by Vi Keeland
“I suppose you’re forgiven,” I say, and he grins wickedly.
“Good. And I suppose I’d better head out first seeing as you look like you’ve just come hard.” Then he pauses, raking his eyes over every inch of me. “And twice.”
He brushes his lips against my forehead and leaves.
Five minutes later after a quick bathroom visit, I join the cast and crew on stage. I can’t help but wonder if anyone else is looking at us and knowing that our hands have been on each other, that our lips have meshed together, that we’ve done so much more.
Or if we’re both fantastic at make believe, because even as I practice the numbers on the call sheet, I’m thinking of my closet and the dresses I have, and the one I want to wear to dinner with my director, because I know he’ll find a way to have his hands underneath my clothes.
And that’s more than fine with me.
Chapter 17
Jill
There is no question in my mind that this is the dress. With its sleeveless scoop neck, plunging back V-line, and a hand-beaded bodice with intricate crystals woven throughout, it is sheer perfection.
“Oh, Kat,” I say, and tears well up in my eyes. “This is the one. This is the dress you’re going to get married in.”
She smooths her hands over the organza material that extends into a cathedral train behind her. A short, dark-haired woman who owns this bridal shop in the West Village watches patiently from her post a few feet away. Kat appraises herself in the three-way mirror, the soft light of the shop making her look even more stunning. “You think so?”
“You know that’s a rhetorical question,” I say as I stand up from the cushiony white chair I’ve been parked in as she’s tried on a strapless lace dress, a satin sheath and many more. Soft, indistinct classical music plays through an unseen sound system. High-class bridal magazines are spread elegantly on top of an oval glass coffee table next to the chair. A vase of jasmine flowers fills the boutique with a sweet floral scent. All these touches are enough to make anyone in here forget that beyond the shop doors lies grimy, noisy, crowded Manhattan. “Look at yourself. It’s perfect and you know it. It’s you.”
I stand behind her, so she can see me in the mirror now, smiling at her. She glances at her reflection one more time, considering the dress from every angle. I can practically see the cogs whirring in her head, inching closer to the moment when she reaches 100 percent certainty. Her brow is furrowed then a grin starts to form, slowly at first, until it quickly becomes a full-blown smile.
She turns around, and she’s simply glowing with happiness. “I’ll take it,” she declares.
“Wonderful,” says the shop owner. “It is perfect for you, Ms. Harper.”
“I’m so glad I found your store. I’m so glad I found this dress,” Kat says, the words spilling out in a happy rush. Then she turns to me. “And thank you for coming with me. I couldn’t do this without you. You’re the best maid of honor and the best friend I could ever hope to have.”
“Oh please. I did nothing except gaze upon your beauty,” I say playfully, but my voice breaks, and I swipe at a tear that rolls down my cheeks. I’m so happy for her.
“Oh, you’re so cute when you’re all emotional and teary,” she says, and crushes me in a hug.
“I’m going to miss you when you move in with him. I can’t believe you’re only my roommate for a few more months.”
“I know. But I’ll still see you. We’ll still hang out.”
“Always. We’ll always hang out.”
We pull apart, and the shop owner helps Kat take off the dress, and they make arrangements for it as I wander through the tiny store, with its cream walls and gold framed vintage pictures of garden weddings and sunset vows. When they’re done, the shop owner asks Kat about her bridesmaids’ dresses.
“Something classy. Something she could wear again,” Kat says, nodding to me.
“I need a dress for tonight is what I need,” I say under my breath.
Kat turns to me, gives me a curious look. I wave my hand as if to wipe away the comment I should have kept to myself.
“I have a black and white dress in mind,” the shop owner says. “Sleeveless and above the knee. Straight lines. Very sophisticated. I’ll have it in the store next week if you’d like your maid of honor to try it on when you come back for a fitting?”
“That sounds fantastic,” Kat says, then we exit the store. “Are you holding out on me? You have a Saturday night date with Patrick and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
My stomach twists, and I feel like I can’t get air for a moment. As if my lungs are crushing me from the inside out. I flash back to all the lies I’ve told over the years. To all the fables I’ve carefully constructed to seem as if I really am this person. This what-you-see-is-what-you-get person. But I’m too many people. I’m Eponine. I’m Ava. I’m the woman who claims her brother’s favorite books for her own. I’m the running coach. I’m the jokey, happy friend. I’m the goofball who steals her roommate’s phone. I am the person who can’t say out loud why she loves Patrick so much, how he helped her, how the very possibility of him alone got her through all the years when she was chased by what ifs. I am the girl who stopped feeling things for real after Aaron.
And I am tired of that girl. I’m ready to start saying goodbye to her. I take another small step and speak a simple truth to my best friend. “Actually, I’m going out with Davis Milo tonight.”
Her eyes widen with shock, and her purse slides down her shoulder, the bag dangling dangerously close to the cobblestone sidewalk. She yanks it back up. “Oh. My. God.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“You’re going out with your director?” she asks, as if it’s not computing.
