by S. J. Bishop
As we waited for food to arrive, I tried to get to know Yvette a bit better. I asked her questions about her parents and about modeling; I asked about her travels and her favorite foods. I’ll tell you what – she was flirty as hell. Her every shift in her seat seemed calculated to make me drool. A strap sliding down her shoulder, her dress sliding slowly up her thighs, the neck dipping down over her cleavage, and her hair brushed back behind perfect ears. She answered every one of my questions with a small smile or a charming wink and a clever retort.
It was halfway through the meal before I realized that she hadn’t asked me a single question. In fact, we’d finished the bottle of wine before I realized that for all that shifting, those clever remarks, and her winks – she was bored. She wasn’t at all interested in me, in the dinner, or in my conversation. Somewhere between the time I’d picked her up and the end of the appetizers, I’d managed to bore her.
Fuck. Fuck.
I switched tactics. I’d been trying to be friendly and warm. Maybe she wasn’t into that shit. Maybe she wanted Berserker Burke, the idiot tight end who spent his weekends in a DJ booth. Women were fucking difficult. Come on too strong with some of them, and you’re a misogynist, insensitive dickhead, but try to be fucking polite – you’re boring.
“D’accord,” I said, switching to French, for we’d been speaking in English. If she wanted a dickhead, I could be a dickhead. “Don’t tell me you’re not at all interested in me? We’ve been speaking about you for an hour. Are you going to play into all of the model stereotypes? Or are you going to be interesting?”
That had her. She sat up straight and looked startled. I stared at her, thinking about all of the delicious things I’d like to do to her in bed and letting it show on my face. Rather than get angry, she seemed to consider me for a moment. She leaned forward, accepting my challenge. Fuck, this woman was so fucking hot.
“Okay, Sauvage,” she said, her eyes sparking with sudden fire. “You speak French – have you been to Paris?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“So, you’ve never been to Le Cinq? You’ve never seen Opera at le Garnier?”
I blinked. Shit. “Not yet.”
“Have you been to Milan? What about Japan?”
“On my list of places to go.” What the hell? Was this some kind of test?
Yvette sat back as if I’d confirmed something, and the waiter chose that moment to come up and ask if we wanted anything else.
No way was I giving up that easily; I started to order another bottle of wine, but Yvette cut in. “Just the addition.” The waiter blinked at her.
“The check,” I translated, dumbfounded. The waiter had it on him, and I handed him my Black card. Yvette dabbed the sides of her perfectly lipsticked mouth with her napkin, and she filled the silence he’d left by talking about Becca Barnes and saying how maybe she’d come by and watch a game this season.
She was letting me down easy! She was fucking letting me down easy! Flashbacks to college when I’d thought being a football star would land me all the girls I wanted, but the cheerleaders hadn’t known what to make of the star tight end who wanted to talk about Emile Zola…
The waiter brought the check back, and Yvette stood up as I was signing. She politely waited for me as I rose. I offered her my arm, and she took it (thank God!) and let me walk her out.
“Do you want to get a drink downtown?” I asked as the Valet rushed off to find my car.
“Oh no,” she said, pointing to a dark Cadillac pulling up around the corner. “I’ve got a party to go to.” She leaned up, her perfume wafting up around me as she kissed my cheek lightly. “Thank you for dinner, Sauvage.”
And before I could object, she strolled toward the Cadi, opened the door, and disappeared inside.
3
Sarah
I’m telling you, Roz; I don’t think he’s as dumb as he appears on TV.”
“You’re kidding, I hope?” said Roz from her spot on my bed. She was examining her cuticles and looking through People Magazine, her long legs crossed at the knee and her foot bouncing impatiently.
I was sitting at my computer going through all the pictures of Burke Tyler I could find. It was a totally pointless and incredibly fantastic way to spend one’s Sunday. There were a lot of photos of Burke out there. My favorite? It was a tossup between the ESPN Body Issue (his abs, oh my God, his abs!), his stills as an extra on The Vikings (where they’d given him some really cool blue face tattoos), and a ridiculous spread he’d done for Sports Illustrated where he was playing in a large pile of bulldog puppies.
