by Mary Frame
I laugh. “You eat them then.”
“I will. And I bet you’ll want one.”
“I bet I won’t.”
We grab a few more things and get back in the car, and this time the silence is not quite so deafening.
“I’m glad you came with us,” Marc says. “It’s nice to have company on long drives. If you hadn’t come with us, I’d be driving back alone.”
“Well you can thank Marissa. If it wasn’t for her articles, I wouldn’t be here.”
He chuffs. “I’m not sure we can give her credit for anything positive in our lives, but that’s a good one.”
I clear my throat. “Have you seen her at all since . . . ?”
“No. Thank God. We haven’t heard so much as a peep from that corner, other than the article about you and Brent being a hoax.” He glances over at me and then turns back to the road. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten dragged through the muck because of all this.”
It’s interesting to me that Marc is apologizing even though I’m doing this whole thing for Brent, right? “It isn’t the first time Marissa has written bad things about me. I’ll survive.”
“You know, she talked to me about you. After we first met at the photo shoot.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“She was worried about Brent dating you. Now I know the real reason why: she wanted him for herself.”
“Did she say why she was worried?” I ask, against my better judgment.
“Something about how you were flighty and unreliable. I think those were her exact words.”
I shake my head. “She’s one to talk.”
“My thoughts exactly. How did you meet her, anyway?”
“Oh, you know, when I was modeling, she was always around. And I think she’s still friends with my ex, Lucky.”
“Mr. Cheekbones? The guy we saw at Raoul’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask what happened with him?”
I shrug. “Not much to tell. He turned into a raging control freak who treated me like I was worth less than the scum on his shoe.”
“How did you get involved with him to begin with?”
“I met him on a job when I first started getting work in the city. He was so . . . well-connected and confident and put together. I had never met anyone like him.”
“And those cheekbones.”
I smile at his sarcastic tone. Is he jealous? “He does have nice cheekbones. They’re implants.”
“Gross,” he grumbles.
I sigh and continue. Might as well tell the whole story. “He was nice, at first. Modeling is a rough gig. There’s a lot of expectations. Lucky understood all of that. He made my life easier. But then he changed. And the change happened slowly enough that I didn’t notice it at first. It started with an offhand comment when I wanted to go out for a burger one night. Then it got worse and worse.”
“He didn’t want you to have a burger?”
“He didn’t say it like that, it was more like . . . ‘oh you know if you eat that you’ll probably have to throw it up since you have a bikini shoot tomorrow.’ ”
“Are you kidding me?” His voice tightens, and the look he tosses me is filled with shock.
My chest twinges with shame. “It’s hard to explain, but what he said wasn’t wrong. It’s what most models do. And after a while with a bunch of those comments adding up over time, mixed with him telling me how much I meant to him and how beautiful I was . . . it was like I was brainwashed. I had already been living in this world where looks are everything and Lucky used that to manipulate me.”
“It was wrong for him to treat you that way.”
“You’re right. And that’s why I left.”
“I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand in my direction, lightly squeezing my wrist, his eyes still on the road. “I don’t mean to sound like you did anything wrong in any way. You didn’t. He’s the asshole. You’re a strong person for getting out. A lot of people can’t. How did you manage to leave?”
He leaves his hand on my wrist, warm and comforting, and it soothes some of the tightness in my chest.
“It started when I got the job with Victoria, which happened almost by accident. I had been taking a bunch of shots for fun, mostly of Lucky and some of our friends. I showed them to her and she loved them. Until then, I don’t think Lucky really thought I would leave the industry. When I got the shoot with her, suddenly it was like everything was real. And then his behavior deteriorated. He was angry all the time about every little thing I did. It got to the point where he would get mad at me for going to lunch with a friend, or forgetting to put the cap on the toothpaste. He would convince me that I had done something terribly wrong, even though logically I knew that I hadn’t.”
I shut my eyes, remembering. Once the words start, I can’t stop them. It’s like the floodgates have opened and there’s no way to shut them against the tide of water spilling out.
“I wanted to leave. I was going to, anyway. But then I walked in on him with Becca. She was my friend. Or at least I thought she was. They told me I was an idiot for thinking Lucky and I had ever been monogamous. Didn’t I know he had been sleeping around this entire time?”
I shake my head and open my eyes, keeping my gaze on my lap.
“It was like he wanted me to catch them, as some sort of punishment for leaving modeling. And Becca . . . well I don’t know why she did it. Maybe jealousy? Not that I had much to be jealous over. After that, I lost it. I went into a deep depression, wouldn’t return any calls, not even from my family or Victoria. My sister had to fly out and drag me out of it. After a lot of talking with my family and with a therapist, I put myself back together and then started at the bottom. It was hard. I had to learn to forgive and move on. The forgiveness wasn’t necessarily for Becca and Lucky, but for myself. Understanding that it’s okay for me to make mistakes. Learning from them and moving on.”
He’s silent. I open my eyes and look over at him.
