by Amelia Wilde
Eva frowns. “How controlling? Be honest with me.” I can see the concern lighting like a signal fire in her face.
“No, not like that. Not like that. He just—he has a plan, and he likes to stick to it. He’s not the kind of guy who thrives on surprises.”
“Oooh.” She murmurs the word into her wine glass, one eyebrow arched. “And this is fireworks instead of fizzle?”
“He takes me from day to night.”
“Seductive. But how does he...live with you?” Eva guffaws, a completely unladylike sound. “How does he stand it? I mean that in the nicest way possible.”
“I’ve grown out of my former erratic ways. I’ve got a job. Two jobs. And. I keep the spontaneous road trips under control. I’ve only woken him up early on the weekend once.”
“Yes, that all sounds incredibly tame. I’m sure he’ll love those late nights at the theater.”
“Hey, bitch, I say this fondly, but are you trying to rain on my parade?”
Eva laughs until tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “No! No. I’m sorry. It’s a terrible habit. I spend too much time writing about people and not enough time drinking with them. Clearly. It makes me morbidly curious.”
“I’d be curious too. Have you seen my boyfriend?”
We laugh for another hour, until the wine has gone thoroughly to my head.
In my head, I’m in the middle of a breakup scene. In reality, I’m trying to sell a man insurance.
It’s not going well.
“This isn’t going to work for us,” I hear myself saying, and sit upright with a jolt. Hollywood’s Man of the Year looks disapprovingly down at me from his perch on my cubicle wall.
“What? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I cover smoothly, because at least the silver lining of acting is that you can course correct on the fly. “I want to make sure this works for you. Do you have any other policies you’d like to bundle along with your life insurance policy? We also offer homeowners insurance. It could be available to you for a monthly rate of $106.40.”
There’s a beat when I brace myself for an unceremonious click on the other end of the line. I really have to focus. But it’s hard, because the evenings are stuffed full of rehearsals. I’ve even got them jammed into my lunch break. Fittings. Solo rehearsals with a voice coach. I love it, but it’s added a level of swirling storm to my life that I didn’t anticipate.
Kind of like Wes.
“Sure,” says the man on the other end of the line, and my thoughts have wandered so far to Wes’s body, to the heated look in his eyes when we kiss—when we do more than kiss—that, for a split second, I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Wonderful. That’s wonderful.” I sell him on an auto policy too.
Disaster averted.
But it leaves me shaken, somehow off-balance in a way I don’t like.
I know what the cure to that is.
Today my lunch break is only a lunch break. No plans, no fittings, no rehearsals. May has turned over into June and I step out into the sunlight, my phone already warm in my hand. It’s five minutes after twelve when I dial Summer’s number.
She picks up on the first ring. “Oh, my God, it’s you! I miss you!”
Her words are muffled behind food, but the happiness is unmistakable.
“What’s for lunch?”
“A pita from the place down the street.” She laughs. “I’m outside on a park bench. What are you eating?”
“I’m going to that gyro cart on the corner by my office. Twins!”
“See? I knew we’d still be linked at the mind even when I moved out.”
“Then you should guess what I’m going to say next.”
“Let me think.” Summer graces me with the sound of her chewing and swallowing another bite of pita. “You’re going to somehow shake up my life as I know it.”
I was going to say we should make lunch plans for next week, but the moment the words are out of my mouth, all the pieces fall into places. I’ve been wanting to have Summer and Dayton over for dinners. I’ve been wanting to make this thing with me and Wes real. I want to burst that bubble between the dreamy beginnings of a relationship, when it’s still a secret that nobody knows, and light it up with the world’s best spotlight. I’m tired of hiding us in the dark, damn it.
“Of course I am. Find a babysitter, because you’re coming to dinner.”
“What?” Summer says around another mouthful of pita, and my stomach growls at the frankly disgusting sound. I can’t help it. I’m starving. “Tonight?”
“Yes. It’s past time that you visited the old stomping grounds, and we need to reconnect on a spiritual level.”
I love to hear her laugh. “A spiritual level? Does that mean I need to bring dessert?”
“You know that’s what it means. You must bring the best dessert you can rustle up on short notice.”
“I don’t know,” she frets. “It is short notice. What if I can’t find—”
“You will find a sitter. I can sense it,” I intone, and Summer laughs again. “This is the spontaneity of life. This is what we have to do in order to keep things fresh and fun. If we don’t have unexpected dinners every now and again, what’s the point of living?”
There’s an ache at the center of my chest that I can’t name, but the excitement of making plans with Summer soothes it, lets it fall back to the depths where it belongs.
“What’s the point?” she cries. “Get your lunch. I’ve got to connect with my babysitter. Do you have any other breaking news?”
The urge to tell her right now, to get it out into the open, is so strong it feels like vertigo. I open my mouth. “No. Nothing at all. See you tonight at seven. Love you.”
“Love youuuuu.” She disconnects the call in the middle of her profession of affection and I pick up the pace a second time. I could call Wes and let him know...but no. I slip my phone into my purse. It’ll be a nice surprise.