“Sarah, this is the guy who went onto the Late Show with Jimmy Fallon after the Super Bowl and said that winning was a ‘disenfrazzling’ moment.”
“I think he puts it on,” I said. I really shouldn’t be looking at pictures of Burke. Not when he was out on a date with my boss. But you couldn’t blame me. Really. You had to see Burke Tyler in person. He was just too gorgeous to believe, and with that hair and that tattoo…
My phone buzzed.
“Who’s that?” asked Roz, uncrossing her legs and sitting up. Roz and I were college roommates who’d decided to continue living together after college. Roz was attractive in an unconventional way. She had dark skin; thick, untamable hair; and a large, hooked nose. She also had incredible, gold-colored eyes and pretty lush lips, now turned downward in a frown. Something in People had upset her. She tossed the magazine toward the trash, missing.
“I don’t know,” I said, unwilling to check my phone. Maybe it was Yvette, but it was Sunday, and Yvette took Sunday off as a rule. Plus, I was busy ogling Burke Tyler’s butt. “Who’s it from?” asked Roz.
“Who cares,” I muttered.
“Sarah Jane!” snapped Roz. “Stop drooling over some football player who’s dating your boss. Who texted?”
I glanced down at the phone. Fuck. “Andrew.”
Roz stared at me, her brow furrowing in confusion and then understanding. “Andrew? Like Andrew Sullivan? Like, weren’t we done talking to Andrew?” Roz had a boyfriend who lived across town, but she still talked about my relationships as if she was a voting member in them. Who are we going out with this evening? Weren’t we through with him? Did we think he was good in bed?
“Chill,” I advised Roz. I picked up the phone and checked the text.
Hey! My contract ended in Chicago, and I’m back in Boston for a few months. Care to meet up?
“He wants to meet up,” I said, my stomach seizing a little. I hated that it still did that. I hated that Andrew, my first love, might always have that power over me. “His project in Chicago ended, and he’s back in Boston.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know. It’s Andrew.”
“Yah, well, why bother with him again? Especially when he’s the one who keeps dumping you!”
Why bother with Andrew again? Because I’d loved him so incredibly hard; because a part of me will always love him.
“All the more reason to stay away,” said Roz quietly, reading my silence.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I keep thinking that maybe there’s a reason we keep coming together…”
“Maybe there’s a better reason you keep breaking up.”
I shrugged. “That’s what growing up is, isn’t it? You change, and maybe you change in ways that bring you closer together. Maybe you change in ways that make you incompatible.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
I laughed. Roz was a skeptic.
“Well, whatever,” Roz continued. “At least Andrew might keep you from thinking about Burke Tyler. Screwing around with the man your boss is dating – that’ll get you fired pretty damn quickly.”
“Maybe I want to get fired,” I suggested.
“Yah, sure,” said Roz, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And stop jet setting, stop dining at nice places, and stop spending weeks lying on the beach while your boss does the SI swimsuit edition? I’ll believe that when I s
ee it.”
Mondays were always the craziest day of the week. Since Yvette refused to work on Sunday (and let me tell you – the fashion world worked every day of the week!) it meant that Mondays were full of answering emails, making phone calls, setting up appointments, and running errands. On Mondays, I worked until about eleven o’clock at night.
I had two phones – my work and my personal. Yvette had three phones. Her work, her personal work (both of which I handled), and her personal personal (which she kept on her at all times). I explained this only because I had four phones (five if you counted the office phone) that sat on my desk, so when one of them buzzed, I was momentarily confused when I looked down and saw: Hey, Gorgeous. Try again? The ballet is performing Romeo and Juliet.
For a moment, I thought it was Andrew, and then I realized that the name on the phone read Burke. I felt a sudden breathless excitement wash over me until I realized that it was Yvette’s work phone (which has a similar gold case to my personal cell).
