by Mindy Klasky
I let myself lean back against his chest. I gave myself permission to melt into the solid heat of his body.
When the first burst of fireworks went off, his arms tightened around me, holding me close when I jumped with the inevitable surprise.
I had always thought that fireworks were beautiful—full of mystery, full of light. The dull concussion as the shells launched, the sharp crack of the explosion. The flaming stars, the weeping cascade of sparks. Pure white, red, green, the occasional shock of other colors, painting the clouding canvas of the night sky.
I had always thought that fireworks were beautiful, but I had never seen them like I did that night. They seemed close enough that I could lean out over the abyss, that I could soar between them, lost forever in their stars. The explosions were so loud that they made me catch my breath. I had to laugh when multiple stages caught, popped, burst into colored flame. I had never known that I could watch, forever, feeling my heartbeat slow to match another person’s, feeling my breathing synchronize until the full power and glory of the finale could blind me and deafen me and make me eternally grateful for the cage of flesh and bone that kept me safe.
I don’t know how long we stood there, after the fireworks were over. I closed my eyes, resting my head on Timothy’s collarbone, thinking nothing, saying nothing. A lifetime passed and then I felt his broad hands on my waist, holding me safe and secure. Turning me to face him.
“That was amazing,” I said.
“It was.”
There were entire conversations buried in those five words. I knew that he was telling me stories, about his life, about all the things he knew and thought and believed. I knew that he was asking me questions. And I understood all the answers that I wanted to give him. I understood that I wanted to lead him to the ghostly staff elevator at this magical hotel. I wanted to guide him back to the Bentley, to my apartment, to the king-size bed where we could watch my bedroom grow rosy with the light of dawn.
The streets were surprisingly empty by the time we left the rooftop. Timothy and I walked, hand in hand, as if we were the only two people on the sidewalks, the only two people in all of New York City.
He nodded to the doorman when we got to the Bentley. He stood close to me in the elevator. He radiated heat against my back as I opened the three locks that led into my apartment. He closed the door behind us, taking care to see that it latched.
It was the most natural thing in the world to sit next to him on the couch. Every moment that we’d known each other had siphoned into this funnel. He was supposed to cup a hand behind my head. I was destined to pull him close, to hook my fingers under his black leather belt. We were meant to fall back onto the wintergreen throw pillows, to laugh against each other’s lips, to lose ourselves in a tangle of hands and hair and twisted, crumpled clothing.
I barely felt the impact as Tabitha jumped onto the arm of the couch. I might not have realized she was there at all, if Timothy hadn’t looked up, hadn’t grinned at her and lightly eased her back to the floor.
But that interruption was enough. Tabitha’s intrusion was like a lightning message from my superego, a reminder transmitted in thousand-point type.
I had the Master Plan.
I couldn’t let myself be distracted by Timothy’s touch. I had promised myself, promised Amy. I’d never made anything stick, never kept a single vow I’d ever made before, not where men were concerned. I had never chosen to place my feelings, my needs above those of some broken relationship with a guy, some desperate thing that I thought was a panacea.
Plants, fish, cat. The words spun through my head like a mantra. Plants. Fish. Cat.
Man.
Given my track record with the first three, I had little hope that anything would ever work out with Timothy, not in the long run.
But Tabitha had come home, right? Just one day after running away?
Maybe my luck was turning. Maybe I was becoming more responsible. Maybe I could set aside the Master Plan and do what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. Maybe bad things only came in twos this time, not the threes that had ruined my life before.
Yeah. Right. A cat decided, by the inscrutable workings of her own feline mind, to come home to me, and I was turning that into a demonstration of my responsibility, my fitness for taking on obligations in the adult world? I had a Master Plan precisely so that I wouldn’t let myself get into this trouble, wouldn’t let myself make the same mistakes I’d made over and over and over again.
“What?” Timothy asked, pulling back.
“I—” I started to say, and I was embarrassed to find that I needed to clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
For just a moment, he collapsed against me. His neck sagged, and his head brushed against my shoulder. He exhaled, long and slow, and his breath seared my arm.
I stiffened with remorse. “Timothy, I’m sorry. I—I can’t…”
He levered off of me, planting his hands on either side of my trembling body. Now that I’d interrupted us, I was completely confused. I knew what I wanted to do; I knew that I wanted to pull him back to me, drag both of us into my bedroom, once and for all. But I also knew that I couldn’t. I needed to prove to myself that I wouldn’t.
My frustration boiled over into hot tears—frustration with myself, with Amy, with Sam and all the other guys who had made me doubt my ability to ever have a sane, balanced relationship. I hated my stupid, confused, Laura Wingfield life, with more passion than I’d ever hated anything before.
“Hush,” Timothy said, smoothing his hand down my back.
“I—” I gulped. I didn’t have the faintest idea how I was going to finish that sentence.
“Hush,” he said again.
It took a moment for me to swallow hard. To smother the tears. To take a deep, shuddering breath. Another.
“Timothy,” I started to say.