This is what I get for telling the truth? She’s berating me? “I was just joking,” I say, regressing in an instant. Because it’s so much easier than dealing.
“You were not,” she says, waggling a finger at me, but her tone shifts from shock to eagerness, and she’s not going to let me slip out of this unscathed from honesty. “Is there something going on between you two? Do you like him?”
I shrug and hold my hands out as if to say I don’t know. Because I don’t know what’s between us. I barely understand what’s happening. “Do you think it’s terrible that he’s my director?”
“Hello? Pot. Kettle. I fell for my mentor last semester and nearly got kicked out of school. No, I don’t think it’s terrible at all. I think it sounds like it could be incredibly hot, and I want to know everything. Spill,” she says authoritatively.
I don’t know that I can tell her everything. I’m still reeling from having told her anything at all. But I tell her we’ve kissed more than once, and I tell her that I want to find a new dress for tonight.
A new dress for a new date with a new man.
“What kind of dress?”
“Something that’s unbearably sexy but that leaves a lot to the imagination.”
“I know just the shop.” She grabs my hand and takes me to one of her favorite boutiques and then finds a dress that’s equally perfect—perfect for me.
Davis
A rush of cold air invades the restaurant. The guy in the untucked shirt perched on the stool next to me whips his head around, but I doubt it’s because of the chill. I grin privately, take a drink of my scotch, then place the sturdy glass on the smooth chrome bar at Vertigo, a new fish restaurant in Soho that Michelle raved about. Anticipation winds through me, as a picture of Jill forms in my mind. I lick my lips then turn around.
She’s handing the hostess her coat as she scans the restaurant. Then she finds me, and her eyes lock on mine. My blood heats as I take her in. She’s more stunning than I imagined, and I swear she’s more beautiful every single day. She’s wearing a black knit dress that hugs her body and hits right above the knees, exposing several inches of her bare legs that are then covered up in the sexiest black boots I’ve ever seen. I toss a twenty on the bar
without turning around and walk up to her.
Placing a hand on her lower back, I plant a chaste kiss on her cheek. “You’re playing dirty dressed like that. But I’m behaving myself and it’s killing me,” I say.
“I’m so impressed with your self-control,” she teases.
“You should be. It’s excellent, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.”
I turn to the hostess. “Is our table ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Milo. Right this way.” She leads us through the restaurant with its white tiled floors, sleek silver tables and gray leather booths. “The one you reserved,” she says, and lays the menus on the table in the back. I gesture for Jill to slide in first to the curved booth.
“Thank you very much,” I say to the hostess, who gives a quick nod, then leaves.
I sit down as Jill smooths out her skirt, then fingers the crisp white tablecloth. “Nice tablecloth,” she says in a knowing voice.
“Isn’t it, though?”
Then she looks me over, her eyes flicking from my green-and-white checked shirt to my dark pants. She leans closer, her soft breath on my neck, her pineapple scent taunting me as her long hair brushes against my shoulder.
“You look very handsome,” she says in a soft voice, almost as if she’s nervous to be giving compliments, as if she’s not used to it.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “I hope you’re not tired of hearing it from me.”
She shakes her head in answer, a small smile tugging at her lips, and all these little gestures remind me that this really is a first date. But the moment is shattered when the waiter appears.
“Can I start you off with something to drink?”
I turn to Jill. “Belvedere and soda?”
She smiles instantly. “You remember.”
“Of course.”
“And are you going to have Glenlivet on the rocks?”
“You remember too,” I say, and I tell myself not to read anything into it, but it’s too late. It already makes me want her even more. All of her. I turn to the waiter and give him our drinks order. He leaves.
“I remember everything about having drinks with you at Sardi’s,” she says in a sweet voice that damn near melts me.
“You do?”
She nods, and I wait a beat, thinking she’ll tell me next that it was because I cast her, because I gave her her first big break. But instead, she says, “Because I was with you.” Then her hand is on my shirt, and she traces lazy circles around one of the buttons, whispering in my ear, “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid to do it in public.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry if someone might see us.”
“And so what if someone does?”
“Davis,” she says in a chiding voice.
“What? I don’t know why it’s a big thing.”
“Maybe not to you. But to me it would be,” she says and there’s the slightest note of hurt.
“Why?”
She pulls back to give me a curious look. “Really? You can’t figure it out?”
“No. Maybe you could just say it,” I say, a bit irritated.
“I don’t want anyone to think I got the part in the show because I’m sleeping with you.”
It dawns on me that she’d want to protect her reputation as a rising star. I get it. I do. Still, it’s a reminder that actresses put their careers first. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why I’m chasing a woman who has erected so many barriers for me—from her job to her love of another man.
But I’m doing it because she’s worth it. Everything about her, from her talent to her beauty to her gorgeous heart, is worth all the obstacles. She makes me want to clear every single one.
“You’ve already made it,” she continues. “You have three Tonys, an Oscar, you have producers probably falling at your feet to have you direct. I’m just starting out, and I want to have a long career in this business.”