I took a deep breath. Yvette had ridden the train up to NYC early that morning to meet with the producers of a French reality show looking to hire Yvette as a guest judge.
I shot her a text on her private cell, telling her about Burke’s message and asking what she wanted me to reply.
Let him down gently, she responded almost immediately. Was she kidding? What was wrong with her? I rolled my eyes. It seemed totally inane that someone as dynamic, intelligent, and beautiful as Yvette Delacroix would waste her energy on a jerk like Luis Abasolo but wouldn’t give someone as interesting as Burke Tyler a chance.
I was dying to ask her about her date, to see what had happened that made her so quick to write him off.
I stared at her phone a moment, feeling a ridiculous amount of regret. I’d hoped that Burke and Yvette would hit it off, if only so that I’d get to see him a few more times. Oh, come on! Haven’t you ever had a celebrity crush? I mean, yes, I spent a good deal of my time around male models, but the age of Tyson Bedford and Larry Scott was long gone. Designers were more interested in Danila Kovelev types (men who were wispy and beautiful enough to be mistaken for women).
I stared at Yvette’s phone a moment, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, I said: I had a nice time with you on Friday. But I’m a bit too busy right now to get involved with anyone. There. I hit send and went back to my emails.
It was a moment later when the phone buzzed again.
Hey, lovely. Care to grab some lunch?
For a moment, I was confused. Really? Had Burke not gotten the hint? It took me a moment to realize that it was my phone – not Yvette’s – that had buzzed. And it wasn’t Burke; it was Andrew. My stomach seized up again. Did I want to grab lunch with Andrew?
I stared at the phone, not sure what to respond. Roz was partly right about needing to stay away from Andrew. He was the one who always broke up with me, and I was the one constantly heartbroken over him.
The phone buzzed again. No strings. I’m going to take two weeks in between gigs and do some travelling. I just want to pick your brain!
I took a deep breath. That I could do.
Sure, I texted back. But it has to be a quick lunch and it has to be near me. I’m swamped at work.
We met at a sandwich shop down the street from Yvette’s loft. I got there first and ordered a salad. Andrew was always late – always – but I wasn’t going to allow his lateness to dictate my time. I was going to keep our meeting as short as possible. If Andrew decided to show up late, that was his own problem. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t raided Yvette’s store of free gifts and borrowed an elegant, dark green blouse and a few Mac cosmetics. Can you blame me? It’s human to want your ex to want you, isn’t it?
When Andrew walked into the small shop, mine wasn’t the only gaze directed his way. There were a few tables where people were having working lunches, and there was a table of young women near the door who immediately started whispering.
Yah, Andrew is that good looking. He works for a fancy consulting company, so he’s usually dressed in suit. But since he was in between projects, he was dressed casually, as casually as Andrew ever dressed. He grew up in boarding schools, so his “casual” attire was still pretty formal. He looked like he’d walked off the pages of a J Crew catalogue. He wore slim-fitting, gray khakis, a maroon Lacoste polo, and aviators. His shoes and belt were the same medium brown and made from expensive, butter soft leather.
He removed his sunglasses, sticking them in his shirt pocket, and his eyes roamed around the small café until they landed on me. I wished my heart didn’t stop at the sight of Andrew. But seriously, you’ve got to see him to understand it. He’s gorgeous and exudes a calm confidence.
Andrew strolled over to my table and leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to my cheek. He smelled like his aftershave lotion – vanilla and sandalwood. I inhaled and tried not to get giddy.
“You look beautiful,” said Andrew, sitting down. “How are you?”
The waitress came and delivered my salad.
“Doing well,” I said. “It’s Monday, so I’m busy. How are you?”
“Relieved to be back in Boston,” said Andrew, leaning back in his chair and looking at the menu. His eyes roamed over it a moment before looking back up at me. His smile was boyish. “What should I get?”
