by Julie Murphy
“It’s a class,” I say as I kick off my shoes and let them dangle from my fingers to stop my heels from continuously sinking into the grass. “We’re not students.”
“I don’t think they’ll mind.” He leads me to the back of the group and pulls me to him, his hand spread across the base of my spine.
I lean my head against his chest and let myself be held.
“Let’s pretend for just a moment,” he says.
And he doesn’t have to be any more specific than that. I know just what he means. Let’s pretend we’re two normal people on a normal date taking a normal stroll in a normal park that I haven’t been dreaming of since I was old enough to know what Fashion Week was.
Looking around, there are all sorts of couples. Some spry and others who are a little slower these days. Some men with men and women with women.
“Sometimes,” I whisper, “I look at older people and wonder what my parents would have looked like at their age.”
He rests his chin atop my head and pulls my hand to his lips, kissing each one of my knuckles. We sway quietly to music we can barely hear, but that’s okay, because this city is our soundtrack. Honking horns, conversations about little things and big things, flocks of birds descending, and the sounds all slightly dulled by the trees surrounding us.
“Do you think Beck and Wes are losing their minds yet?”
“They’ve probably already hired private detectives to find us.” His chin moves from its perch on my head. “But I think the instructors have found us out.” He takes my other hand. “Excuse us,” he calls as we weave through the rest of the class and exit back out the way we came. Currents of electricity flow between us, and I think I’m catching feelings for him. The kind that burn.
Dutifully, we walk in the direction of Times Square, like a couple of kids preparing themselves to face the music. Our whole history thus far is just a series of these bite-size moments, and I wonder what we could even become with time that was our own. It excites me and frightens me in equal measure. But instead, we’re constantly racing against the clock. Always running out of time. In the distance, I spot Mallory spinning in circles, hands waving as she talks into her Bluetooth headphones, not yet noticing us.
“There’s Mallory,” I say. “And she doesn’t look happy.”
Henry groans. “I’m not ready.”
I shake my head. “Me neither.”
“Follow me.”
My heart pounds as Henry pulls me across the street, dodging in out and of cars, and into a two-story souvenir store that stretches an entire block.
The clerk barely even looks up from their book as we rush to the back of the store. Henry’s chest is heaving as he curls an arm around my waist. “The cameras can’t follow us in here. Private property.”
I press a hand to his chest and throw my head back in a breathless laugh. “You’re going to get me kicked off this show.”
He leans down and presses his lips to my throat, and I gasp softly. Goose bumps trail up my arms as he wraps another arm up my back, pressing our bodies as close as two bodies can be while still fully clothed.
I don’t even have time to think about how sweaty I feel or if I need deodorant after our little run. All I can manage to think about is his arms around me and his lips on my neck and all the things we might do if we weren’t standing in the middle of a dusty Times Square souvenir shop.
His hand finds the back of my neck, and my fingers run up his arms to his shoulders as he tilts his head up to meet my lips.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he says, studying my lips.
I feel intoxicated with want as we both dance around this moment for a second longer, his nose grazing mine until finally—finally!—he presses his lips against mine, like I’m the only oxygen he can breathe.
My lips part against his tongue, and it’s these moments of just the two of us that trick my brain into thinking that we’re just a couple of lovesick nobodies slowly falling for each other.
Someone loudly clears their throat, and it takes two more times before we manage to disentangle ourselves.
I peer over Henry’s shoulder to find Mallory standing there with her hands on her hips. Just behind her is Beck, outside with her inhaler in her mouth and the crew fuming beside her.
“I think we’re in big trouble,” I whisper.
“It was worth it,” he tells me with a quiet growl to his voice.
We walk outside like two defiant teenagers with Henry’s hand cradling my hip. After our little runaway situation, we’re loaded into a black SUV and driven just a few blocks to the Minskoff Theatre for a showing of The Lion King, where we’re seated in a private box that is not at all that private if you count our entourage.
