by Mary
When she sees me watching and laughing, she surprises me with a walk-like-an-Egyptian move straight from the eighties while sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. The kids erupt in fits of laughter as they try to emulate her until the music stops.
We clap and I stand, meeting her in the middle of the gym while the counselor rounds the kids up for another game.
“I didn’t know you were a professional dancer, too.”
“Oh yeah. I got moves. No one can ‘running man’ like I can.”
We laugh and then the kids come over to say goodbye, hugging both of us and pulling on our hands before the counselor rounds them up again.
“Shall we?” I hold the door open for her and we leave the loud, echoing gym for the much quieter hallway.
“I didn’t know you were bilingual,” I say once the door shuts behind us.
“My mom’s Latina. She was born in Mexico and moved here when she was eleven. She didn’t speak a word of English when she got here, much like Ramon.” She motions to the boy who’s now laughing as he messes up the jump rope. “They didn’t have anything like ESL classes back then. She’s told me stories about how hard it was at first, not understanding anyone and then they expected her to take normal grade-level classes. But she learned quickly. Now she has two master’s degrees and she’s a college professor.”
“That’s amazing.”
Gwen’s smile is blinding. “She is amazing.”
“What about your dad?”
“Ah, well that’s where I get my coloring. My dad is Irish. It’s funny because me and my oldest sister—Gabby—we’re both like our dad, but my middle sister, Gemma, looks like my mom, all dark hair and curves and unburnable skin. I’ve always been so jealous of her. No one ever believes we’re sisters.”
“What does your dad do?” I ask.
“He used to work for the city. He’s retired now, but he still plows the roads every winter and stays home and drives my mom crazy every summer. What about your dad? Brent mentioned you work for him?”
“Yep.” I really have nothing nice to say about that situation, and luckily we’ve reached one of the rooms I wanted to show her. “This is the music room.” I open a side door and click on the light. “We funded the purchase of all of the instruments, and there’s an orchestra teacher that comes in once a week and teaches some of the older kids the strings.”
“That’s so cool.”
“It is.”
She snaps a few photos and then shoots me a sidelong glance. “Can I get a picture of you over there by the cello?”
“Oh no. I don’t do the whole picture thing.”
She pouts. “Please? Shots with people are so much more interesting. And I’m sure people who donate want to see the man behind the charity.”
“I’m not the man behind anything.”
“That’s not what Brent told me the other night.”
“You guys talked about me on your date?”
She glances around the empty room, as if paparazzi are hiding under one of the teeny tiny desks. “You know it wasn’t a real date.”
“Either way, it seemed to work.”
She nods. “It did.”
There were some tweets from TZM and an article in Page Seven the very next morning. “That’s good. Brent doesn’t deserve this kind of backlash.”
“I’m sure it will blow over soon. People with half a brain will realize she’s doing it for the publicity and personal gain.”
“I hope you’re right. It’s crazy how he just wants to play a little ball, but it comes along with all this other crap.”
I nod. “We talked about that. And I can completely relate. Well, sort of. I’ve never been named the world’s sexiest anything.” She flashes me a wink. “But I modeled for a few years. In any industry where you’re subject to public scrutiny, it’s always about optics. Appearances are more important than reality. It’s why I wanted to leave. It has a way of wearing you down, you know? And I wanted to do something more than base all my dreams on my face because eventually those looks will be gone and you can’t base your entire self-worth on that.”
“Is that why you got into photography?”
“One of the many reasons. I enjoyed modeling—minus the drama and politics—but I want to make more of a difference. You know? Like what you guys are doing here.”
“It’s nothing. Our mom started the funding for this place. I’ve just kept it up.”
She takes a few more pictures and I watch her. We’re silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. She’s focused on her shots, crouching down in a few places before standing up.
When she’s finished, we exit the room and I lead her farther down the hall, pointing out the walls we’ve repaired and painted, the floors that have been redone, and also the things that still need work like the chipped plaster and the leaky AC units.
My phone keeps ringing—people from the office calling—but I cancel the calls and eventually put my phone on silent. Everyone relies on me too much.
As we walk I try to keep Gwen on my good side, the uninjured side, but somehow she keeps drifting to the scarred side again. I can feel her eyes on me as we traverse the school, no matter how many times I point out the kids’ quiet room, a lending library, a freaking water fountain, anything to get her spotlight off me. I didn’t have this concern with Charlie, but that was different. I care more about what Gwen thinks of me.
“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” She stops in the middle of the hall, and I stop next to her. “You don’t have to answer,” she adds.
I nod. “Go ahead.” Here it comes—the scar talk.
“What happened to your mom?”
Or not. I take a breath before answering. “Heart failure. One moment she was fine, the next she was gone.”