I looked at the menu, trying to envision what Andrew might like. He cared more about his figure than he did about food.
“The grilled chicken and red peppers,” I said.
Andrew winked. “Dead on, beautiful. I see you’ve still got it.”
“Was that a test?” I asked, frowning.
Andrew wasn’t listening to me. Instead, he was checking out the restaurant, his eyes landing a moment on the table of young women before landing back on me. “So,” he said, steepling his fingers, “where do I go for my holiday?”
I inhaled through my nose and forced a smile at him. No more small talk then. He really did just want to get some feedback on his travel. “Well, do you want warm or European? Do you want exotic? How long do you want to spend on an airplane?”
“I’ll have the chicken with peppers,” said Andrew as the waitress came up.
She smiled at him and wrote down his order. “Fries or homemade chips?”
“I’ll have the spinach salad,” he corrected lightly. Then he turned his warm brown eyes back on me. I sighed inwardly. When Andrew looked at you like that, it was hard to deny him anything or even be frustrated with him, really. And that was the problem with Andrew, those eyes and that look have gotten him everything he wants in life. It didn’t help that he was a hard worker. When he put his various talents toward a task, it was difficult to say no to him.
When the waitress left, he leaned in and reached across the table, taking up my hand. “You really look great, Sarah.”
“Thanks.” I smiled lightly, hoping it hid the fact that my stomach had seized up, the pain of our breakup fresh in my mind. I never had closure with Andrew. We’d broken up twice. Once in college and once after, and I never really knew why. Both times, Andrew had made it seem as though breaking up was to our mutual benefit - that we needed space to grow as people.
“I was reading your blog,” said Andrew, sitting back. “Can you tell me about Bali? Those pictures looked fantastic.”
I blinked. “You were reading my blog?”
“What about Croatia? I saw those pictures, too. How was Croatia? Where were you when you took that picture of the cliffs?”
Andrew was following my blog. This shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. I advertise my blog on my social media page and actually had a robust readership – but how had Andrew even found my blog? I’d unfriended him the last time we broke up. Had he googled me? The thought that Andrew was maybe not over me, had been thinking about me, left me fiercely triumphant. I like to think I’m not that forgettable, but spend enough time playing second fiddle to a model and it was easy to doubt yourself.
“Sarah?” Andrew pr
odded. “If I want to get to Croatia, where’s the best place to fly out of?”
I took a deep breath. Stay focused, Forte. Just because Andrew read your blog doesn’t mean he was interested in getting back together. “Providence,” I said. “Unless you don’t mind the extra three hundred dollars it will take to fly out of Boston.”
In the end, I spent an entire hour longer than I meant to with Andrew. He talked about Chicago, and we argued over the best deep dish pizza places. He had read almost every article I’d written about my travels with Yvette and had questions about some of the places I’d visited. He’d recently been to Barcelona, so we talked about some of the places he’d seen.
Only when Andrew had finished his sandwich and paid the bill did we get up and head out.
Andrew walked me back to Yvette’s building. When he leaned down to kiss me goodbye, he gave me a small kiss on the lips. “Let’s meet up when I come back. I’m going to check out a few of the places you recommended. We’ll compare notes.”
“Sounds good,” I said, feeling a bit sad but trying to hide it. He must have heard the regret in my voice, however, because his smile softened, and he reached out and took my hand. “It’s really great to see you,” he said. “You look fantastic. I’m glad you’re doing well.”
“You, too,” I said, trying to sound sunnier than I felt. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”
4
Burke
I don’t know, Bro. You want me to kiss your ass or you want real talk?” Caz cut off a large bite of his T-bone steak and eyed me warily.
“Please, Woods. As if The Berserker could handle ‘real talk.’” Mac grinned at me, all teeth and challenge.
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.
“That you can dish it out but you’re pretty shit at taking it,” said Mac.
I looked at Caz, and he shrugged, still chewing. Dicks. “Fine. Real talk.”
