by Ella James
Pretty. Fuck, she’s so damn pretty in that black getup, her coppery hair falling long and pencil straight around her shoulders.
“Is this what you were hoping for?” she asks after a minute.
Her words are slightly serrated, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean for them to be. I watch her shoulders rise, then fall as she exhales. She seems frustrated; tired.
“It’s not,” I tell her honestly.
She turns to me. “Why not?”
“Amelia…” I grit down on my molars, weighing risks and benefits, and then I know it doesn’t matter. I can’t leave this shit hanging any longer. “Am…I know what I did was unforgivable,” I say softly, “but—”
“No!” She holds both hands up. They’re clearly shaking. “No, Dash! I don’t know where you’re going with that, but I don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to what?”
“I don’t want to know! Keep it to yourself, okay?”
“I—”
“I don’t care!” Even through the dark gray of her glasses lenses, I can see her eyes are wide. Her mouth is pulled into a panicked “o.”
“Don’t talk about that stuff. We have to work together, Dash! This isn’t the reminiscing hour! It’s all gone, it’s over, it’s in the past. Let’s keep it there.”
She whirls around and just like that, I’ve lost my gamble.
Amelia
I leave him in the park and I don’t stop until I get to my apartment.
Good job, Amelia. Reeeeeal professional.
I can’t help it. That’s the worst part. He started talking and I simply lost it. I don’t know why. I spend the afternoon and evening thinking about why. Also, watching for a text or phone call telling me I’m fired.
Neither comes, not call nor answer.
Why was I afraid to hear him? The answer comes with clarity as I roll over in the middle of the night. So obvious: I’m afraid it won’t be good enough. In my mind, over the years, I built up this fantasy. I didn’t really let myself believe it, but neither did I disbelieve: he had a good reason to go.
How could he take me to a peaceful city park and rip that Band-Aid off? I lie in bed, watching the blue light of morning move across my ceiling. I’m afraid he’ll say he couldn’t help it. He was scared, and so he left.
I’m afraid if he says that, I can’t forgive him. If I can’t forgive him, I can’t work with him. And if I go, I know for sure I’ll never see Dash Frasier again.
I’m not ready for that, so I smooth the tattered Band-Aid down, get dressed, and go to work like nothing happened.
Dash makes it too easy. He seems quiet and sad, but that’s only because I know him so well. To the others in the studio, I’m sure he seems pleasantly polite.
I let it lie.
I’m satisfied by noise of him: the shifting whisper of his pants against the chair, the sound of Dash’s steps about the room. Nothing more pathetic—but I relish it. The story moves along. We make decisions. I agree that we should call her Dove. Meredith, Bryan, Carrie and I plot a course for her through New York City in the spring. She has a puppy friend, I suggest. Meredith thinks that they should settle near a library and draw attention from a kindly old man librarian.
Dash sets Adam and Ashley to work on the computer side of animation, gets Mallorie and Amber going on the props, and then he sits there and he draws…and draws, and draws. Wednesday and Thursday pass like nights before a funeral. And then it’s Friday—and I know why I have this churning feeling in my stomach.
Friday is the dinner. The dinner for Imagine and its interns at the home of Sara Blaise, the company’s chief.
The ghost of Amelia toils away alongside the rest of our team that day, barely breathing. Then I’m home and all too soon I’m getting ready, dressing for a cocktail party, dinner, or a meet and greet; I’m not sure which, so I wear a shortish, sleeveless A-line dress by Alice + Olivia. It’s a vaguely tropical print, with green leaves and some kind of pink bird on a white background. Paired with sparse black high-heel sandals, I think the ensemble looks clean and modern, like I’m not too dolled up and also not casual. I can’t think of many things worse than dressing casually. It’s just not me.
I finish dressing early, call an Uber, and stop by the bar at the bottom of my building for a quick lemon martini. Anything to fortify myself against Dash in a suit.