“I’m so sorry. It sounds like she was a wonderful person.”
“Yeah, she was a great mom. We wouldn’t be the same without her. We grew up in a middle-class neighborhood upstate when we could have afforded a penthouse in the city. But that’s not what she wanted for us.”
“That’s smart. You appreciate things more when they aren’t so readily available.”
I nod. “She was raised in a middle-class family, and she wanted us to have a normal childhood. I think because of our dad.”
“He had a different childhood?”
“Our grandfather started the company when he was eighteen and built it from the ground up. It started as a small supplier of specialized items for restaurants, and then he kept adding and expanding until it became a huge empire. Dad took it over when grandpa died. It was already a success though, so he basically just had to maintain everything. It made him perceive things differently, but I think that’s why he loved our mom so much. She never cared about the money and she was the only person he let affect him at all.”
She nods and opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again.
I can’t believe I even shared that much with her. We barely know each other, but there’s something about her. Something beyond the blonde hair and fresh-faced good looks.
Perhaps sensing my reluctance, she changes the subject. “What’s in here?” She peeks into an empty room.
“Ah, this is a good one. The art room.” I open the door and flick on the light to reveal the mural on the opposite wall. A couple of the older kids are handy with the spray paint cans—something I don’t want to think about too closely.
One of the windows was left open to air out the smell, letting in a cool fall breeze.
The wall is covered in a mishmash of various pieces. There are different faces, brightly painted flowers, musical notes, and instruments. There’s a random bunny with giant teeth in the opposite corner, a painting of a half-peeled banana, and other smaller items, all squeezed into the space, a collage of bright oddities. The amazing part is the intricacy of each piece. Although none of them really make sense, they all fit together like they’re meant to be h
ere.
“This is amazing.” Gwen snaps a few pictures. “Who did this?”
“A couple of the older boys. Jake and Marcellus. They’re both very talented. This is an attempt for them to showcase their art in a way that doesn’t involve the destruction of property.”
I move closer to the piece, smiling as I remember helping the boys paint the base coat. When I had to stop and take a break because my back hurt, they kept calling me “old man.”
The snap of the shutter nearby startles me.
Gwen is standing next to me, camera in hand, closer than I realized.
“Sorry.” She smiles, sheepish. “I told you I wanted to take your picture.”
“No, I’m sorry. Because no doubt your camera is now broken.”
She chuckles and rolls her eyes before putting a hand on my arm. “Stop with the self-deprecating comments already. You’re a handsome guy.”
“Maybe once upon a time.”
She’s standing so close I can see the darker flecks of blue in her eyes. The world stops, the moment inflating between us like a slowly expanding balloon. When will it pop?
She reaches up and I suck in air with an audible hiss as her hand feathers over my face. The scarred side.
Then I forget to breathe completely as her fingers smooth over my cheek, just a whisper of a touch, before her hand drops to her side. “What happened?”
I gather my wits and remember to breathe. “Shark attack.”
Her brows lift. “Really?”
“No.”
She laughs. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m very nosy today.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ve always wished I had a cool story but the reality is that it was a snowboarding accident when I was a teenager. And before you ask, I’ve talked to professionals about getting it fixed and it’s not worth it since it’s right around the eye area. Too risky.”
She tilts her head at me, her lips purse a little. “I wasn’t going to ask that. Why would you need to get it fixed? I told you, chicks dig scars.”
I laugh. “That hasn’t been my experience.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it.”
We’re silent for another long moment, considering each other.
Then she speaks. “Do you want to get some food?”
Chapter Eight
The beauty of the past belongs to the past.
–Margaret Bourke-White
Gwen
Marc’s eyes widen when I ask him if he wants food.
“Not like a date,” I rush to assure him. “After all, I’m with your brother. Or sort of with your brother. Well, not at all with your brother but you know that. I just thought, you know, you might like to eat.” The laugh that emerges from my mouth is awkward and nervous to my own ears.
What is wrong with me? You’d think I haven’t talked to a real live person before.
He must not notice, though, because he nods. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Let’s go see if Charlie wants anything.”
We walk back to the computer room, where we find the tiny redhead clicking keys on a laptop and muttering to herself.
“Hey, Charlie. You want food?”
“You guys go ahead.” She waves, her eyes never leaving the screen in front of her and her fingers still tapping away. “There’s some issues with the basic infrastructure of their server and I want to make sure their LAN can handle the load when we get hella people to donate.”
“Right. You can call for a company car to take you home when you’re done.”
“Got it.” She flicks a thumb up, then keeps typing.
Marc calls somewhere for a car to come get us as we walk to the front entrance. We stop in at the office to say goodbye to the director and let her know that Charlie is still there working. The director gives Marc a big hug before we exit for the streets.
