by R.S. Grey
I was not at all prepared for the loads of paparazzi out on the sidewalk, snapping away.
In fact, I froze at first, thinking for a second they were there for someone else before they started shouting Logan’s name.
Logan totally ignored them and moved toward Pat’s waiting SUV quickly, but I couldn’t take it. It was bloody early in the morning and we were only trying to hop in the SUV and get to work. How dare they hound us like that? Maybe they thought he didn’t care, but I sure did, and I decided to tell them.
“Can’t you lot clear out? I think it’s quite rude for you all to gather here like this. Don’t you have something better to do? There’s a nice café just a block over. They’ve got these cream pastries and nice foamy lattes. If I were you, I’d—”
Logan had to get in front of me then and cut me off from their view. Their cameras continued to snap away, but I didn’t care one bit.
“All right, c’mon,” he said, backing me up toward the car. “They’re not going to leave.”
“They might if you ask them to!”
Then I peered around his broad chest to see if they were scattering like cockroaches—as I expected they would be—but Logan was right. My words hadn’t affected them in the least! If anything, they only snapped photos with more zeal, shouting Logan’s name and asking for mine.
I groaned with anger as Logan loaded me into the back seat of the vehicle.
Pat was on my side, of course, cursing the paps right along with me as we pulled away from the curb, but Logan was only smiling and shaking his head, unperturbed by the insanity.
“Next time maybe I’ll give them a real piece of my mind,” I threatened.
“Oh yeah?” he teased. “I thought that’s what you just did.”
“What? That was mild! Next time I might just tell them all to sod off.”
“They’d love that. It’d give them more to report in the magazines.”
“Magazines!” I cracked up then. “You’ve lost it if you think I’m going to be in any magazines.”
There’s no way I’m important enough to be featured in any magazine anywhere, but Logan’s words are still haunting me. The whole day I’ve wondered if maybe I’ll become important by association, just by hanging around him. What would they even call me in the captions beneath the photos? Logan’s lady friend? Logan’s loony acquaintance? Some wild woman on the street? There’s no way they’d think we’re together. It’s mad even to me, and I’m the one who had him on top of me last night!
I’m actually relieved to have my shift at District in the evening because it keeps me ultra-busy, running round and grabbing drink orders. Wednesdays are nowhere near as packed as weekend nights, but we’ve still got a big enough crowd that I’m on my feet constantly.
Roger loads up another tray with drinks for me and I’m off, unloading them onto my assigned tables and carrying away empties I gather deftly.
One of my tables is really chatty, a load of blokes who look like they’ve only just started their twenties. They’ve still got some baby fat on their cheeks and haven’t quite figured out that less is more when it comes to hair product.
“Hey, my friend is wondering if you’re single,” one of them says to me, nodding his head to another guy at the table who’s gone totally red in the face. When I smile nicely at him, he looks down, probably wishing he could disappear altogether.
“Well you can tell your friend that I think he’s quite nice-looking, but I’m not in the market for anything at the moment.”
They all laugh and carry on while I walk away with their empty beer bottles.
Roger’s heard it all go down and he smiles when I post up against the bar, taking a load off for a moment.
“Aren’t you going to take him up on his offer?”
I scrunch my nose. “I don’t go for younger men, unfortunately. He looks like he’s barely gone through puberty.”
“Right. So then it doesn’t have anything to do with Logan Matthews?”
Good going, Roger. I’d nearly gone three whole seconds without thinking of him and now you’ve ruined it.
I feign total innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But of course, Roger was here the night Logan came in with his friends and left me his number along with that ridiculous “tip”. He knows something is going on with Logan and me.
“So you aren’t dating him?”
“We’re just friends,” I reply like some well-trained diplomat.
“Friends? Not likely.” He nods his head behind him, to the absolutely ridiculous bouquet of flowers sitting on the back counter of the bar.
“What in the hell are those?”
“Roses, if I’m not mistaken.”
The bouquet is bigger than my head! Bigger than the coffee table in my flat! I’ll have to just set the vase on the floor and have Kat and Yasmine walk around it. There’re enough roses to fill an English garden, all of them blood red and dripping with intent. There’s no note nestled in the blooms, which seems even more romantic. It’s like Logan knows I know who they’re from and that’s all that matters.
Of course, I wonder how the hell I’ll manage to tote them home at the end of my shift. It’ll make my subway commute quite a calamity, but then I shouldn’t have worried. Pat is waiting out in front of District when I leave, looking down at his mobile until he sees me walking (or rather stumbling) out on the sidewalk, struggling with the bouquet, and he hops out of the black SUV to help me.
“Pat! What are you doing here?!”
I assume, at first, that it’s a total coincidence. I’m sure he must have just been in the neighborhood on business, but then he announces, “I’m driving you home.”
He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Of course Pat would drive me home from work. How silly of me to assume I’d have to hop on the subway like every other New Yorker!
He takes the massive arrangement from me and sets it in the back seat of the SUV. Once it’s buckled into place, he opens the front passenger door for me, continuing our tradition.