And then, as if by magic, there is Dash—wearing a suit. I’m at the entryway of the bar/restaurant, perched on a red leather couch, sipping my drink while waiting for my ride, so I’ve got a good view of the elevators.
Dash strides into the lobby, and I almost choke. I stand up, but I can’t move as he walks toward the revolving doors that line the front of the apartment building.
I set my drink down on the bar with a ten dollar bill and try to pretend I’m not rushing to get outside.
Dash is standing near the curb when I reach him.
I watch him see me in his periphery before turning slowly toward me.
“Am. Amelia. Hi.” He smiles, but it seems strained. His face looks weighted. Scratch that: disappointed, I think, as a white Jeep Patriot rolls up beside the curb.
He gives the Jeep a nod—at which point, I notice: his hair’s shorter!—then casts a sidelong look at me. “You need a ride?”
“I could use one, actually.”
Internally, I’ve just slapped my hand over my mouth. That’s not only untrue; my Uber—a gray van—has just pulled up behind us.
“Hop on in.” He opens the door, and I climb up gracefully, without exposing anything to him.
I can feel him move behind me, feel the faint heat of his body through his clothes and mine. He tells our driver the address and settles in beside me to strap on his seatbelt. Which is when I remember to buckle my own.
By the time I get the guts to look at him again, the weird look on his face is gone. I’m dumbstruck by how hot he looks with short hair. How much like he used to look when I knew him. But older. Handsomer.
“That’s a nice suit,” I blurt out. Shocked by my uncharacteristic outburst, I wave in his direction. “The cut, you know. The tie. It’s…modern. Stylish.”
Dash laughs, a hearty sound that warms me right down to the bone. “Is it?” He grins. “I’m a stylish guy, Amelia.”
“Are those bird eggs on the tie?”
He winks.
I’m pretty sure my face is red-headed-for-purple. This is not good.
“What’s the color of the suit?” I ask him fumblingly.
He looks down at it, lips twisting thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I don’t think they come with colors like car paint. I think of it as Yale blue.”
“You look beautiful,” he says after a moment, and it’s so matter-of-fact, my heart aches just a little. It’s the kind of thing a friend would say.
I spend the rest of the ride playing on my phone—more specifically, texting Lucy lies about how great everything is at Imagine. Next time I look up, I find Dash is on his phone as well. I wonder who he’s texting, then I hate myself for caring.
Ten
Amelia
The Uber turns into a neighborhood that looks a lot like Chatham Hills, where Dash and I grew up. The lawns around the homes are huge—two or three acres, easily; the houses are super-sized and flashy. We pass a few homes while I avoid Dash’s eyes, and then our Uber turns into a long driveway lined with mid-sized willow trees.
Sara Blaise’s house has a stone façade and a slate roof, plus two towers on each end that make it look a bit like a chalet. In front of the house, there’s a big, copper statue of a stallion on its hind hooves. Our driver follows the line of traffic to a spot beside the statue, where a valet with a light wand waves us forward, toward parking on the left side of the house.
“Here is fine,” Dash interjects.
I reach into my purse, then feel his hand on my wrist. He reaches between the two seats, handing the driver some cash. His left knee presses against the outside of my thigh. I feel l
ike I can’t breathe. It takes forever for the driver to pocket the money and Dash to move.
I hurry out of the car, and am headed around the rear when I meet Dash at the right tail light. His eyes travel partway down my body as he gives me a little nod.
Awkward.
But what are we going to do? Not walk in together? We have no choice, at this point, but to take the stairs up side-by-side. I make a banal comment about the pretty house as we climb. As we near the doors, I say, “Thanks for the ride. Have a good night.”
Dash goes one way, I go the other, and that’s the way it should be. I don’t feel sad. That’s insanity.
I know of Sara Blaise in name only. She ran the studio before Disney bought it, and I think she still does—mostly. I’m not sure her age, and it’s impossible to tell because this place is not the kind with family snapshots on display.