His thumb rubs against my wrist. “And now we’re here.”
“So we are. Sorry for all of that verbal spewage. Do you want to jump out of the car screaming yet?”
He laughs. “No. Not at all. I think it takes a lot of strength to come back from something like that, dealing with someone like Lucky. It makes me wish I had punched him when we ran into him.”
“He’s not worth it. But I have to admit. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been so focused on my goal. It’s like, if I can get someone to pick up my idea, I can prove to myself that he was wrong. I really am good enough. That I can do this.”
“I think you already have.” He glances over at me and our eyes connect. His hand squeezes mine and he returns his gaze to the road. “You said Marissa is still friends with him?”
“She befriends anyone and everyone who can get her information that sells magazines.”
He scoffs. “I can’t believe I dated her for two months.”
“Two whole months, huh? How did you guys meet anyway?”
“At a charity event. She was there and she was so sincere and I fell for it. She didn’t even care about the scars.”
“Marc.” I wait until he’s looking at me. “Nobody cares about the scars but you.”
“I know that’s not true. Marissa did care. She just pretended she didn’t.”
“Okay, now I think she’s a total psycho and a terrible person but how do you know she was pretending? Maybe she really didn’t care.”
“She never touched them, but that’s nothing new. Most people avoid looking and touching. She was good at pretending, but she never got close.”
“I’ve touched them.” I have to laugh at myself. “I touched them and we barely knew each other.”
He meets my eyes for a few long seconds. “I know.”
His hand has been loosely gripping my wrist this entire time, but now he squeezes it once, gently, and removes it, turning his eyes back to the road.
Chapter Fifteen
The guy who takes a chance, who walks the line between the known and unknown, who is unafraid of failure, will succeed.
–Gordon Parks
MARC
“CAN YOU HELP ME?”
“I’m not a shrink, Marc. I’m your IT girl.” Charlie is sitting in the chair across from my desk. It’s too high for her and she swings her legs like a kid.
“I’m not asking for mental help. What did you find?”
All of the company’s legal documents are encrypted and I had Charlie hack into them to see if dear old Dad had made any changes since I last had my hands on them.
I had to do it the shady way because I didn’t want him finding out.
It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving. I spent the whole weekend working, and thinking. Thinking way too much. About Gwen, about how she was able to leave her emotionally abusive relationship with her ex, and yet I’m still in mine.
“I’m also not an attorney,” she scolds me. “You know you could get me in trouble for all this snooping.”
“Charlie, I promise I will take the heat if there is any. And there’s no one else here I can talk to about this and trust that they won’t run to Daddy and tell on me.”
“From what I could find, everything is still the same and your dad has a hundred percent ownership interest.”
“Not surprising.” He likes to be in control of everything and everyone. “Is there anything in the contract about quitting?”
“The contract doesn’t have anything about a time limit for employment. You can quit any time you want.”
“Really?”
“That’s good news, right?”
“It is.” It means that I’m merely an employee. I have nothing to tie me here. Other than the money I make and what I’ve funneled into donations to the kids club. No to mention the people who work for my dad that I protect from his particular brand of crazy.
“You’re thinking about everyone else again,” Charlie says.
“How can I not?”
“It’s okay to be selfish sometimes.” She leans forward in the seat, her face earnest. “You do so much around here, but the world won’t end if you aren’t here.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, don’t even try to tell me it’s an ego thing. What if you hire your own replacement before you leave? And don’t tell your dad. Your job entitles you to hire and fire employees, right? There’s nothing legally preventing you from quitting.”
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. “Gwen said pretty much the same thing.”
“Hot and smart. I love her.”
I roll my eyes. “I could do it.”
But then I still don’t know what I want to do out there in the real world. If I do this, there’s no coming back. I’ve always wanted to travel. Now’s my chance. But what comes after that? I need more of a purpose than backpacking around the world like some teenager on a gap year. Don’t I? Do I? I guess I don’t need to work. Not really. My life has been nothing but slaving away for Dad and the company since I graduated from college. I could spend time enjoying my money instead of making it.
The thoughts are both thrilling and terrifying.
“You look like you might poop your pants.”
I chuckle. “It’s just . . . scary.”
“Oh, come on, Marc. You’re a trust-fund baby. You don’t have to do anything.”
It’s an echo of my own thoughts. But I need something to give my life purpose, right?
Which makes me think of Gwen and her dreams and ambitions.
I would follow her around the world.
I shake away the thought. She’s not mine to follow.
Two hours and a million tasks later, Dad strides into my office. “Marc, I need those marketing reports from yesterday.”
I don’t bother looking up at him. “I left them on your desk. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
“Glory broke up with me.”
That catches my attention. “I’m . . . sorry?”
“No you’re not.” He sits in the chair across from me. “The truth is that I’m not really sorry either.”
This is so weird. Are we having a real conversation about something?
“You know, if your grandfather were still alive, he’d be proud of how hard you work.”