As we’re sitting in our plush chairs away from the horde of tourists, waiting for the show to start, Henry leans over and says, “If you haven’t guessed, they don’t actually let me plan the dates.”
“Mr. Henry Mackenzie, do you mean to tell me that you’re not a fan of The Lion King?”
“Listen, I’ve got no beef with Simba, but if I were going to take you to a show, it wouldn’t be at an overstuffed Broadway theater.”
“Oooo, now that’s some New Yorker shade. Well, I, for one, am truly enjoying the ideal my-grandmother-is-in-town date. All that’s missing is a trip to Serendipity for frozen hot chocolate. This date sponsored by the New York City Board of Tourism.”
“You’re ruining the surprise!” The lights around us lower, but I can still see the brightness of his smile as he says, “One day I’ll show you my New York.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
And even though we briefly pretend we’re both a little immune to the touristy parts of this city that out-of-towners so often flock to, the show is incredible and we’re both taken with a little boy about the age of the triplets sitting below us who stands in his seat to sing along with Timon and Pumbaa.
In the middle of the show, Henry stands and returns with his suit jacket, which he’d hung up just outside of our box. He drapes it over my shoulders to protect me from the icy air conditioner, and while I’m not drowning in it in that annoying way where girls think it’s so cute to flop around in oversize suit jackets or their boyfriends’ boxers, I still appreciate the gesture.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “I think we might actually wear the same size.”
He shrugs. “Looks better on you than it does on me.”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m sort of, like, a big-deal model now.”
He clutches his heart. “Too soon.”
I gasp. “No, I meant this afternoon. Not Sabr—”
In the next box over, someone shushes me.
Henry reaches into my lap and takes my hand. “I know.”
We hold hands like that for the rest of the show, and afterward, we’re taken backstage to film a segment with a few members of the cast. I gush over their incredible talents and costumes, and once we’re done, we’re loaded into another SUV. This time, Henry and I sit as close together as two people can, and I find myself praying for a traffic jam—anything to slow us down. But on this sticky summer night with the clouds rolling back behind the bridges into the boroughs, we hit every green light and there’s not a single reason to slow down. Not even a honking cabdriver. It’s a New York City miracle.
At the hotel, we walk as slow as we can to the elevator with Henry’s arm wrapped around my waist, his hand again resting comfortably on my hip.
With a cameraman close on our heels, Beck announces, “Time to say good night, lovebirds.”
I turn in to Henry, and I want to kiss him, of course, but with the cameras on us—
“Oh,” says Wes, “so you two are okay with getting hot and heavy in the back of a souvenir store, but you can’t give us a little kiss good night?” He throws up his hands and leaves Beck on her own.
“Ignore him,” she says. “And us,” she adds qu
ickly. “But I gotta be in bed before midnight. We got an early morning, and I’m fading.”
“Don’t want you to turn into a pumpkin on us, Beck.” Henry shrugs. “I guess we should give the people what they want.”
I nod and close my eyes as my lips melt into his for a long but chaste kiss that leaves me wishing for more.
His hands wrap around me in a tight hug, holding me close to his chest, and I can hear the thumping beat of his heart. It might be my new favorite sound. One of his fingers traces a pattern into my bare back over and over again.
My head is foggy, so it takes me a moment to realize he’s telling me something. He’s giving me a message. His finger continues to trace over and over again until he pulls away with an innocent, barely there smile on his face.
I can still feel his finger dragging across my skin in a familiar way, leaving a trace of heat, and I hope to God I got exactly what it was that he was trying to say.
Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six. Eight. Two. Six.
Three numbers that could only mean one thing. Henry’s hotel room.
As soon as I walk through the door of my room, Irina is waiting for me.
I let out a yelp. “What are you doing here?”
She holds a hand out. “The dress,” she says simply, not looking up from the game on her cell phone.
I hold my arm up. “The least you could do is unzip it.”
