by Mary Frame
As soon as we approach the entrance, the flashes go off and questions are hurled at us through the night air.
“Hey, Brent, is this your new girlfriend?”
“Gwen, what do you think about the allegations of assault?”
Brent puts his arm around me and we hustle into the restaurant, ignoring the questions, pretending to be annoyed even though we’re here to be seen.
The hostess takes us to our seat right away. The booth is near the middle—not so far from the windows the paparazzi can’t see us, but far enough away to make it look like we’re putting up an effort.
I can’t believe any of this fools anyone. It’s like a dog-and-pony show and I’m the pony. Or maybe I’m the dog.
We put in our drink orders and I glance around the space. It’s very white and gold. White walls, white ceiling, white tablecloths, and gold seats on the booths. It’s somewhere the glitterati go to see and be seen. It’s got the kind of clientele that’ll take one look at my dress and mutter to their companions, “So two seasons ago.”
I take a gander at the menu and decide I’ll have to order a salad. Not because I’m one of those girls that doesn’t eat real food, but because that’s the only thing on the menu less than twenty dollars. Unless I stick to a side dish, or maybe a dessert. It is tempting to order something from the “seafood tower” portion of the menu. For 420 dollars, those oysters better sing and dance and shower me with compliments before I eat them.
Brent leans over the table and takes my hand in his, giving me a small smile.
“I guess this is the part where we act like we’re totally into each other.” He pretends to consider me a moment and then grimaces. “It’s going to be so difficult.”
I laugh. “Flatterer.”
“Totally. But I made you laugh and they’re eating it up.” He lifts his eyes, tilting his head toward the front window, where the paparazzi are still watching us. As yet, there’s no one else entering or exiting the restaurant that they’d want to harass.
The waiter returns with our drinks and when Brent asks if I want to split the organic grass-fed truffle chicken, I agree. If he decides, he pays, right? Dammit, was that in the contract?
When we’re alone again there’s a moment of awkwardness and then Brent says, “Tell me about yourself.”
“What? Starlee didn’t already tell you everything about me?”
“Not really. Well, she sent over your whole biography, I think, but I couldn’t make myself read it. It felt invasive somehow.”
“It is weird. I’m sorry, I . . .” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”
“Me, too. But hey, it won’t be so bad. You seem like an easy person to kick it with. I can handle this for a few weeks.”
“I agree.”
He’s rather blasé about the whole situation, considering his job might be at risk. Not to mention his health and whatever surgery he needs to have.
I remember Marc and the circles under his eyes.
“How is Marc holding up in all this? Was he really bummed about Marissa?”
“Marc is a rock.”
“He looked a little tired or something.”
“He might be stressed about work, that’s usually what gets him riled up, but he can handle anything.”
I wonder if that’s why Brent can be so carefree. Because Marc is the one who picks up all the pieces. “How long have you guys lived together?”
“I moved in before the season started. I needed a place to live.” He eyes me speculatively before continuing. “The truth is that my long-time girlfriend broke up with me and I didn’t want to be alone. Is it emasculating to admit that?” A flash of white teeth accompanies the deprecatory statement.
“Actually I think it’s a sign of strength to admit to one’s weaknesses.”
Not to mention the elephant in the booth. He has one giant reason to feel emasculated, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his brother.
He pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. “Phew. I’m glad that went in my favor. I am starting to wonder if it was a good idea, though. I just made Marc’s life a little worse.”
“You didn’t hit on his girlfriend.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
“You can’t control what other people do.”
“I know but it’s not the first time one of his girlfriends has hit on me.” He frowns.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t understand it. It’s like they’re possessed. I know nearly every other man on this planet would probably chop off their left nut to be in my shoes, but it’s sort of creepy how people behave when you have even a modicum of fame. I don’t really know who I can trust.”
“Can’t trust the crazy chicken stalker.”
“Right? I thought Marissa’s article might get some of these people off my back. But it hasn’t. And now it’s affecting my job and sponsors and Marc and Dad’s company.” He grimaces.
“Are you worried about what will happen if this scheme doesn’t work and the Sharks decide to let you go?”
“Of course I am, but I didn’t do anything wrong, and the truth will come out, eventually. I didn’t even think it was necessary to get you involved but Starlee was freaking out. If, worst-case scenario, this doesn’t work, Marc will come up with a plan. He always does.”
No wonder Starlee is so much more concerned about Brent’s football career than he is. He has a backup plan. She doesn’t.
Our food arrives and the topic of conversation shifts back to our more personal experiences and relationships.
Brent spears a piece of the truffle chicken with his fork. “It gets harder and harder to find someone who likes you simply because you’re you and not because of your money or name. You know?”
“I do. You don’t know who’s real and who’s not. They only like you because of your fame or what you can get them.”
He nods. “Exactly. It’s one of the reasons my last relationship ended. But not because she was enamored of my success. She was sure that success would lead to our downfall.”
