“Is this absorbed immediately into the bloodstream or what?” he asked, laughing.
“Here’s hoping,” she said, drinking the rest.
He held up his cup, deep breath, and downed it.
* * *
Sierra felt like she should be feeling more by now. She had been so game to drink the stuff, shake up her world, for once, but she had been hoping for...more. So she chased it with a beer and chased that with a shot—and another and another and another and another—of something, anything that was circulating. Ethan did the same. They threw themselves into the party, jumping, jumping, jumping, arms in the air, dancing for what felt like hours but may have been minutes, who could tell? Until the room finally started to look like something being constructed in real time on a pottery wheel, spinning too, too, too fast. While their bodies seemed to be moving tooooo sloooowly, and they collapsed beside each other onto the faded sofa, laughing about everything and nothing.
Just a breath later, something, someone hurtled at them, smashing through the glass coffee table before them. At the crash, they rose to their feet, Ethan yanking Sierra away as fast as his dulled reflexes could manage. Tripping over the feet of whoever sat beside them, they stumbled together into a wall as the room’s collective screams modulated to cheers when Stone—it had been Stone, so ungraceful for a dancer—sprang right up, dusting shards of glass off himself.
Still wobbly in the chaos, people jostling them in the dim hallway, Sierra steadied herself, clasping what turned out to be a doorknob behind her back. Someone pushed past them, shoving Ethan against her in the process, and as she looked at him in that tenth of a second, it was as though that drink finally kicked in. His lips just millimeters from hers, she closed the distance, kissing him, and he kissed her back, arms wrapping around her waist. Dizzy all over again, she somehow twisted the doorknob open and they fell into someone’s empty room, nearly pitch-black, music still playing. She shed her satin camisole. He pulled off his button-down shirt. Or maybe she pulled off his shirt, and he hers. It was impossible to know and unimportant to her: what mattered was the impulse felt equal—mirrored—and relentless in that way of anything left simmering too long.
49
I NEED TO WEAR A CATSUIT AGAIN
Nick checked the time again—7:42 p.m.—as he stood shirtless before his closet, pulling out a blue seersucker shirt and a crisp T-shirt. He didn’t want to seem to be trying too hard but...he was. And maybe he should try too hard, maybe that made sense tonight. He held both shirts in front of himself in the mirror. At least tonight had to be better than last night when, after that endless rehearsal, he had to take his old pal Ron—from Chamberlain First Bank—to dinner to investigate how the hell to not have the theater shut down immediately after this summer. The infusion of funds from Taylor—who contributed under the condition that Jasmine be cast in the show—would sustain this season, but it was still a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage.
The theater was dark tonight. The apprentices were in New York, giving everyone a necessary breather before Midsummer’s opening. Including Nick. He hadn’t heard from Charlie since he had slipped the note to her yesterday at the end of rehearsal, which wasn’t surprising: she liked to make him fret, it was sport for her. But he hoped she would be there.
Seersucker, he finally decided, nodding at his reflection. Tonight mattered. Before he could pull it on though, he heard the knock at the door. They were due to meet at eight—and not here. But he felt a thrill at this change of plans: she had come to him, the surest sign that she felt the same pull he did, no matter how rocky things had gotten. That these weeks in each other’s orbits again had reminded her that there was something between them, a magnetism, a lightning that perhaps didn’t strike as often as books and movies and song lyrics had you believe. At least that’s what he had discovered in these intervening years between meeting her, falling in love, having it blow up and reuniting by an act of law. Maybe she was ready to hear him out, finally, and then move forward...together.
The knock again. But first, he needed to answer the door. He started to pull on his shirt then thought, Maybe not, actually. He hadn’t spent the weeks between her sentencing and arrival doing all those crunches for nothing. And wasn’t this how it always was in those prime-time soaps? Someone always showing up at the door when someone else is getting dressed. He even had their soundtrack playing. One night when he couldn’t sleep, he had made a mix of songs from their time together—that summer, the Tempest shoot in London, the awards season—and had it on to rev him up.
He swung open the door, without looking out first, realizing too late that this was exactly how so many horror movies began.
* * *
Charlie arrived early. To the lake. She hadn’t planned to, but she needed to escape the pervasive joy of the house: Matteo and Danica each had nights out with their visiting loves, Chase was getting ready for something—music thumping in his room, humming along, a spicy cologne misting through the door.
After more thought than she usually dedicated to these matters, she had pulled on a strappy silk tank and her ripped jeans and snuck out without anyone noticing.
* * *
Jasmine launched herself at Nick the minute the door opened, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him as though trying to clothe him with her own body.
“You dressed up,” she said, planting a kiss on him, then walking through the open door and taking a seat on the sofa like a new pet.
He closed his eyes, as though watching the train that carried the evening’s vast possibilities suddenly derail and plunge into a ravine. “I was just on my way out, so I can’t—”
“Like that?”
“I was just getting dressed and then on my way out,” he sighed. “So this is a bad time for...whatever this is.” He gestured to the open door, signaling for her to go.