She unzips and gets a whiff of my armpit. “Ugh, I’ve got to get this thing dry-cleaned. It smells like a sports bra. A sad lost-and-found sports bra at the YMCA. Not even the nice YMCA. The kind with a drained pool and one of those jiggle machines from—”
“I get the point,” I tell her as I step out of the dress and into a pair of leggings and an oversize men’s undershirt I cut into a crop top. “The shoes too?” I ask, the memory of Henry kneeling before me sending a chill up my spine.
“The shoes especially,” she says.
I pick up the Jimmy Choos from the floor and give them a quick kiss on the side of the toe. “Goodbye, beauty.”
Irina sighs. “They are very, very good shoes.”
I nod. “They were good to me.”
She takes them from my hands, and for the first time, I think Irina and I have found common ground. At least the woman can appreciate good taste in shoes.
“You might be smelly,” she says, “but you were really something tonight. I perhaps have to put money on you.”
“I’m not a racehorse,” I tell her as she slinks out of the room with the garment bag over her shoulder.
“Tell that to Wes. He won the pot last year and went on a two-week trip to Bali.”
“What?” I ask, but she’s already gone. “What pot?”
Well, that’s just great. Not only am I dating a man who’s dating seven other women, but I guess the crew is betting on us too. Delightful. I sit down at the desk by my window with my sketch pad, the Statue of Liberty glowing through the nighttime haze, and I write his room number over and over again. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Eight twenty-six. Until eventually, it doesn’t look like numbers at all. Just an abstract pattern.
I don’t even have to look to know that Mallory or Zeke is outside guarding the hallway. There’s no way I’m getting out of this room and making it all the way to Henry’s without getting stopped. After our disappearance tonight, I’m sure we’re being even more heavily guarded than usual.
With his walkie-talkie dead and mine very nearly, I’m left with no way to contact Henry. I wish they hadn’t taken the phones out of this room. Surely that’s some kind of insurance liability. If I had my phone, I would curl up in bed and call him and we would talk all night until our breathing became heavy and we just fell asleep to the sound of one another.
I try washing my face. Eight twenty-six. I try pulling my hair into a ponytail. Eight twenty-six. I braid it. Eight twenty-six. It doesn’t look good. Eight twenty-six. I settle for a sloppy bun instead. I try a Korean face mask. Eight twenty-six. I lie in bed. Eight twenty-six. But none of it works. Eight twenty-six.
I can’t do this. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I can’t stop thinking about the chance to spend a whole night with him without a camera in sight.
That’s it. I jump out of bed and put on my gold glitter Kate Spade Keds and a hoodie. Slowly, I creak my door open to peer out into the hallway and find Zeke sitting a few doors down, slumped against the wall, dead asleep. I was fully prepared to blackmail him again just so I could make it to the elevators, but Lady Liberty must be watching over me. If I had a cell phone, I’d snap a picture to send to Anna so she could see how dopey he looks.
With the coast clear, I step out into the hallway, closing my door slowly to stop it from slamming, and tiptoe past him to the elevator. Just as I’m about to hit the button to go five flights up, I stop myself. The dinging sound. It could wake Sleeping Beauty back there, so I opt for the stairs.
As I lean over the rail and take a nice long look at the never-ending staircase, I remind myself that just a few weeks ago, I lived in a third-floor walk-up. By the time I make it to the eighth floor, though, I’m a little sweatier than I was, but I’m relieved to find no producers guarding this floor. I feel like I’m in a video game trying to dodge zombies, when really all I’m trying to do is hang out with a guy I like. Somehow, this show has mentally reverted me to sixteen and I’m scared of being caught inside a boy’s room.
After one knock, the door of room 826 opens to reveal Henry, barefoot with his shirt partially unbuttoned and his tie dangling between his fingers. He smirks. “For a minute there, I was worried you might just assume I was very specifically obsessed with one part of your back.”