I sweep into the apartment on an early summer breeze, my arms laden with bags, and sing Wes’s name. He appears from the kitchen, wiping his mouth.
“What’s all that?”
“Dinner. We’re having a little party.”
I wait for the corner of his mouth to turn up in the little smile that says, Whitney, I think you’re amazing, and now you have made me see that life is about the last-minute plans we make to ensure a bit of spontaneity in our lives.
“I already ate.”
It sends a frisson of cold through my heart, but I ignore it, brushing past him into the kitchen and letting the bags land heavily on the counter. “No big. It’s not until seven, and you’re going to love who’s coming.”
“Who did you invite?” Wes stands in the doorway, not breaching the line between the hall and the kitchen, and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“My best friend in the world, Summer Sullivan. And your best friend in the world, Dayton Nash.”
“Okay,” he says flatly, and I want to die a little. “That could be a little awkward. Pretending we’re not—you know. Giving this a try.”
“Why would we do that?” I keep myself moving, keep putting things into the fridge. I have a recipe for a chicken pot pie bake that everyone’s going to love. It’s just the kind of thing to sit at the center of a bunch of laughing, happy friends. Only Wes’s eyes are wary and cold. “You don’t think we should tell them?”
“I think we should take five seconds and plan it out together before we jump in with both feet.”
He’s pissed.
I feel myself stiffen, feel myself get ready to shoot his anger right back at him, but I look at his shoulders, tensed beneath his shirt, and I don’t. I do the opposite.
I go to him. I take his hands. I press his knuckles to my lips.
And then I lick the ridge of his middle finger.
He jerks his hand back with a laugh. “What the fuck, Whit?”
“I should have asked you. I thought it was a nice surprise.”
He looks off to the side, his gaze going a little harder. “Don’t blindside me with my sister.”
I slink closer, pressing my hip against his, forcing myself into the crook of his arm. It takes him a moment, but he relaxes. “Can I blindside you with chicken pot pie bake?” I lower my voice, putting all the sexy vibes I can into my tone. Honestly, I overshoot it a little. “Can I blindside you with my luscious body?”
“You? Blindside me?” He’s absolutely still for a moment, and then he sweeps me into his arms, so abruptly I let out a surprised squeak. “No. I’m taking over.”
He so, so does.
26
Wes
The way Whitney rebounds, pouncing on me in the bedroom, already excited and wet, takes the edge off.
A little.
Not enough that the headache goes away, but enough. Enough that I’m not furious with her for springing this on me at the last minute. It’s fine. It should be fine. Dayton’s my oldest friend, and Summer is her best friend, and there’s absolutely no reason we shouldn’t have them over for dinner tonight.
I know I hurt Whitney when I didn’t get on board with making some strange dating announcement, but Jesus. The tension has curled right up into the base of my neck, and even with her above me, with the delectable curves of her breasts inches from my face, my heart pounds. My mouth is dry. I don’t want to fucking do this.
And it has nothing to do with Whitney.
I’m not ashamed of her.
God, how could I be ashamed of her, when I need her this way? When every single inch in my body bends toward her, every single cell, so I can feel the pull of her the moment she enters the room.
“You’re so here,” she whispers, her voice throaty and full of an impending orgasm. “You’re so solid.”
If this is supposed to be dirty talk, it’s the least dirty thing I’ve ever heard. No—it’s not dirty. It’s Whitney. She’s telling me what she thinks the truth is, the realest, rawest truth, and she’s wrong. I’m not fucking solid. I feel like my feet struggle to touch the ground. The only thing keeping me on the bed is the weight of her. The curves of her haul me along to a violent, utilitarian orgasm, hers on top of mine, that makes her laugh.
She jumps off the bed and stretches in a luxurious circle. “Shower with me. I want to wash your hair.”
The world rocks underneath me. There are too many avenues to go down when it comes to Whitney washing my hair. My skin vibrates with all the possibilities. It makes my head ache to think about it, which is insane. It’s certifiable. Whitney, naked in the shower, servicing me? There should be no question.
I wrap her up in my arms and propel her into the bathroom, my muscles settling, now that I’m the one driving the motion. “No time,” I say into the crook of her neck. “Not if there are guests coming.”
Whitney throws open the door to the apartment two hours later and screams with unadulterated joy, Summer’s answering shriek just as shrill. Dayton reaches for my hand over their shoulders. “You’d think they’d been apart for years.” He’s barely able to make himself heard over the big reunion.
Summer releases Whitney and follows her into the apartment. “Oh, my God, it’s so different in here.”
“I’ve kept it mostly the same,” says Whit, leading her into the living room like she’s a realtor at an open house. “I liked it so much the way it was before.”
“It’s the vibe,” my sister says solemnly. “Much more manly. Much more—” She snaps her mouth shut, her eyes going from me to Whitney and back again. “There’s a different vibe.”
“Is it the heavenly scent of my cooking?” Whitney bats her eyelashes at her best friend. “Because I’ll tell you what. My vibe is hungry.” She’s beaming, so happy, and I’m surprised she doesn’t come right out and say it now. The horrible dread of waiting settles in the pit of my gut. It shouldn’t be like this. It should be exciting.