“I guess I don’t worry that much about what people think about my private life. And I don’t think you should either,” I say, and then, because I can’t resist pointing out the flaw in her logic, I add, “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Not yet,” she says, and her hands are still on my shirt. I glance down at the way she’s tracing the buttons, as if she’s dying to take my shirt off.
“But if you don’t want anyone to think that, then why are you touching me like this?”
“Because it’s hard for me to keep my hands off of you.” But she says it in a brusque voice as she turns away to pick up the menu. This woman is hot and cold, and almost impossible to read.
“Let’s figure out what to order,” I say.
After the waiter brings our drinks, Jill orders the wild salmon with green beans and I opt for the sautéed filet of sturgeon. I hold up the glass. “To the long and ridiculously successful career I know you’re going to have.”
She smiles, softening once more, then clinks her glass to mine. “And to dinner.”
Her eyes stray, and she looks at my hand. She takes a drink, puts her glass down, and reaches for my hand, tracing a soft finger across the scar. Her tone shifts to a more serious one, as if she’s let go of the sexy Jill and now she’s a more emotional one.
“You said this happened when your parents died. You punched the glass window of the door. Can I ask what happened to them?”
I like that she’s direct. That she’s asking me without hesitation in her voice because I don’t want her or anyone to feel sorry for me. “They died in a car crash one February night. They were in the city. They were huge theater fans—that’s where I got it from—and had actually been seeing a play the night they died. It had started snowing, and my dad was driving them home to where we lived in Westchester. A car coming the other way lost control on an ice patch, and they died instantly on impact. Police came later that night. Told me what happened,” I say, and as I recount that awful night, my chest tightens, remembering opening the door to be greeted not by my parents, but by the solemn-faced officer come to bear bad news. It’s been more than a decade since that night, and I’ve dealt, I’ve managed, I’ve moved past it the only way you can—to go through it. Still, the memory is like a knife reopening an old wound, letting it bleed out yet another time. “I didn’t believe it at first.”
“You were in shock,” she says softly, and there’s something in her voice that says she knows the feeling all too well. She runs her finger across the scar.
“Yeah, exactly. I was that way for a few days. Then pretty soon enough, I was angry. That’s when I slammed my fist through the glass pane on the door. Not my brightest decision especially if I had ever wanted to have a professional boxing career,” I say, managing a slight laugh to lighten the mood.
“Did you? Want that?”
I shake my head. “No. Theater is in my blood. My dad was a theater history professor. Mom was a choreographer, and there was never any question about what I wanted to do.” Then I shift back to the story. “The worst part, though, was having to tell my younger sister. It was only us then. It’s only us now.”
“You took care of your sister?”
I nod. “I delayed college for a year to stay home with her, get her through the rest of high school.”
“You’re a good brother,” she says in a kind voice, and squeezes my hand tight.
“Thank you for saying that. What about you? You said you have two brothers?”
“My brother Jay is working in Europe for a company there. And my oldest brother, Chris, lives in San Francisco and is this huge video game guy. Hosts his own TV and Web show about video games, and just started getting serious with this gal who’s a fashion blogger. He’s actually coming here soon for work, so I get to see him and to meet her. I can’t wait.”
“You’re close to him?”
She nods, but then holds up her hand and moves it back and forth like a seesaw.
“Close, but maybe not so close?” I ask,
raising an eyebrow as I try to understand her.
She chews the inside of her lip as if she’s considering the question, and it’s fascinating to see this side of her. To learn more about her. The way she seems to genuinely connect with people and care about them, but yet how she can be so guarded too.
“No. I mean…we’re close,” she offers, but that’s all. Then in a small, fragile voice, she adds. “Maybe you can meet him.”
All my frustration from earlier, all my fear vanishes in a second with those words. I don’t know that I will ever meet her brother, but the fact that she makes the offer at all is huge for Jill.
“That would be nice,” I say, and now her eyes have gone glassy as if she’s sad and is drifting off someplace. But before I can ask what’s wrong, I follow her gaze back to my hand.
“I’m sorry you have this scar,” she says as she strokes a finger across the top of my hand. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. But since you do have this scar, and you can’t change the past, is it okay if I tell you I think it’s kinda sexy that you just told me all that? And maybe because it’s so real. And the scar is this visible reminder of who you are, and what you went through, and you don’t hide from it. You own it.”
“I don’t know any other way to be,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. I might traffic in illusions, but they all first come from truths. From who we all are deep down, from what makes us tick. That’s my stock-in-trade. I take another swallow of my scotch, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. A waiter passes by bearing small salads for another couple at a nearby table, but I barely notice them. I put the glass down, touch her cheek, then thread my fingers through her hair. “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
Her eyes widen with worry then she takes a breath as if she’s steeling herself. “Okay,” she says tentatively.
“Do you remember the night in the car, the first time I made you come?”
She nearly spits out her drink. “You cut to the chase.”
“I do. It seemed as if you were saying it was the first…” I let my voice trail off, tilting my head to the side to see if she’ll let me get to know her. Get to see inside her.