He reaches for my hand and pulls me inside.
As the door closes behind me, I slide the tie from his other hand and run my fingers over the shadowed stripes. The silk melts beneath my touch, and I flip the tie over to find the label. “Fancy. Hermès.”
“It was a gift,” he says.
“From your mom?” I ask.
He tilts his head to the side. “Sabrina.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I tell him, “wearing a tie from your ex on a date with your new—person.”
He takes a step closer to me. “Not a fan of labels?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call myself your girlfriend,” I tell him. As I’m talking, he takes another step toward me and dips his head down so that my lips brush his on that last word.
“This feels pretty serious to me,” he says, his voice husky as his fingers dig into my waist.
“I don’t know,” I say, breathless from his touch. “Feels a little crowded.”
He leans his temple against my shoulder so that his breath is hot on my neck. “I want to make so many promises to you right now. Almost as badly as the things I want to do to you.”
I feel like I know two versions of him. On-Screen Henry and Private Henry, but it’s as though the two versions can’t even talk to each other or share information. On-Screen Henry is sweet and flirtatious, but I never fully know where I stand with him. Private Henry is a little rougher around the edges, but he never leaves me wondering.
I know what I should do. I should ask him where I stand. I should ask him if he feels just as strongly for Addison or Sara Claire or one of the other women and if this is all just some dance we have to get over with and if in the end, we’re going to give this a real shot. But for once, I want to stop worrying. I want to let go of all the things I can’t control and just be here in this moment with Henry.
I wrap my arms around his waist. “How would you have made it different?” I ask.
He picks his head up, his deep brown eyes lingering on my lips. “What do you mean?”
“You said tonight wasn’t the date you would have planned for me. What would you have done differently?”
He checks the sleek black watch o
n his wrist. “We can still find out.”
“Bingo starts in ten,” the waitress says as she slaps our bingo sheets on the table alongside a chubby-looking marker. “Dot markers are extra. Food will be out soon.”
“I think we just ordered enough dim sum for a party of six,” I say.
“I could put away enough dim sum to feed this whole place. I’m so tired of TV food,” Henry moans.
“TV food?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Didn’t you notice how tasteless the food was tonight? They take me to closed restaurants for these dates and basically feed me cold spaghetti. I miss real food. It’s like eating airplane food every night.”
“I think that might be my own personal hell. Airplane food for eternity.”
“Oh, I think my actual personal hell is a party that I can’t seem to leave. Like every door I go through is just a door that takes me back to the same party and no matter how hard I try I can’t get out.”
“So I guess a surprise birthday party is your worst nightmare?”
He shakes his head. “I hate them. My mom threw me one for my thirteenth birthday, and it was mostly adults who came.”
“Didn’t she invite your friends from school?”
“Well, yeah, but I had four or five friends. Not nearly enough for the kind of party Lucy Mackenzie intended to throw. There were waiters on roller skates. And ice sculptures.”
“Ice sculptures?” I ask.
“Of me.”
My jaw hits the floor. “I’m sorry. Did you just say ice sculptures? Of you?”
“Make fun of me all you want, but we were competing with bar mitzvahs so intense that TLC filmed a pilot for a guy in our building called My Ballin’ Bar Mitzvah.”
“Whoa. My thirteenth birthday party was at the neighborhood pool. We rented a picnic table and ate nachos from the snack bar.”
“That’s the kind of party I would gladly attend.”
I laugh at the image of Henry at my dingy old neighborhood pool with all the teenage lifeguards who I thought were so hot but in reality had bacne just like me. “See, parties aren’t all that bad. And hey, you met Sabrina at a party. Aren’t parties sort of a way of life in the circles you run in?” Of course I wish our relationship wasn’t playing out on this TV show, but even if all this was stripped away, our lives are still worlds apart. The elite NYC parties Henry grew up attending are just one example of that. Maybe I should be more thankful for our little reality television bubble.