The Blaise house is a showpiece, spit-shined and incredibly appointed—a work of art in its own right. I spend my first half hour sipping champagne and wandering through rooms with Meredith and Carrie, trying to pretend my heart’s not dangling outside me, sensing Dash in every room.
I tell myself that this is normal. Of course I still have feelings for him. Anybody would in my shoes. I’ve been in therapy enough to know you can’t just snap your fingers and change your feelings. I need to change the way I think before I can change the way I feel.
I need to think of Dash as someone who abandoned me, not as an old friend.
As for what happened at the park the other day, when I ran off instead of listening to him? It doesn’t matter what he would have said. Nothing would excuse what he did. Nothing could make me trust him.
I run into Weiss—“Things are going great!”—and then Meredith, Carrie, and I bump into Ashley. We pal around together for a while, rubbing elbows with Nashville big shots and marveling a two-story wall of tissue-paper flowers, a round foyer table showcasing a tree carved out of ivory, and a hairless cat perched on a bannister (we think he’s fake before he stretches, then hops down).
Elaborate buffets are set up in three separate dining rooms, but none of us are hungry, so we mostly stick to champagne. I’m on my second glass, and laughing at a joke Meredith told, when we move into a billiards room and come across a group of guys at a card table.
My eyes shoot to Dash like magnets. Dash—and the tall blonde behind him. She’s got her hand on his head, sifting through his hair like she owns it.
“Sara Blaise,” Carrie whispers.
“Where?”
“She’s the one with the blonde updo, over there by Dash!”
“I’ve heard they’re friendly,” Ashley marvels.
I try to keep my face blank. “That’s her? Isn’t she young?”
“She is so young,” Carrie whispers conspiratorially. “She’s only thirty-two.”
“Really? Wow.”
The next half hour has to be one of the longest of my life. Evil Sara Blaise is stuck to Dash like white on rice: like she’s his date. Servers swarm their table, where Dash is playing a card game with Adam, plus a few people I don’t know. Finally the evil witch releases him, but while half of their table gets up, Dash, Adam, and one woman stay, talking intensely about something I can’t hear for the crush of bodies in between us.
I try to feign interest in Ashley’s story about her boyfriend’s internship at “a covert government agency” and keep my shoulders squared, even as I stalk Dash with my eyes.
He seems happy, at ease. I notice him drinking something, but I’m not close enough to gauge the color of the liquid in his glass. Whiskey? At some point, he removes his tie and loosens his shirt. Sara Blaise comes back, squeezing his shoulder, so I’m shocked when one of the men near Dash strolls over and pats her lightly on the backside.
“That’s Dirk Jackson,” Carrie tells me. “He’s a big country music producer. He’s her husband.”
Color me confused—until I realize: Dash’s parents. He must know Mrs. Blaise via her husband and his parents, since Mr. and Mrs. Frasier also work in the music industry.
Dash gets up and works the nearby crowd, chatting with two men and a woman for a while as I start on my third glass of champagne.
I’m how far from him? Fifteen yards?
I feel a little queasy.
I finish my glass as a new woman descends, touching Dash’s elbow. He pushes his sleeve back, revealing a watch, and for whatever reason, the woman hugs him.
My work friends are contemplating going behind the house to the dance floor when I decide it’s time for me to go outside. I’ve made the requisite contacts and connections. I can take a breather, maybe even go home early.
Luckily, we’re on the second floor, and almost every room has a balcony.
I make excuses to my crew and, as I head toward a nearby door, I hear Dash’s laughter. I encounter a waitress near the balcony door; when she offers another flute of champagne, I happily accept.
Once through the doors, I realize I’m on the side of the house, on a spacious, cement balcony that seems to be tacked onto one of the home’s big, round towers. It’s the size of a small bedroom and littered with high-end lounge chairs.
I walk over to one in the far corner, partially hidden behind some sort of potted plant, and sink down, nursing my drink as I watch the starry sky. Country-rock music floats through the humid air, and I realize it’s the Gin Rangers playing out back, behind the house.
What are the odds?