“It’s all right.” He rose to his feet, the motion so smooth, so even, that I could imagine he’d planned it all evening. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“No,” I said, but I didn’t have any more words to add.
He shook his head, looking down at me. He reached out one finger and touched it to my lips, like the chastest of kisses, like a promise. And then he glided around the couch, stalking to the door with a panther’s grace. The silence echoed long after he had left.
CHAPTER 13
I WAITED UNTIL MORNING BEFORE I CALLED AMY.
“I hate you,” I said, the instant she picked up.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said. “Happy Super Soldier Saturday.”
“I’m through with the Master Plan. It was a stupid idea. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it.”
“Let me guess. Dr. Teel dumped you.”
“No!” I almost threw my phone across the room. I could picture her gloating as she ate her breakfast of fat-free lemon yogurt over one sliced peach, skin removed. I knew my sister way too well. “Why would you even say that?”
“So it was Timothy, then. You two got together. Are you moving in with him? Or is he moving in with you?”
For a moment, all I could do was splutter. Of all the obnoxious, superior, controlling, manipulative things for my sister to say… “You make me sound like a total slut! Amy, I don’t move in with every single guy I meet.”
“Stop me if I’m driving beyond my headlights here. Let’s review the whole reason you agreed to do the Master Plan.”
“Amy!”
“You like Timothy, right?”
“Well—”
“And you know that he’s a better catch than Sam ever was, right?”
“Anyone—”
“And you were all set on marrying Sam, right, before he dumped you cold?”
“But—”
“Erin, you might as well eat the reality sandwich.” She sounded like a lawyer making a closing argument in court. “You’ve been out of circulation for, what, six weeks now? When was the last time you didn’t have a boyfriend fo
r six weeks? No wonder you got itchy. No wonder you’re all ready to drop the Plan.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
More courtroom drama. “When was the last time you went six weeks without a guy in your life?”
“Amy!”
“When?”
I rolled my eyes and counted backward. “Ninth grade, all right? The entire spring semester.”
“And when was the last time you made decisions based on what you wanted to do, instead of worrying about what some guy wanted, what some guy might think? When was the last time you walked away from some candy-apple crush because it made you act stupid? Erin, we have been over this again and again. You have to learn how to incentivize your own choices!”
I hated her. I hated her stupid business school jargon. I hated her absolute certainty that she was right. I hated the fact that she actually was right.
Oh, I wasn’t ready to move in with Timothy. But I was definitely more attracted to him every time I saw him. And the only reason I had sent him walking the night before was because of Amy’s stupid Master Plan. The Master Plan, and the way it was supposed to free me from making idiotic crush-based decisions.
There was also, in the light of day, the minor snag that I didn’t actually know that much about Timothy. Oh, I knew a lot of meaningless details about him. I was pretty much an expert on his philosophy of restaurant management. I knew that he was kind. I knew that he was amazingly competent in the kitchen.
But I didn’t know the first thing about the real guy. I didn’t know anything about his family. About his past. About any friends he had. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived.
“Erin?” Amy asked. I realized that I’d been quiet for a long time.
“Yeah, I’m here. But I’ve got to go now. And I really do hate you.”
“Are you dumping the Master Plan?”
“No.” I shook my head to emphasize my decision, even though she couldn’t see me. “I’m not ready to do that. I still need it, to keep me from doing something stupid.”
“See?” Amy sounded immensely proud. “Am I a wise and wonderful sister, or what?”
“Not so wise,” I argued. “And don’t push it for wonderful. And I just have to say, you are totally wrong about me and Dr. Teel.”
“Yeah, right. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And that lip-lock at Garden Variety wasn’t exactly platonic.”
“Let’s just say that there’s more to Dr. Teel than meets the eye.”
“Oooh!” She clearly sounded intrigued. “Do tell!”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m not the type of girl to kiss and tell.”
She started to push for more details, but I asked the only question I was certain would deflect her. “How’s Justin? Have things gotten any easier at all?”
“Yeah,” she said, and I could hear the surprise in her voice. “They have. He is so proud about riding his bike, he made me take a dozen photos to send to Derek. And he’s finally stopped with the spilling-the-milk thing. I’m a little tired of clinking my glass every meal, but Shawn was on to something there.”
I was glad to hear that something positive had come out of that awkward dinner at Garden Variety. Actually, I was truly happy that Amy was catching a real break with her unruly son. She really did deserve one.
“Wait a second!” Amy said. “You’re not going to distract me that easily! Tell me what you know about Dr. Teel!”
So much for diversion. Nevertheless, I was still the younger sister. I hadn’t completely forgotten how to hone my reputation for brattiness. I smiled broadly and said, “Whoops! Gotta run! Talk to you later!”
I didn’t answer when Amy called me back.
I was good at avoiding my sister when I didn’t want to talk to her.
I became expert at avoiding Timothy.
I wanted to talk to him. I really did. I had to do something, say something, to smooth over the new awkwardness between us. I had to get past my embarrassment, move beyond the horrible tangle of emotions that nauseated me every single time I remembered freezing on my couch, every time I relived shutting him down like I was some sort of virgin schoolgirl tease.