“But I got your note,” she purred, innocently, unfolding a familiar slip of paper and flashing it at him.
“How’d you get that—?” He tried to swipe it but she pulled it away too fast.
“What do you mean?” She smiled, fluttered her lashes. “You wanted to meet, so I came to you.”
“That’s probably because you don’t even know where the fucking lake is.”
“Get over here,” she said, in a way that would have been alluring to the vast majority of the human population, man or woman, but not to him anymore. “I’m sure I can change your mind about wherever you think you’re going.”
He stepped forward, pretending he might sit down but instead grabbing the paper from her hands.
“Hey!”
“You can’t really think this is yours,” he said with a laugh, inspecting the jagged edge, “because it had the letter C here and now it’s clearly been ripped off.”
“Why didn’t we work out?” she said in a dreamy tone, stretching her tanned legs out on his sofa.
“I was high—literally—when we got married and you were a rebound,” he said, monotone. “Worst mistake of my life.” He had given in to Jasmine, and a lot of things that were bad for him, because he was heartbroken over Charlie walking away from his film and his life, and his heart refused to heal or even to scar. His producers had hired Jasmine and he had had no choice but to accept it or walk away himself. It had marked the start of a downward spiral that included their short-lived, miserable relationship and shorter, more miserable marriage. When he left Jasmine, she claimed she’d only attached herself to him in the first place expecting the film to be a hit (it wasn’t). “And you know that. I’ve told you that.”
“I think we should work together again.” When he just stared blankly, she changed tack. “I want to help you get back on the map.”
“No.” He folded his arms across his chest. Something wasn’t right. He had read that she had dropped out of a couple of projects.
“Can we do another superhero movie—but a good
one?”
“No.”
“I need something sexy again,” she whined. “I’m just getting all these weird ugly parts—tired moms with no makeup, people ‘hitting rock bottom.’” She cringed.
“That means you’re good at what you’re doing,” he said. His problem with her was never about her acting. “People are giving you more Oscar bait, enjoy,” he said, dully.
“I need to wear a catsuit again,” she said as though it was the most delicious secret. Her costume for his movie had been the only aspect of the production nominated for any awards—Razzies notwithstanding. “My boobs aren’t going to be like this forever,” she said, gazing longingly at them. “I’m sure you’re working on something. Other than this theater stuff.”
“I am,” he said. He hadn’t told anyone except Charlie, but he was going back to his roots, taking something time-honored and making it shiny and bold and palatable to a new audience. He had been thinking it over for a while but just needed the courage to take that chance. He had such hopes for it but hadn’t secured the most vital parts, the people, the magic, yet. “It’s not your kind of thing,” he said dismissively, hoping to deter her. “And besides, I like this theater stuff—”
“It could be my thing,” she cut him off.
“It’s not.”
“It could be.”
“Jasmine,” he snapped. “We’re not good for each other. You don’t care about what you’re doing, you care about how many people are seeing it, and that’s fine.” It really was fine, it just wasn’t for him. “I’m just not about the popularity contest.”
“Spoken like someone truly unpopular,” she said.
“Exactly my point. We’re incompatible in, basically, every way.”
“Yes! Like yin and yang,” she said like it was a good thing. On her feet now, she walked toward him.
“No.” He looked out the still-open door, wondering if he could just run away. “Yin and yang are counterparts, they form a unit, they fill in each other’s blanks—”
“I can fill in your blanks,” she whispered into his ear.
“No, thanks.” He put his hands up, not even touching her. “I’m good. You gotta get outta here. Now, Jasmine.” She stood still, not accustomed to being denied—especially not twice by the same man, which he realized was probably no small part of why she was interested in him. “The show is great, you’re great in it, it’s all...just great,” he said. “But I didn’t hire you, I’m making the best of this, that’s it.”
She took a deep, slow breath, exhaled, eyes closed as though finally hearing him. When she opened her eyes again, she stepped outside the door, then paused once more, tracing her fingers along his bicep. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “We can talk later.” And she walked out.
“No!” he called out after her. “That is not what I meant.”
But she was gone. He checked his watch: 8:32. He grabbed the seersucker shirt and ran out the door, putting it on as he flew through the streets.
* * *
Charlie sat on the pier, shoes still on, not wanting to get too comfortable. She had been so oddly moved by Nick’s note. By its punctuation, all the question marks. “C—Meet me at our lake tomorrow night? 8 p.m.? Please? Love, Nick.” The collective ownership of the lake. The closing: “Love.” The subsequent text message had been identical to that slip of paper she had lost at rehearsal.
She had decided, while still upside down over the stage, that she would go. She just didn’t need to tell him then, did she? Maybe she had actually played too many games. She pulled out her phone—8:15 p.m.—and bit her lip, hating every minute of this. But she would do it, just in case there had been any doubt about whether she would be here: she snapped a picture from her spot on the pier, the water shimmering in the moonlight, and sent it with the caption: am i at the right lake? Then, feeling unusually hopeful and even sentimental, she added, xx, c.