I hear a squeak, followed by a cacophony of chatter, as the balcony door is pushed open and two figures emerge. Wouldn’t you know, it’s Dash—and our studio’s assistant, Mallorie. Her frizzy, red hair is smooth and clearly styled tonight. She’s got on a green pantsuit that makes her ass look really nice—and from my angle, she looks younger than I think she really is.
As they approach the balcony railing and start talking six or seven feet away from me, I panic; I can’t go inside without walking right past them.
Mallorie laughs. Dash lights something, which I think will be a cigarette, but which turns out to be a cigar. Adam comes out, clad in khakis and a button-up, and Dash gives him a cigar, too. Adam talks to Dash and Mallorie for a few minutes before putting his cigar out and disappearing back inside. Another woman comes out—this one short and curvy, maybe forty or forty-five, with green hair, talking to Mallorie and Dash for a minute before she wanders closer to the doors and starts a conversation with two men who just stepped out.
I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep, because I do feel kind of sleepy. Maybe four glasses was too many…
The air is warm and soft. I feel surprisingly comfortable here in my reclining lounge chair, even as my drunk brain tries to follow Dash and Mallorie’s conversation.
But…I can’t.
Whatever.
Several times I peek my eyes open, noting more people coming and going. Once, Mallorie’s squeaky voice cuts into my bubble—I think I hear her saying something about her dog peeing—and I glance over to see Dash run his hand back through his shorter hair.
Then more people come out, a whole gaggle of them. I sit up, and a cute guy, who turns out to be the animator intern from another summer team, steps over to flirt. He sits at the bottom of my chair, and we talk about motorized scooters and skateboarding, of all things. He invites me to the dance floor behind the house. When I tell him I’m about to go home, he leaves.
I stand up by the rail, hoping to casually drift inside. Then a handsome older man offers to get me a drink.
I tell him “no thank you” and notice Dash’s eyes on me from the other side of the now-crowded balcony.
The black-haired man is an engineer for Imagine. He asks about my summer plans and tells me I should take a job here if I’m offered one. He asks me who I’m partnered with, and I say just “Dash,” because I’m drunk.
“Dash Frazier?”
I nod, feeling woozy.
“Stellar guy.”
I almost take issue with that comment, and that�
�s how I know I must be drunker than I realized.
Oops.
A few minutes later, I slink back over to my chair to grab my purse. I think I’ll go now. Get an Uber before I say or do something I’ll regret. I lean my head back, tipped up toward the sky, and am aware of movement beside me right as a familiar voice says, “See anything good up there?”
I jump. Dash has just sat in the chair beside mine. He smells like cologne—and the dry cleaners. He gives me a lazy smile. “Having a good night?”
“Yep.” When he doesn’t reply, just looks at me, assessing, I blurt, “I saw you talking to Mallorie. Are you two close?”
He rubs his forehead, smiling like he knows something I don’t. “I wouldn’t say so, not especially.”
“I think I caught something about her dog’s bladder infection.”
Dash snorts, shaking his head. “She’s married to one of the seniormost animators at Disney, a woman who’s my mentor out in Burbank. She usually works out there, so I’m a friend of her and her wife.”
“How old is her wife?”
“I think maybe pushing sixty.”
“Mallorie is a lot younger.”
“Not really. She’s forty-nine.”
I gape. “What about the house’s owner—er, hostess? How old is she?”
“Sara? She is young.”
“How’d she…?”
“Get where she is?”
Dash shrugs. “Talented and well-connected.”
“Oh.” With nothing more interesting to add, I confess, “I had too much to drink.”
“Did you now?”
He leans back in his lounge chair, and I have a memory of another starry night, with Dash lying down and me sitting beside him on his roof.
“I was nervous,” I say, noting that the deck has cleared out. There’s only one guy on the other side of the space, leaning on the balcony and talking on his phone.
“How come?”
How come I’m nervous, I remind myself; that’s what he asked just now. That little voice inside your head that keeps your mind on track? Mine is currently drowned in alcohol.