“You all set?” he asks as I hop in.
“Sure, but you really didn’t need to sit out here and wait for me like this. I’ll bet you were bloody bored.”
He holds up his mobile, and there’s some kind of sports game on it. It’s too small for me to make out what it is though.
“I was watching an old World Series game. You know you can watch just about anything you want on YouTube these days?” He sounds like he thinks it’s the best invention since sliced bread. “World Series game seven from the 80s—bam! Right at your fingertips.”
I grin. “You’ll have to tell me more about it on the way home.”
We chat so much the drive flies by, and before I know it, I’m carrying that massive bouquet of flowers up the rickety stairs toward my flat. I unlock the door and try to be quiet as I arrange the vase on the TV stand. I know Yasmine and Kat are both asleep; I envy them. It’s late, and I’ve got to be up early for work at The Day School. I half-groan just thinking about it, but I know I’ll be fine. I’ve done the late night/early morning routine loads of times before and survived, so there’s no point in feeling sorry for myself now.
Using the dull light filtering in from the street, I unload my tips from the pocket of my District uniform and count out the bills, slightly disappointed with how few there are. Some nights are like that. Here’s hoping tomorrow and Friday are better.
I wonder for one quick second if it’s worth all the trouble—extra hours on my feet, carting drinks around—and then I catch sight of the huge roses, big and fat and lovely, and I know I’d work a thousand shifts to be able to go to that gala with Logan.
I text him Thursday morning when I get to school, before my students have arrived, to thank him for the flowers and for having Pat come round to get me.
LOGAN: Glad you liked them. I told the florist I had a girl I really wanted to impress…
CANDACE: Well they did a good jo
b! They must have used every rose in the tri-state area for the bouquet. I’ll have a whole swarm of bees in my flat later if I don’t keep the window latched.
LOGAN: Ha. What are you doing tonight?
Ugh! I wish I could reply with Oh nothing much, just coming round to your flat to do a bit of humping, but I absolutely have to work. My bank account is filled with tumbleweeds and I can’t be expected to buy myself a new fancy-shmancy dress, and pay rent, and cover the rest of my bills, and send money back home to Mum if I don’t work my arse off.
CANDACE: Another shift at District, I’m afraid. And before you ask, I’ll be there tomorrow night too, remember? I know, boooo. What a lousy schedule! What will you be doing? Lounging about?
LOGAN: I’m actually on Fallon tonight.
CANDACE: You mean like…Jimmy Fallon? The show?
Then I remember the email on his phone from over the weekend.
LOGAN: Yeah, and I have a few spare tickets. I was going to see if you and your roommates wanted to come.
I do about a thousand curses in my head, a whole long string of them that would make a sailor blush if he heard them said aloud.
CANDACE: That sounds brilliant! All this time I’ve been in New York, and I’ve never made it round to any of those live tapings. I suppose I’ll be a nice friend and see if Yasmine and Kat want to go without me…
LOGAN: I’ll have the tickets dropped off at your place just in case. Wish you could come, but at least I’ll see you Saturday, right?
CANDACE: Yes! I’m counting the seconds.
Oh god. Is that too much? Have I come off too desperate? If only you could erase texts after they’ve been sent.
LOGAN: Me too. There’re some details my assistant can email over to you, just about the location and timing, I think. Send me your email address.
I’ve just finished giving it to him when I hear the front door of the school open and tiny voices fill the hall outside my classroom. No more flirty sexts! Time to shape the nation’s youth!
Chapter Thirteen
Logan
My assistant, Rosie, has been talking to me for the better part of thirty minutes. I’m amazed at how little air she seems to need compared to the rest of us; in fact, I’m more convinced now than ever that she’s part cyborg. I’m studying her, trying to see if there’s a battery pack or charging port hidden somewhere on her body, but even if there were, I’d never find it. She wears a lot of layers: black shirt, black blazer, poofy wrap thing that’s looped twice around her neck. She has an earpiece on, a phone attached to her hip, a clipboard, and a tablet.
She doesn’t look up at me as she continues speaking.
“They have the list of topics that are off the table, and it should be an easy interview. Jimmy will throw you a few softballs. Just ease up and don’t fidget too much in the chair.”
“Right.”
“Tomorrow, you have training in the morning, and then Brett wants to meet with you in the early afternoon to go over the new contract from Nike.”
“No can do,” I reply, just to see if she’ll flinch.
She doesn’t even skip a beat.
“Then at 3:00, you have to be across town to shoot that Gatorade campaign. They’re putting you on all the bottles of the Cool Blue flavor.”
I screw up my face just thinking about how cheesy it’ll look. “Sounds horrible. Who would want to buy a drink with my face on it?”
She levels me with a bored glare. “According to their market research, every male in America, aged 5 to 65.”
“Right.”
“Then you have a Tom Ford fitting for the gala.”
“Can’t they just use my past measurements and go from there?”
“Don’t test me. Their offices have been hounding me for weeks. I’ve had to swear to get you there in person because they want a custom fit.”