I consider him, not really knowing how to respond. Does this mean he’s proud of me but he’s using my dead grandfather to try and pay me a compliment instead of telling me he’s proud of me himself? Or is this some kind of veiled insult? My grandpa was kind of a dick. Kind of like Dad, actually. Business always came first.
Wait, am I another version of them?
“Anyway, do you have any friends that might like to date an older gentleman with lots of money?”
And we’re back to being inappropriate. “No, Dad, I don’t.”
“I knew I should have asked Brent,” he mutters before getting up and walking out.
I get back to work. I’m leaving early because I promised Brent I would meet up with him later.
Ever since Thanksgiving, I’ve been avoiding my brother. It’s not hard to do since he’s barely home anyway.
But this week he’s on a bye and he’s harassed me into playing a pick-up game of basketball, just like we used to.
I want to ask him about Gwen. He mentioned before Thanksgiving that he wouldn’t mind if their relationship became more serious. Does he mean it? Does he want her? Is he going to pursue something?
There’s no denying my own feelings anymore. Gwen and I have kept up a fairly steady stream of texts since I dropped her off the other day. I told her about what Charlie and I discussed, and she sent me a Morpheus meme that said, What if I told you, you don’t have to wait until New Years to make positive changes in your life?
I sent one back with a little blonde girl in pigtails, her hands up, her expression confused. My reaction when someone asks me what I want to do with my life.
I can’t worry about Brent, I just need to ask him. Then I can talk to Gwen and see if she feels the same. I know she wants to leave the city. I know she doesn’t want a relationship. And maybe she’ll reject me, but this is stupid. I’m a grown-up. I can have a grown-up conversation with my brother about his fake girlfriend.
We’ve been playing for thirty minutes before I build up the nerve. I’m dribbling the ball at half-court, Brent in front of me waiting to block when I finally speak. “I need to talk to you.”
“I need to tell you something, too.”
“You first.” I fake to the left and dart to the right. The play works and I make my shot.
It bounces off the rim and Brent catches the rebound easily. “I think I’m going to ask Gwen to date me for real.”
My heart is already pounding with exertion and it skips a few beats with his words. “Really?” I don’t even try to steal the ball back. I stand there with my hands on my hips and my tongue stuck in a dry vise.
He shoots and the ball swishes through the net with ease. “Yeah. I really like her.”
The ball is bouncing next to me. I grab it and hold it in front of me, like it will prevent the rest of me from falling into the black hole of this conversation. “When?”
“Tonight. We have a date.” He eyes me speculatively. “You like her, right?”
Yes. And that’s exactly the problem.
But I know that’s not what he’s asking. He doesn’t think of it that way. He wouldn’t. I’m his scarred older brother who takes care of things, and the only women that ever want me just want to get to him. I’m not the one that dates supermodels and actresses. Why would he ever think otherwise?
“She’s a great girl,” I finally say.
Brent grins his megawatt, million-dollar grin. “She is. I haven’t felt this way about anyone since, well,” he lifts his brows, “you know who.”
Bella really effed him up. I would be so happy to see him happy with someone else. Anyone else.
And Gwen isn’t mine to covet. She never has been.
Why does it suddenly feel like my chest has been poked with a thousand tiny needles?
“Do you think she’ll be into it? I mean, does she act like she shares your feelings since this whole thing started?” Back at the half-court, I have the ball again. “She wants to leave New York, you know,” I add. Out of desperation maybe, but I try to keep my tone light.
This time, I don’t try to run the ball. I take a shot at half-court. It teeters on the rim before falling away.
I miss again.
He grabs up the ball as it bounces back toward us. “Yeah, but I travel a lot, too. And I have time in the off-season. I won’t really know until I ask.” He steps up to shoot and it swishes through the net.
He’s so nonchalant. He has nothing to worry about. Of course she’ll be into dating Brent. No woman in her right mind would turn him down. Well, except Bella. The thought gives me hope.
What am I thinking? I want my own brother to be happy, don’t I?
“So. Tonight huh?”
“Yep. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t want to spook her. She’s a little skittish.”
More hope. She didn’t seem that skittish to me. Not when I was kissing her in the Hamiltons’ kitchen.
“Good luck, man.”
He runs over and grabs the ball from where it’s settled on the gym floor and passes it to me. “Your turn. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. It was nothing.”
He frowns but doesn’t press the issue. Then his face breaks into a smirk. “You cool to come out with us on Friday? I have a hot date for you.”
I had nearly forgotten. Since it’s a bye, a bunch of Brent’s teammates plan on meeting up at some hot new club where they can sit in the VIP section and act like kings. Starlee suggested Brent and Gwen make an appearance, and Brent wanted me to come with them.
“Sure, that’s fine.” I take another shot from the top of the key and this time, the ball goes wide and curves next to the net. I’m not even close.
“HOW DO I LOOK?” BRENT stands in the doorway of my office at home and adjusts the tie around his neck.
“Good.”