We could get past that. I could hold true to the Master Plan and still have casual conversations with a guy. In fact, I’d be even better at working the Plan if Timothy and I became friends, really got to know each other. I worked out elaborate dialogs, careful conversations that were designed to elicit data about Timothy’s background and family and friends.
But something always kept me from delivering my lines. Okay, on Saturday and Sunday, it was my fault. I avoided the catering table altogether, telling myself that I wasn’t hungry, that I had to cut back on the high-calorie snacks. I just couldn’t face the patient smile I was certain I would find on Timothy’s face. I was too embarrassed. Too regretful that I’d changed my mind when I’d had him, literally, in my grasp.
By Monday, I decided to face the music, to grab the proverbial bull by the horns. Shawn, though, was particularly despondent over our second-class status that day—those rehearsals focused on scenes with the Gentleman Caller. I had to stay close to my fellow understudy, to snark with him about the terrible job the leads were doing.
On Tuesday, Martina sucked all the air out of the room, cross-examining Timothy on the ingredients for the petit fours that he served.
On Wednesday, I ducked out of rehearsal the instant that Ken called a break, racing down to the Mercer box office for the one shift a week I still worked with them.
On Thursday, Timothy set up trays of food, but he left them unattended. The stage manager said she thought he had some sort of meeting, but she didn’t know the details.
On Friday, Ken Durbin kept me working during all of our breaks; he wanted to make sure I had mastered the blocking, in case I ever actually needed to go onstage instead of Martina.
On Saturday, I was all ready to say something, anything, but I became completely overwhelmed when I realized it had been one solid week since Timothy and I had talked. One solid week since we had tangled on my sofa. One solid week since he had closed my front door behind him.
I chickened out.
I simply couldn’t trust my judgment. Not where men were concerned. I’d spent all of high school and college developing bad habits, habits that I’d polished to a high sheen with Sam. No, I’d made the Master Plan for a reason, and I had to stick with it. And if that meant avoiding small talk with a guy I wasn’t going to do anything else with for nearly a year, then fine.
Of course, even when I successfully stayed away from the catering table in the wings, I kept hearing about Timothy. Martina had traded in her whining about craft services so that she could devote all of her energy to demanding her Lucky Red Dragon soda. She insisted that she could not manage opening night without the beverage, that it was the key to her success. She had drunk a bottle every night that she’d performed on that awful reality TV show, and she wasn’t about to do less for our production.
Ken reassured her—and anyone else within earshot—that Timothy was searching for the drink nonstop. So far, though, it was nowhere to be found. Everyone Timothy talked to said that they were familiar with the name, that they used to be able to order it, that they’d heard it had been taken off the market. Timothy had even gone so far as to comb through the back streets of Chinatown, relying on a hand-drawn label and the carefully written Chinese characters for lucky and red and dragon.
Martina whined and moaned, but it looked as if we were going to open Menagerie! without ginseng tonic. Definitely without the additional twelve secret herbs and spices.
I had to give Ken a lot of credit. Despite Martina’s prima donna behavior, despite our being weeks behind in rehearsals, despite the ever-growing array of artistic questions and issues and problems, he continued to channel his boundless energy into building an incredible show. As with any new musical, we were always shooting at a moving target. Every rehearsal, we changed dance numbers, tweaked songs, reworked spoken dialog, striving t
irelessly for perfection.
Ken continued to fold us understudies into rehearsals, making sure that we learned all the lines, all the songs, all the blocking for each and every scene. He included us in the vocal and motion warm-ups every day (usually the best part of every rehearsal for me, because I got admiring looks from the other performers. All the other performers but Martina, that was.) Ken always had us walk through each scene in place of the leads at least once, so that we knew the blocking, understood the structure. In theory, we could go onstage at a moment’s notice—and for that I was eternally grateful.
In practice, of course, we understudies were nowhere near as integrated into the show as Ken made it seem. I was constantly jockeying for position so that I could get a sight line for new dance combinations. I had to remind the stage manager three times before I got a copy of the lyrics for a last-minute new song, a number that Ken added to the second act when he concluded that no one understood Tom’s motivation for bringing the Gentleman Caller home to visit.
Being an understudy was a constant education in humility, a never-ending reminder that I hadn’t been good enough to land the lead. In my case, the struggle was even more stressful, because I truly believed that I had been good enough. I just hadn’t been famous enough. And I hadn’t tailored my magical wishes specifically enough.
And that was another source of stress in the weeks after the Fourth of July—Teel. My genie was growing desperate. He pulled me to the Garden constantly, not worrying about whether he was interrupting rehearsal, dragging me away from Amy and Justin on Super Soldier Saturday, blasting me out of deep, desperately needed sleep.
Teel claimed that he didn’t know how long Jaze would be in the Garden. He claimed that his soul mate could be heading back into the real world (or whatever passed for real, to a genie) at any instant. He claimed that their love would be split asunder forever, if I didn’t make my last wish immediately.