I sigh. “Fuck me.”
“Yes, well, this is your life. Get used to it.”
No kidding.
When I was a kid, I dreamed about becoming a professional athlete. I had visions of playing in packed stadiums, throwing touchdowns to the roar of surging crowds, winning Super Bowls, having a cool house and as many golden retrievers as I wanted. I never thought about everything else that’s involved with the job. I’m essentially a one-man small business, and the better I play on the field, the busier I am off of it.
“You’re scheduled on the carpet at the gala at 8:32, by the way.”
“Can’t promise I’ll be exactly on time. You know how it is, traffic and all.”
“Are you arriving with Darius and Liz?”
“Yeah, and I’ve been thinking about having Candace come with me.”
She frowns; her internal hard drive must be short-circuiting. “Have you told me about Candace?”
“Yes. The girl I just started seeing? The teacher?”
She nods then whips out her tablet, fingers firing away. “That’s right. You gave me her info earlier. I have her ticket for the gala and I can email it to her along with the other information: when to arrive, dress code, all that. She’ll have to get there early, around 7:00 probably.”
“Why can’t she just come with me?”
Rosie sighs as if she doesn’t have the energy to go over this with me. “You know why.”
“She could walk ahead of me on the carpet.”
“Right. Okay. And then you and I will have a media storm on our hands trying to contain the resulting attention if you show up to an event with a woman. No. I’m sorry. She needs to arrive early and be far away from you when those cameras start flashing.”
I don’t reply, and she’s forced to continue, “Unless you’re ready to bring her into the spotlight, go public, and expose her like that. It’s up to you.”
I think of the paparazzi at my apartment yesterday morning and shake my head. “No, this is fine. For now.”
“Good. I think that’s for the best. Now, sit tight. I’ll have hair and makeup come in. You have about forty minutes until you’re on air. Review those questions I gave you and try to come up with answers that will make good sound bites.”
“Or I could just speak from the heart?”
She doesn’t even bother replying to that, already flying out the door.
I’m sitting in my dressing room at The Tonight Show. It’s an honor to be here for the fourth time and I should be happy that I’m relevant enough to get invitations to shows like this, but I just can’t seem to muster up the energy I need. I know it’s because Candace couldn’t come tonight. I was hoping she’d be here, in the crowd. It’s not like I could really acknowledge her even if she were here, but maybe I could have found a way to shoot her a little wave or a smile.
I think of her working at District, probably flying around like a pixie.
I think of the men there, no doubt hitting on her.
It makes my stomach tighten in annoyance.
Jealousy doesn’t sit well with me, probably because it’s been a while since I’ve felt it. I try to imagine the last few women I’ve dated going out with someone new, and I dig deep for some feeling, just to try to prove to myself that Candace isn’t as special as I’m making her out to be. I picture Melody with another guy and feel the opposite of jealous. I’m apathetic—bored, even. Then I picture Candace smiling, just fucking smiling at another guy, and my fists clench. Real healthy, Logan. Jesus. I force myself to relax then drag a hand through my hair.
My phone vibrates with a new text, and I tug it out of my pocket.
CANDACE: Hey Lo! (Isn’t that hilarious? I’ve just cracked myself up with that nickname. If you say it out loud in my accent, it sounds like I’m saying hey-llo, like hello. Funny, right? No?) Well…anyway…break a leg tonight! You’ll do great! I’m going to ask the bartenders to pull it up on the telly for me, though I can’t make any promises. If there’s any sort of sporting game on tonight, everyone will moan at me to switch the channel! PS Kat and Yasmine are going to be there in the audience. I’ve told them to shout ve
ry loud and really cause a ruckus when you walk out so you know we’re all rooting for you. XO, C
I’m smiling for what feels like the first time all day as I type out a quick reply.
LOGAN: I like the nickname. I’ll be sure to listen for your roommates, though I wish you were in the audience too.
I’m expecting her to reply, so I’m looking down at my phone, waiting for a new text to pop up when there’s a knock on my door and people start to flood into my dressing room for hair and makeup.
“We have forty minutes until airtime. I need everyone to focus,” a producer shouts, grabbing everyone’s attention, including mine.
If Candace texts me again, I don’t have time to notice.
Chapter Fourteen
Candace
“Oh my god, I’m going to stand out like a sore thumb,” I moan, turning in the mirror to check the back of the dress I’m trying on. There’s a huge hole just under my left arm where the fabric has split at the seam, and even without that, the dress itself is still two sizes too big for me.
“Right. Well. This isn’t exactly the winner, is it?” Kat says, scrunching her nose in distaste. “Just take it off and we’ll keep looking.”
We’ve been at it all day though, running round town, rummaging through resale shops for dresses that fit into the parameters Logan’s assistant sent over via email. I’ve got them memorized by heart. I’m meant to wear a “formal evening gown or dressy cocktail dress or dressy separates, paired with an elegant wrap, brooch, or themed jewelry.”
I haven’t even found a dress, let alone a brooch! I’m doomed.