t take long before we’re quietly snickering at the antics on screen. Who would have ever thought a show about a talking horse-man would be the icebreaker in my marriage?
The episode finishes, but Luka doesn’t move so neither do I. Not that I could just get up anyway. The dog is completely passed out, snoring softly in my lap.
Luka tilts his head toward me. “I’ve got something for you.”
I watch as he gets a few sheets of paper out of his work bag and brings them over. He looks me square in the eye as I take the pages from him.
“What is this?” I scan the words on the top page, excitement suddenly rushing through me. “You booked me for a runway walk? Tomorrow night?” My face tingles as I see the designer’s name. “For Elia Mertins? Are you kidding me?”
My voice has gone from a low murmur to a high-pitched squeal that has Mr. Kibbles wide awake, wagging his tail and trying to lick my face. I laugh as I push him gently away.
“She’s doing a private show for some deep pockets and you were personally invited to walk,” Luka explains. “You’ll be fitted at four. Then hair and makeup, show at eight.”
“I…can’t believe this.”
“All the big names will be there,” he adds. “The guest list is on the second page.”
I flip to it and look over the list, then devour it again like it’s a piece of calorie-free triple chocolate cake. “Holy shit!”
One corner of his mouth turns up. “Designer-wise, this will be your biggest show yet.”
I’m breathless. “This is incredible. Thank you.”
Luka shrugs. “Just doing my job.”
Our eyes meet, and silence falls between us, along with a mutual warmth. My mind whirls with all the possibilities this show can bring my way. The exposure will be epic.
“I guess I should get to bed,” I say. “Big day tomorrow.”
As I shift off the chair, Mr. Kibbles jumps to the ground, stretching low with his hindquarters in the air before trotting into the kitchen to slurp from his water bowl.
“Well. Good night,” I say, picking up my empty glass.
“Wait. Brooklyn, look. I…I really did think you had the Maxilene campaign.”
Locking eyes with him, I can tell by his unguarded look that he’s being honest.
He goes on, “I pitched you so hard, and Guy was so receptive to all my input. I never thought for a second it would go to anyone else. Especially not Monica Shore.”
“But it did,” I say softly. I clench my jaw, knowing I’ll never be able to truly forgive him if I don’t ask the next question. “Tell me something, Luka, and I need the truth from you.”
He nods for me to go on.
“Did you sign Monica just so DRM would have a winning horse in the race with Maxilene? Because you didn’t actually think I could cut it?”
Luka lets out a breath. “God, no. I signed her because she’s a big name and she threw herself at DRM at a time when we need all the commission revenue we can get. But I didn’t sign her to get us the Maxilene gig.