by Kylie Adams
“Hello, Garrison,” Sutton managed to say. She knew that her face was scarlet. And that it had nothing to do with the fitting room sex.
Garrison nodded. “Sutton. Good to see you.” Another glance at Scooter. “Shopping for new school clothes?” He smirked at his own remark.
“Something like that,” Sutton replied easily. “You might want to think about enrolling. A man his age could definitely teach you a few things. Hopefully, you’re not above learning at this stage in your life.”
The rejoinder rattled Garrison’s colossal male ego. His angry eyes revealed the impact.
“I’m heading over to shoes,” Scooter announced, not botheringto introduce himself, socially inept in the way that so many people born after the Internet was invented seemed to be.
Sutton watched him go, then turned back to face Garrison. This was the first time she had encountered him since receivingthe terse breakup letter via FedEx.
“Are you into skateboarders now?” Garrison asked.
“He’s a bartender.”
“That makes more sense.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure being a pro about booze comes in handy.” One beat. “For him.”
“You son of a bitch,” Sutton hissed. “You broke up with me and started dating a girl young enough to be your daughter.Now you’re judging my behavior?”
“It’s different for men. Seeking out the company of younger women is a natural thing for us. We don’t look ridiculous doing it.”
Sutton laughed in his face. “Buy one of these shirts this twit is trying to sell you, and say that again with a straight face.”
The salesgirl glared viciously.
“I just hope she didn’t sell you that skirt,” Garrison chortled.“Because it looks like she cheated you out of half of it.”
Self-consciously, Sutton tugged down on the short hem, as if doing so could make any difference to the daring length.
“Give us a minute,” Garrison told the salesgirl, who retreatedwith obvious relief. He regarded Sutton carefully, almostpitifully. “What are you doing with that loser? Why are you embarrassing yourself like this?”
Sutton hated him. He could be such a mean bastard. “Do you ask yourself those questions whenever you step out the door with Emma?”
“I don’t have to. She’s an accomplished woman.”
“So we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I happenedto be with a twenty-four year-old lawyer?”
Garrison shrugged.
Sutton beamed back a look of disgust. “I don’t have to stand here and defend myself against your double standard bullshit.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you. Go buy your stepson some new sneakers. He’s waiting for you in the shoe department, as I understand it.”
“Fuck you, Garrison!” The last comment lit an instant fuse, and now Sutton regretted letting her anger show. It was a sure sign of weakness.
So weak that Garrison gave her a wounded look for havinghurt her. “Come on, Sutton. Let’s not do this.We might both be dating kids, but we’re supposed to be the grown-ups.”
She took in a deep breath to calm her nerves.
“Besides, we might be working together soon. All of us.”
She gave him a strange look. “What do you mean?”
“Emma tells me that they want to do a magalog for The Beehive.”
Sutton could almost feel her blood begin to boil. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s still in the early talking stage,” Garrison explained easily. “We’re trying to set up an initial meeting with Jay.”
“I’m the creative consultant for the show!” Sutton raged. “Emma is just air talent!”
“Calm down,” Garrison said, his tone oozing patronization.“She just passed along the word that they wanted to have a conversation.”
Sutton left Garrison standing there and stalked away, growing increasingly angry with every step. She made a beelinefor the exit and hailed a cab. Scooter could buy his own goddamn leather boots. And if he wanted to fuck that idiot salesgirl, then he could do that, too.
The only thing on Sutton’s mind was getting rid of Emma Ronson, because The Beehive was no longer big enough for both of them.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
Xs and Os are a flirty way to close personal correspondence. Exes and Ohs! are another situation entirely. Anyone who thought the battle of the blondes (one’s a model heiress and married—by a thread these days—to one of America’s dreamiestguys, the other’s a star-on-the-risehost of one of television’s hottest new chat shows) was limited to that drunken dust-up in a Chelsea rock club better think again. These two hellcats have only just begun.
18
Emma
“I’m never drinking again.”
Delilah gave Emma an amused glance. “Whatever you say, Tara Reid.”
Emma laughed and put her face in her hands. “Oh, what a horrible comparison!”
“At least you didn’t question the Holocaust,” Delilah reasoned.“As far as drunken binges go, it’s one you can recover from.”
They were huddled over comforting dishes of sheep’s ricottagnudi at the Spotted Pig, an intimate little pub and eatery near Delilah’s Greenwich Village apartment.
Emma looked at her friend’s wine goblet, then back at her own water glass. “Well ... maybe just one.”
“So much for willpower.”
Emma flagged down the waiter for a single serving of the house merlot. “Can I just say one thing?”
Delilah gave her a savage look. “You promised.”
“I know,” Emma said shamefully. “But—”
“You promised that if we went out to dinner, we wouldn’t talk about him. Not one word. Not even one syllable.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Silently, Emma toyed with her pasta.
Within moments, Delilah caved in. “Oh, fine. What aspect of Dean Paul would you like to deconstruct now?”
Emma gave her a grateful smile. “I have to get this off my chest.”
Delilah drank up and wearily waved her on.
“What Tilly said the other night has really been botheringme.”