Whitney waits until we’re seated around the kitchen table, each person with a face stuffed full of a chicken pot pie casserole that Dayton raves about. Each bite I take is a crapshoot. One moment it’s delicious, amazing, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Then the next bite is tasteless. Cardboard.
“I have some news,” Whitney announces into the quiet, and I see her enjoying the little hop Summer does in her seat, the way her fork clatters to the plate.
“Tell us right now.”
“What kind of news, Whit?” My chest seizes. Dayton’s totally relaxed. He takes another bite of the food, watching his wife with a certain amusement, his eyes flicking to Whitney across the table. How can he be so calm? How can he be so calm when she’s so unpredictable? Doesn’t he feel that in the air?
I can’t breathe.
Whitney straightens her back, her chin lifting with pride. “I got a part in an off-Broadway show.”
“What?” Summer leaps from her seat. “What? Oh, my God, what?”
Another crescendo of screams. We’re going to get a noise complaint.
“When is it? We have to buy tickets!” Summer is alight with excitement for her friend, and my heart squeezes at the sight of her. She doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body, except when it comes to Day. She was always fierce about him. I just didn’t want to see it. “Are they selling tickets yet?”
“No.” Whitney laughs. “And you don’t think I’ll set some aside for you? Yeah, right. I need somebody in the front row.” There’s a break in the moment, a crack in Whitney’s joy, and it’s clear as the morning sun. Summer doesn’t seem to notice or feel it. “You have to come. I’ll get you the finest babysitter in the city—”
Summer waves her off. “We’ll take care of all that. I can’t wait. I can’t wait. When is opening night?”
“Three weeks.”
“That soon? Let me put it in my phone. What’s the name of it?” Summer races for her purse, pulls out her phone, and taps the date into it.
“All The Way Home.”
“Damn, that sounds good. Friday night, right? Day and I will be there. Are you coming, Wes?” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “You have to, Wes. You’ve got to bring someone. It would be so fun. A double date.”
Whitney’s face changes. The moment is being handed to her on a silver platter, and I can’t let her have it. I can’t. How the hell is she going to paint this? I was never supposed to want her, never supposed to give into the temptation of a whirlwind of a person—
“Whit and I are together.” My gruff words fall like a rock onto glass.
Dayton swings his head around toward me, eyebrows raised. Whitney’s mouth drops open. Summer doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s still typing something, her eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
“Whit who? Is that who you’re bringing on your date? That’s so funny, someone with the same name as—”
“Me,” Whitney cuts in. “It’s me. Wes and I are together.” She clasps her hands in front of her, a compromise between a clasp and a beg, and waits.
“Hold on. What?” Summer pops her head up and looks her friend in the eyes. “Have I crossed over into an alternate universe? You and Wes? That Wes?” She cocks her head in my direction without looking at me. “Together? My brother, and you. Together?”
“Yes.” Whitney’s gone pale, and I realize for the first time that her excitement has masked a fear she had. She was worried about Summer too, even as she pushed and pushed to share the big news.
Summer stares at her, dazed. “Whitney.” Her words are slow and deliberate. “Are you fucking with me right now? Because if you are—”
“I’m not. I’m absolutely not, Sunny. Not even a little bit.”
“Oh. My. God!” Summer shouts the last word and flings herself at Whitney, then to me, grabbing both our hands like we’ve won some Publishers’ Clearing House prize. “You guys! That is—that’s crazy! Wes, I—” She laughs out loud and Dayton comes over to clap me on the back. “I don’t know who I’m more pissed at. My brother or my best friend. You
should have told me.”
“There are certain things in life that require ceremony and planning, and one of those things is telling your best friend that you are dating her older brother, which under any circumstance is fraught with—”
Summer slaps her playfully on the arm. “It’s crazy,” she says softly, and she keeps saying it again and again, the rest of the night. “It’s so crazy. I can’t believe it. It’s so crazy.”
27
Whitney
All The Way Home, Broadway debut from Rowan Holland, pulls me right into its current, filling my veins with excitement and joy and, oh, God, exhaustion. It’s tiring as fuck. That’s the only way I can describe it.
I’m not enough of an idiot to quit my job at the insurance agency, but I do use my new womanly confidence and power to sweet-talk my manager into letting me cut my schedule by three hours in the afternoon. Leaving at two is the only thing that saves my sanity. The closer we get to opening night, the farther rehearsals bleed into the afternoon—and into the night.
Ten days before showtime, I get to the theater at 2:45, and I’m sucked directly into the whirlpool frenzy. There must have been some plan going into the show—it can’t all be decided at the last moment like this—but you wouldn’t know that based on the frenetic pace at which I’m tugged from stage to dressing room and back again.
It’s happening right now.
Wanda, a seamstress from the costume department, who has the most glorious blonde curls I’ve ever seen in my life, is in a very intimate position with my boobs and the top that I wear in the second scene when Mark, the assistant director, hustles in from the hall connecting the theater’s basement to the backstage area.