“Some people can’t handle it. Too insecure.” I know the feeling.
“It was hard for a while, after Bella left. Not long after that I started having health problems . . .” He trails off and his eyes flicker down to the table between us. There’s definitely more to his impotence problem than what he’s letting on. He clears his throat and continues. “That’s when I moved in with Marc. But now I’m wondering if that was a bad idea. I don’t want to drag his relationships down. It’s not fair that he keeps getting caught in my crossfire.”
“How many of his past relationships have . . .” I don’t know how to finish that statement, but Brent knows what I’m asking.
“A few. Not as blatant as Marissa.” He grimaces. “But it happened once in college, and then another time a couple years ago. It sounds weird, maybe, but I wish I knew how to stop it.”
I shake my head. “Marc seems like he’s a great catch. It’s their loss.”
“Marc’s the best. He’s only a few years older than me but he practically raised me after our mom died.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
He waves off my sympathy. “I was young. Marc remembers her more than I do.”
We continue eating and Brent changes the subject to football. I have a few seconds to process everything we’ve been talking about. I totally understand where Brent is coming from; I’ve been on his side of the camera.
But I also get the sense that the real reason he’s so blasé about all this drama is because Marc is the one who deals with the brunt of it. Marc practically raised Brent after their mom died. And when his relationship ended, he turned to Marc. And now Marc is helping him through all this drama even though he’s probably going through a rough time himself.
“And now that I’ve talked way too much about myself, tell me more about your photography. What made you make the shift into that?”
/> I give him canned responses and we continue talking and conversation is easy and Brent is fun to be with. He’s for sure easy on the eyes. But . . . there’s no spark. When he grabs my hand as we’re leaving the restaurant and the cameras are flashing, I feel nothing but kinship with him. When he kisses my cheek and opens the car door for me, it’s sweet, but nothing more.
He drives me home and when I run upstairs, I’m not thinking about Brent.
I’m thinking about if I’ll run into Marc when I go to the kid’s center.
Chapter Seven
Beauty can be seen in all things, seeing and composing the beauty is what separates the snapshot from the photograph.
–Matt Hardy
MARC
“THE WEBSITE DOESN’T have to be anything fancy, but I definitely want to have a screen pop up that encourages donations—”
Laughter from one of the rooms stalls out my thoughts and I’m further distracted when I glance inside.
It’s Gwen.
I stop and Charlie stops next to me.
Gwen’s surrounded by children. She’s laughing and facing away from me at an angle, camera in hand.
She’s wearing jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved T-shirt topped with a colorful, soft scarf. Take the outfit by itself and it’s your average autumn in New York outfit. But on Gwen . . .
The tight jeans hug her willowy figure. Her hair floats around her face, her profile aglow even from thirty feet away.
“Who are we staring at?” Charlie stage-whispers. “The blonde? Dude. She is hot.”
It’s Wednesday. I managed to escape the office somewhat early to head to the kids center in the Bronx. I brought Charlie with me to help set everything up. I wasn’t expecting . . .
Gwen turns toward us. She’s got her camera up and she catches us in her viewfinder. She moves the camera away from her face and smiles, her whole face lighting up and then she waves. “Hi!”
“Mr. Marc!” A few of the kids run over, grabbing my hands and dragging me into the room, all babbling at once.
“We’re getting pictures taken.”
“Am I going to be famous?”
“Do you want to have your picture taken?”
The kids are all chattering happily around us. I try to answer their questions while Charlie shakes Gwen’s hand and fawns all over her.
Then one of the teenage counselors yells for them to line up to head to the gym. The whole room is chaos. I can barely make out what Charlie is saying until I’m right next to them.
“Oh, you’re Brent’s girlfriend?” Charlie says, disappointed. “Do you have sisters?”
“I have two sisters,” Gwen answers, her tone confused.
“Okay. Two questions: are they as hot as you are and are they single?”
I tug at my tie, trying to loosen it a little. “Charlie.”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “Stop being such a square.”
Gwen laughs. “Both of my sisters are gorgeous. One is married with kids and the other will probably be married soon.” She pats Charlie’s hand. “Sorry.”
Finally, the kids have gotten somewhat organized and they’re heading out of the room and down the hallway. The noise level drops at least ten decibels.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Gwen.
“Starlee told me about how you guys are setting up a site for the club and I’m going to take pictures for the website. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.” She probably told Brent, but I haven’t talked to him since he left for his away game. “This is Charlie. She’s in IT at Crawford and Company.”
“Oh great.” Gwen turns to her. “I called over here Monday so they had time to get the parents to sign releases for the pictures. Is there is a photo size you prefer to work with? I like to keep them small so it doesn’t drain the bandwidth, but you’ll need at least three hundred ppi. I can pop them into Photoshop before I email them to you?”
“That’s amazing,” Charlie says, gazing wistfully at Gwen.