Within minutes, a sleek sedan is pulling up and Marc opens the door for me to slide in.
“This is fancy,” I say.
“Welcome to the lifestyles of the rich and not so famous.”
I laugh. “I’m more used to the lifestyles of the broke and desperate.”
He watches me in the dim interior of the car, broken by the occasional flash of a street lamp as we drive. “Not anymore, right?”
“Well. Not quite that bad. There was a time, though, when I had given up the modeling jobs and I wasn’t getting nearly enough photography shoots. Let’s just say if it weren’t for Maria at the bodega on the corner, I might have starved.”
He laughs and then his head tilts a little as he regards me. “You’re not like most people I’ve met.”
I grimace. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No, it’s a refreshing thing. Most people don’t talk about their hard times, you know? Everyone has a façade they like to present to the world, and it’s all the best and happiest moments.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t see the point in trying to be someone other than myself. I tried that. Didn’t work out.”
He nods, his eyes assessing me for a moment before he glances away. “What do you like to eat?”
“I’m not picky. I’ll eat anything that won’t eat me first.”
“Have ever you had a burger from Raoul’s?”
My mouth drops open. “What? No. They only make like twelve of them a night. It’s damn near impossible to get one.”
He smiles slowly. “What if I told you that everything you think you know is a lie?”
“Well, I’d say hand me a red pill, Morpheus.”
He laughs. “You know, he never actually says that line in the movie.”
“I know. Yet another falsehood spread by viral memes.” I shake my head in mock outrage. “What is this world coming to?”
We laugh together and then I have to ask, trying not to get too excited, “Can you really get us burgers from Raoul’s?”
“We supply all of their cooking equipment. So yes. I don’t typically call in these types of favors, but I’d be willing to make an exception for the woman who’s saving my brother. Although I have to admit I’m surprised you’ll eat one.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“Most models I’ve been around only consume cigarettes and diet soda with a splash of cocaine.”
I grin. “Well there’s your mistake. I’m not a model.”
He calls in our order from the car and the driver takes us to SoHo. We’re dropped off in front of the small storefront and when we walk in, they immediately seat us at the bar. The bartender greets Marc and they shake hands.
Marc introduces me as a friend and then we order drinks. Once we each have a glass of beer in front of us, the bartender goes to the back to get our food.
Raoul’s is an artsy French bistro with three dining rooms. The walls are decorated with nudes and jazz portraits. Above us spans a tin ceiling. The space is filled with the scent of garlic and fresh baked bread. It’s not quite five yet, but people already fill the tables and crowd one end of the bar.
“You didn’t introduce me as Brent’s girlfriend.”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket and hangs it on the seat. “Should I have?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then the bartender brings us our plates and for a second I forget my own name because the mouthwatering burger in front of me looks like a work of art. It’s a giant brisket patty topped with greens and piquant au poivre sauce inside a challah bun. “Oh, wow.”
“I know.”
There’s a comfortable silence for a few minutes, amongst the tinkling of silverware against plates and the murmur of the early dinner crowd, while we eat our burgers.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.
“Considering the third degree I subjected you to all afternoon?” I pretend to thin
k about it. “Nah, you get nothing.”
“Seems fair.”
I take a sip of beer and then wink at him. “Go ahead. I probably owe you one or twelve.”
“Why did you agree to date Brent?”
“A few reasons,” I hedge. It feels wrong admitting I did it to further my own career. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason, but it was the main one.
“I guess I’m surprised you aren’t already in a relationship or dating someone else, is all.”
“I’m not really looking for anything like that right now. I don’t have time for a relationship. I’ve been working really hard on a project and if everything goes as planned, I’ll be traveling a lot and it’s not fair to start something that will turn into long distance at best and end in a fiery pile of pain at worst. So this arrangement with Brent works out for me. Since it’s temporary.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re a romantic.”
“Is it that obvious?”
We share a smile at our mutual sarcasm.
“Travelling sounds fun,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to take a year and just travel the world with a backpack and no firm plans. Just leave everything behind and go where the wind takes me.”
“That does sound fun. Sounds like we share a bit of the wanderlust.”
We turn back to our burgers in silence for a few moments before Marc speaks again. “But what if you fall in love?”
I nearly choke on my bite of delicious beef. “You think I’m going to fall in love with your brother?”
He shrugs. “It happens a lot.”
“People don’t fall in love with Brent. They’re fans that are in lust and they fall in love with the idea of him.”
“Maybe. So you think you’re immune?”
“I do.” At his disbelieving expression, I continue, “What? You want me to fall in love with him?”
“I want Brent to be happy. The rest of it doesn’t really matter. It would make a nice story, though, don’t you think? Two people, pretending to date and then they fall in love and live happily ever after? I feel like I’ve seen that movie a few times.”