The truth was, she had been thinking that maybe the statute of limitations had expired on his being classified as an asshole in her mind. She had been no angel either. He seemed to have changed, seemed to be trying. Something was there, locked away in her subconscious, somewhere, that had conjured him up—of all people—to save her life that night in the harbor. And so she would trust that, that instinct. This was a wave she had decided she was willing to ride.
But when she checked again—at 8:35 p.m.—and still heard nothing, the hurt began to poison her heart again.
* * *
Of course, Nick groaned, discovering the missed text from twenty minutes earlier: Charlie.
He tapped out a response as he ran: Heading over now—an unexpected delay. still there?
Finally he reached their spot and found it empty. He took a seat on the pier anyway, and snapped a photo of the same view in her picture.
Looking for you... he wrote, and then, because it was obvious: Missed you. I’ll come to you, anywhere. He waited a few long minutes but nothing, not even ellipses, came across the screen, so he took off, heading to Avon.
Sweaty and sticky in the humid, heavy air of late-July, he ran all the way up to her front door. He rang the doorbell, knocked, peered in the window, nothing. He tried the doorknob: thank God no one locked their doors in this town.
“Charlie?” he called out as he crept inside. “I think you’re here?” He walked through the kitchen and living room, all empty, though he heard music somewhere above. “I hope you’re here because otherwise I don’t know where you are.” He looked up the stairs, and decided to climb, still narrating. “I was at the lake. Late. Which I know isn’t like me.” He reached her room, but she wasn’t in there. He clanged up that spiral staircase that led to the balcony and poked his head out: nothing.
Back in her room, he continued narrating. “Maybe you’re here and just don’t wanna see me.” He scanned the room—unmade bed, clothes in heaps, books. “Sorry about tonight, it’s kind of a long story. I know everything is a long story with me.” He browsed the stack of books, the Romeo and Juliet he’d given her was on top. “But, even though I keep fucking everything up, with us, with this place, this is still easily the best thing I’ve had going in years. And that’s because a whole string of unlikely events brought you back here. So, in case you’re here somewhere listening to this, just wanted you to know that. And it’s my hope that you feel the same way about some of that. I’m sure you’ll at least agree about what a fuckup I am, but, you know, the other stuff too.”
Beneath a copy of The Tempest that he recognized as his own, swiped from his office shelves, he found that photo from the liner notes of a CD: her father with his trumpet on an otherwise empty stage, her mother pictured in the background. And then, fanning the pages of the book, Nick came across another photo that was being used as a bookmark: the one from their own Black Box rehearsal that summer they met, Charlie and Nick sitting on stage, looking at each other. The shot that had been used in the program that summer. It was the same photo he had tucked away in his office. But this wasn’t a stolen copy of his photo—the edges were rough, like it had been torn out, whereas his he had cut from the program lovingly, precisely.
A door opened across the hall, and he shoved the photo back into the book.
“That was a motherfucking great speech,” Chase said, standing in his doorframe, shirtless. “I don’t think she’s here—”
“Yeah, I’m kind of realizing that,” Nick said.
“I just felt bad letting you keep talking. But I can tell her—”
“No,” he said. “It’s fine, no big deal.”
“It sounded like a big deal—”
“I’m just, you know, I’m gonna go now, but see you tomorrow night,” Nick said, waving as he walked by and glimpsing another figure inside Chase’s room. “Hi, Marlena.”
* * *
The next morning, Charlie woke up inside that log cabin, alone—she had retreated there after
Nick never showed up at the lake—and made her way back to the house. She debated whether to bother texting Nick back before showtime, but she wasn’t even sure what to say at this point. Her mind was so clouded, Charlie could’ve sworn she saw someone who looked exactly like Marlena turning the corner out of sight as she arrived on Avon, even though Marlena wasn’t due until right before the show tonight. She could’ve used her friend right now. She needed someone to make her feel like less of a sentimental fool for going to the lake, for giving Nick another chance, for having let herself open that window into her heart.
Matteo greeted her in the kitchen. “We got a lot to talk about, am I right or am I right?” he said, emptying every vegetable from the fridge in a manic frenzy.
“I know, Nick and—”
“Fuck Nick—no offense—”
She put her hands up. “None taken.”
“Sebastian went home last night.”
“What do you mean!” She grabbed his arm in shock, unable to compute his husband going home before the show.
“I mean, he left the hotel and got on a goddamn plane and went back to San Francisco is what I mean.”
“No, but, what happened—?”
He sighed, put down the carton of eggs and a trio of red peppers. One pepper rolled on the floor and he left it there. “He found out about this little hiccup I had with one of his assistants—” He looked away a moment.
“Matteo,” she said, too stunned to form words.
“I know, I know, we were having a rough patch, it happens, you know—”
“You’re supposed to be relationship goals for me—”
“And apparently for Chase too,” he said. “And Danica and everyone. I’m flattered you all think I’ve got all the answers but I’m just one damn man.”
“Wait, Chase?” She was just catching up. “With who?”
The Summer Set Page 23