“The part about you being a trashy blonde? Don’t let it get to you.”
“No,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. “The part about me wanting to be Mrs. Dean Paul Lockhart. How can I still want that? After everything he’s done—to me, to other women, even to her. The way he was carrying on with—”
“Juicy,” Delilah cut in. “I believe the young lady’s name was Juicy.”
“Whatever. It was a disgusting sight,” Emma said. “And yet ...”
“You think you can change him,” Delilah finished for her.
The merlot arrived just in the nick of time. Emma indulgedwith a generous sip. “Yes, I think I can. I think I could be the one.”
“You’re an idiot.You realize that, don’t you?”
Emma nodded, then drained the rest of her wine and motionedfor another glass. “Yes, I do.”
Delilah pulled a face. “Think about it. I mean, really think about it. What if you actually did marry him? You’d be his third wife behind Aspen Bauer and Tilly. And you’d be a stepmotherto a baby named Cantaloupe. How could you possiblysign up for that?”
Emma just sat there, swirling her wine, considering the scenario. “Maybe I’m better off with Garrison.”
“You should dump that old bastard. Just play checkers with him at the home once a week.”
“You are so bad,” Emma scolded.
“Speaking of bad, I have the most deliciously awful idea for a skit on Laugh Track.” She paused a moment, wide-eyed. “Can we talk about something besides Dean Paul for a minute?”
Emma gave her a look. “Okay, but just for one minute.”
Delilah’s eyes brightened. “I’m thinking about a spoof of Mio and Mako, those stupid Japanese twins. Of course, that’s probably oxymoronic. They basic
ally spoof themselves. But still.” She shrugged. “Could be wicked fun.”
“I agree,” Emma said, smiling broadly. “But we never had this conversation.”
“Why?”
“I just got word that they’re going to be de facto regulars on The Beehive.”
Delilah’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re kidding.”
Emma splayed out her hands in a gesture of dismay. “The audience loves them. They test very high.”
“What’s happened to America?” Delilah wondered. “We make stars out of Flavor Flav and Nicole Richie and now the Kometani girls. If Elizabeth Taylor were starting over today, she wouldn’t have a fucking chance in hell of making it.”
Emma thought about the comedy potential of skewering Mio and Mako. “How could you make them more ridiculous than they actually are?”
“I’ll write a bit where they make out with each other. That’ll guarantee attention in the writers’ room and probably airtime, too.”
“So you’re just distracting them with a lesbian sister fantasy.”
“I’ve learned the hard way that writing the funniest skit isn’t good enough. The old guard feminists must be proud. They blazed all those trails, and now we live in a culture where women take off their tops for a Girls Gone Wild hat and considerthemselves empowered because of it.”
Emma laughed. “Yeah, but if we were in college right now, that would totally be us.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Delilah agreed, pushing her half-eatenmeal to the side. “Being a slut is so acceptable now, and I’m sure that I’d fall right in line.” She studied Emma for a moment. “So are you going to be able to stand it if Dean Paul and Tilly get divorced? I mean, are you going to be, like, ‘Oh, my God! He’s available!’ ”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about him tonight.”
Delilah looked exasperated. “We have to talk about guys. That’s what we do. And I don’t want to talk about the fact that you’re sleeping with your grandfather. That’s just gross. So until you meet someone else, Dean Paul it is.”
Emma reflected on the possibility. “I don’t see him going from a separation or a divorce to making a commitment to me.”
“Maybe you’re not such an idiot after all,” Delilah said.
The wine was getting to Emma. She could feel the melancholybuilding. “I’m not delusional,” she began with philosophicaldirectness. “Deep down, I know that the circumstances will never be there to match the feelings I have ... but that doesn’t change my feelings, you know? They are what they are. All I know is that it hurts, and it’s lonely, and sometimes I feel like I’ll never, ever get over him.” She sighed deeply and looked at Delilah, waiting for the verbal ax to swing.
But her friend just stared at her with uncharacteristic sweetness and concern, as if she wanted nothing more than to take this pain away. “Maybe you should think about seeing a therapist.”
“Do I sound crazy?”
“No, but you sound like someone in a difficult situation, and a good therapist could help you sort things out. I go periodicallyfor emotional tune-ups.”
Emma was stunned. “Seriously?”
Delilah nodded. “Just think about it. Listening to the voice in your own head all the time isn’t the healthiest way to live.” She paused to take a sip of wine. “And you damn sure don’t follow my advice. I say it’s time for reinforcements.”
Emma nodded vaguely. “Maybe.” She checked her watch and gasped. “Shit, I can’t believe it’s this late. Garrison had a meeting, but he’s probably been waiting on me for two hours.”
Delilah opened her mouth to speak.
Emma raised a halting hand. “I know you don’t like him, but—”
“You’re right,” Delilah cut in. “I don’t like him. But more importantly, you don’t like him, either.”
“That’s not true—”
Delilah shook her head. “Emma, you never talk about Garrison. It’s always Dean Paul, Dean Paul, Dean Paul. So please—just end it. If for no one else, do it for him. I mean, even that old bastard deserves someone who actually gives a shit.”