Gwen smiles at her compliment, though her eyebrows bunch together—probably since Charlie didn’t actually answer the question.
I clear my throat to get their attention, but it only works on Gwen. “I’m going to show Charlie the computer room so she can get started, and then I can give you a tour of the facility and show you all the improvements we’ve made, along with the things that still need to be done. We can put some shots of that up on the site to encourage donors. What do you think?”
“That sounds great. I’ve already seen some of the building, but I haven’t had a chance to get into a lot of the details. I can meet you in the gym?”
“Perfect. Come on, Charlie.” I tug her arm toward the exit.
She isn’t budging. “It was really nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
“I’ll probably see you later.”
I tug again and this time she relents and starts walking backward. Slowly.
“I hope so,” Gwen says.
Charlie finally turns, walking with me out the door, but not before shouting over her shoulder, “We should hang out sometime!”
When we’re out of earshot, she elbows me in the side. “Dude. Since when is Brent dating her?”
“Since last week. Don’t you pay attention to the news?”
“I read the news. No offense to your brother, but I don’t read the garbage trash magazines that can’t shut up about Brangelica and the Kardershians and all that other crap that doesn’t mean shit to me.” Her heels tap on the linoleum and cast a faint echo off the walls.
“Well, it obviously does mean shit to you since your new-girl crush is in those crap magazines with my brother.”
“Huh.” Her lips are pursed and I can feel her eyes on my profile. The scarred side is facing her, but that’s not what she’s looking at. It’s probably one of the reasons I like Charlie so much. She doesn’t care about my face. Doesn’t even faze her. “Has Marissa met her yet?”
I pause before answering. I haven’t told Charlie everything that happened. I haven’t really told anyone, because it’s either none of their business or they’ve already formed their opinions based on the media. Plus it’s embarrassing. But apparently Charlie isn’t kidding about not reading the tabloids. “She knows Marissa already,” I finally say.
“Did Marissa try to gouge her eyes out or is she being civil?”
I frown at her. Did she know about the real Marissa, too? I must have a huge blind spot. We turn into the dark computer room and I flick on the lights. “Marissa and I are no longer dating.”
“What?” she barks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s a long story. And I can’t really talk about it. And if you read those trash magazines, you could have already figured it out for yourself.”
“Can’t talk or won’t talk? Marc, you know you can trust me. And you’ve gotta have someone to lean on sometimes. No man is an island.”
“You’re right, John Donne. But I’m fine.” I point over at the computer parts—a few monitors, a couple slim towers, extra hard drives, and some other items I can’t identify. “Here’s your stuff. I’ll come check on you in an hour. Don’t text me if you need anything.”
“This conversation isn’t over, Marc!” she calls after me as I make a hasty exit.
I don’t want to talk about Marissa. Or think about her. Not because it’s painful or anything, but I’ve already moved on—a surprisingly easy endeavor.
I find Gwen in the gym on the basketball courts.
She doesn’t see me at first. I sneak in the door and stand beside the counselor, who’s sitting on the bleachers.
On one side of the large space, a group of kids are skipping rope, mostly older kids.
Gwen is with a group of smaller children on the opposite side, the same ones that were crowding her in the classroom. After a minute of watching, I figure they’re playing some kind of freeze game. She plays a song on her phone and they all start shaking their little bodies and dancing. She s
tops the music at random intervals and everyone has to freeze. Whoever is still moving when she pauses the music is out of the game. They don’t even get upset when Gwen points to whoever lost because they get to go stand near her, their faces bright, leaning toward her like they’re little flowers and she’s the sun.
They play for a few minutes. Her camera is around her neck and she takes some random shots during the game. She keeps glancing over into the corner, and after a minute I realize there’s a boy standing off to the side. He’s leaning against the wall and watching with his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s partially hidden by a section of the bleachers, so I didn’t even notice him at first.
“Come play,” Gwen calls to him.
The kid on her left leans into her and says something.
“Ven acá.” She motions with her hand for the boy to come over. “Te mostraré cómo jugar el juego.”
His eyes brighten and he runs to her. She bends down to tell him something, but they’re too far away for me to make out the words. After another minute, he’s out boogying with the rest of the kids.
I recognize him then, a recent transfer. He doesn’t speak English. Some of the other kids are bilingual but only a few, and apparently they haven’t quite made friends with the new kid yet.
After the game ends and a winner is declared, the kids corral Gwen, pulling on her hands and trying to get her to dance. She relents with a laugh, passing her phone to one of the kids who had been sitting next to her, and then she’s dancing with them.
I half expected someone with her height and grace to be a professional dancer. I thought she would stand up and bust out some hip-hop moves or something. Instead, she immediately acts the goofball, showing them “the sprinkler,” what appears to be “the lawn mower,” and then some kind of weird chicken dance that has them dissolving into giggles all around her.
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.