Emma sat there as the rattling words killed whatever buzz the wine had generated. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “You’re absolutely right.”
“And I have been since you accepted the second dinner invitation from him. But who’s keeping track?”
They split the tab and stepped out onto Eleventh Street. Emma breathed in the cool New York air and decided to end things with Garrison that night. Her BlackBerry vibrated. She swiped it from her purse just as the ring tone commenced.“Hello?”
“This is just a courtesy call.” It was Tilly Lockhart. “You can have him. He’s all yours.”
Emma’s insides rioted with a storm of emotion. For long seconds, she said nothing.
“I just wanted you to know,”Tilly went on acidly. “Again, as a courtesy.”
“I should hang up now, because if courtesy to other women is really your goal, then you’ll be working the phone all night.” Emma disconnected the call.
Delilah gazed at her expectantly.
“That was Tilly. Calling out of courtesy to tell me I could have Dean Paul.” Her mind was still reeling—from the news ... with the possibilities. “I guess she left him.”
“If I saw my husband dancing like that with Juicy, I’d leave him, too,” Delilah said.
Emma stood by the curb, passively awaiting a cab, not quite ready to leave. So, of course, a taxi jerked to a stop right away, triggering instant pressure to get inside.
“This isn’t a hopeful development,” Delilah said meaningfully.“Keep telling yourself that.”
Emma nodded and slipped into the rear cabin. The ride home was a blur. She remembered calling out her address to the driver, then gazing out the grimy window. All of a sudden,she was standing in front of her apartment building.
With an aching sense of dread, Emma glanced upward. She knew Garrison was there ... waiting for her. He wanted to have sex. He wanted to talk business. He wanted to gripe about politics.
But Emma simply wanted to be alone. She considered checking into a hotel. Garrison was strange in that he owned incredible properties throughout the city but preferred the cozy environment of Emma’s small one-bedroom unit.
She hesitated, then ventured upstairs, determined to say what needed to be said, what should have been said a long time ago. The moment she turned the key in the lock, his voice rang out.
“Babe?” Garrison shouted from the bedroom. “I was startingto get worried.”
“I had dinner in the Village with Delilah,” Emma called back, frozen in the doorway. She was there, in that moment of chilling realization when something was so over that the word over did not do it justice.
“Bring me a fresh drink,” Garrison said.
Emma cringed. She knew there would be a scene. He would be angry and hurt and demand to know why. She did not want to explain. She just wanted him to leave.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, Emma approached the doorway of the bedroom and stood quietly.
Garrison was naked and sitting up in bed. With his thick reading glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, he studied The Wall Street Journal while the television blared CNN and Anderson Cooper. For a long moment, he did not notice her. When he did, he gave her an odd look. “Where’s my drink?”
“This isn’t working, Garrison.” The words came out beforeEmma had a chance to edit them in her mind.
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the newspaper.“That’s usually my speech, but I’m a big boy. I can take it.” And then he continued reading.
Emma watched him, stupefied. Not only was there no hurt or anger to speak of, there was not even the slightest hint of interest as to why she wanted to break up. “That’s it?”
Garrison did not look up. “If it’s not working for you, it’s not working for you. I get it.” He read for a moment longer. “How about that drink?”
Emma was si
multaneously dismayed and infuriated. “Do you actually plan on sleeping here tonight?”
He tossed her a glance. “No good-bye fuck?”
Emma glared at him. “I’m taking a shower. Be gone by the time I get out.” She made a beeline for the bathroom and shut the door. Then she turned on the water full blast to mufflethe sounds of her tearful breakdown.
Garrison behaved like it was nothing, like she was nothing.In a strange way, it was reminiscent of the way Dean Paul had treated her, too. Her crying jag intensified.
Maybe she was nothing.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
It used to be so easy for the caddish man who got the heave-ho. He’d eitherplay house with the woman (usually a slut) who got him kicked out in the first place, or he’d crash on the couch of a buddy (usually a creep that the girlfriend/wife hated) who waxed lyrical on the glories of single guydom. America’s jilted prince (his heiress wife said good-byeand amen) chose a more complicatedsituation with door number three: Bunking with the gay friend who openly swoons over him. Only in the new millennium, darlings.
19
Finn
“Tilly kicked me out,” Dean Paul said, his voice casual and lacking any emotion. He could have just as easily announced, “Tilly gave me a sweater for my birthday.”
Finn hung on the line, suddenly seized by an intense anxiety.What upended him the most was the immediate sense of the unknown.
They had a routine—Finn and Dean Paul—built around Dean Paul’s Hollywood Live gig and his marriage to Tilly.When they talked, when they worked out, when they grabbed lunch—it was all dictated by Dean Paul, and Finn always made himselfavailable to take advantage of his company.
Finn’s reaction to this announcement that the inevitably doomed marriage had become an imminently doomed one was fear. After all, their friendship had been sealed in the crucibleof Tilly’s insistence that Dean Paul relinquish his ties to his carousing straight buddies. With Tilly out of the picture and Dean Paul’s notorious history of forming attachments and then moving on with little remorse, the possibility for the whole connection to evaporate was there.
