Changing Teams

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “What were you talking about?” Astrid asked.

  “His tie,” I said. “I’d tied it for him back at his apartment, and he said he wanted us to be together for so long I’d always tie his ties. Out of habit.”

  “Britt, baby,” Astrid said, “maybe you should talk to him.”

  “But he lied,” I said, flailing my arms and almost flinging the tablet across the room. “He lied to everyone!”

  “So?” Melody asked. “Jane Eyre, which is the greatest romance in the history of romances, is basically about Mr. Rochester lying. Then he came clean and he got the girl.”

  “Didn’t he lose a hand?” Astrid countered. “And go blind?”

  “Romance novels suck,” I muttered. “I’d rather read something worthwhile, like a comic book or the classifieds.”

  “Be that as it may,” Melody said, “don’t you want your own happily ever after?”

  When had my vapid cousin become the smart one in the family? I swiped through the images from Melody’s wedding; she was right, the photographers had followed Sam and I like hawks. I paused, my finger hovering over an image taken just before we had left the reception; Sam was standing behind me as he settled my shawl onto my shoulders, and I was looking up at him. I remembered kissing him in gratitude.

  “You look like you love him just as much as he loves you,” Astrid said.

  “Maybe.” I swiped to the next image; there was our kiss, immortalized in pixels. “I guess.”

  Melody took my hand. “Want to know why I’m here with you and not on my honeymoon? I want someone to look at me the way Sam looks at you. He did a bad thing, yes, but if you love him this much isn’t he worthy of forgiveness?”

  I looked from Melody’s earnest face to images on the tablet. “If he calls again, maybe I’ll talk to him.”

  Melody patted my hand. “That’s a start.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Sam

  My phone vibrated, so I grabbed it from my back pocket and read the display. Turned out it was a text from Astrid.

  Astrid: Sammy baby, Britt’s still upset. Her cousin talked some sense into her, and she admitted she has a thing for you. Maybe even a love thing.

  “Yes,” I said, and actually did one of those lame fist pumps. In the midst of my victory dance my phone vibrated with another text from Astrid.

  Astrid: If you call, she’ll talk to you, but wait on it a while. She’s dealing with a family thing right now, so give her some space to handle that. Hang in there, baby.

  Sam: Thank you, Astrid. Thank you so much.

  I clutched the phone to my chest, and silently declared Astrid the best friend I’d ever had. Britt loved me. As long as I knew she loved me, I could give her all the time she needed.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  Britt

  I had two separate, yet equally important, missions on Tuesday morning: review the jobs my agent had sent over, and pretend that I had no idea where Melody was.

  “No, Mom, I can honestly tell you that I don’t know where Melody is,” I said into my phone, and that was the truth. Melody had gone out to pick up lunch, and being that she could be anywhere in a five block radius, I really didn’t know where she was at that moment. For all I knew, she could be as far away as Brooklyn. As long as my mother kept asking me these suitably vague questions, this phone call would be a piece of cake.

  “If you see her, tell her we’re all very worried,” Mom said. “Darryl is beside himself.”

  “Yeah, not getting any on my wedding night would irk me too,” I muttered.

  “What was that?” Mom asked. “What do you know about Melody and Darryl’s wedding night?”

  “Melody sent me this weird text,” I said, which was another truth. She had also sent me a weird email that had included details of her wedding night that I’d deliberately purged from my memory. A girl could only take so much, you know. “Apparently, she refused him. Told him to his face that he was more like a fish than a man.”

  Mom burst out laughing. “That he is, but we all knew Melody wasn’t marrying Darryl for his good looks.”

  “Well, it seems that she’s decided she needs true love or no love,” I continued. “Really, money’s only worth so much.”

  Mom was quiet for a time, then she said, “I’m sorry.”

  Where the heck had that come from? “Sorry for what?”

  “For marrying Patrick, for dragging you down to New Rochelle,” she replied. “For a lot of things. I-I really thought marrying Patrick was the best way to help your future.”

  “I know you did,” I said; it was no secret that my mother hadn’t married for love either. “You can always leave the creep.”

  Mom laughed through her nose. “Patrick has a mountain of paperwork to keep that from happening.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s okay,” Mom said over me. “I’m okay. I mean, I have a good life here, all the shoes I could ever want, and Aggie’s cookies. It’s not so bad.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, Aggie’s cookies make everything better. I just wish you had a better man to eat cookies with.”

  “Maybe you’ll be a good daughter and share some details about Sam so I can live vicariously through you,” Mom suggested. When I was quiet for too long, she asked, “Aww, honey, did something happen?”

  “Yeah, something did. We’re working on it, though.” At least, I hoped we were still working on things. Sam hadn’t called or texted me after Astrid talked to him, but she had told him to give me some time. Maybe he was erring on the side of caution.

  “Good. I think that boy might be good for you, Britty.”

  I winced; Britty was so much worse than Britannica. Melody picked that moment to reenter my apartment, so I waved my arms about in the universally acknowledged gesture for keeping quiet. “So, Mom, I really need to read this email from my agent.”

  I could just hear her eyes narrowing. “You’ll tell me if you learn anything new about Melody?”

  “Yep, I’ll report on all the new developments.” I paused, and added, “Of course, you don’t have to share those developments with my evil stepfather.”

  I kid you not, Mom giggled. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  Mom and I said our goodbyes, and I had a look at what Melody had gotten for lunch. She must have hit up the Middle Eastern place a block over, because falafel was what was on the menu.

  “Eastern Star had the shortest line,” Melody explained.

  “Good choice,” I said, but before I could eat, my phone rang again. Normally I didn’t answer unknown numbers, but in light of the many offers Marlys had sent me, I hoped it would be a potential gig. “Britt Sullivan,” I said in my best professional voice.

  “Sugar, I need to know what you did to this boy.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Michael DuFresne,” he replied. “You must remember me. We met at my cousin Astrid’s party, then you attended my gallery opening with Sam, and somehow the spectacle of Sam punching another boy in the nose and then touching your bottom got more media coverage than my artwork.”

  “Sorry. Hi, Michael.” My brain processed what he’d said, and I demanded, “What makes you think I did something to Sam?”

  “I don’t think, I know. Check your text messages.”

  I did, and opened the picture Michael had sent me. It was of Sam sprawled on his back, his arm draped across his eyes. At least Sam was lying on a couch and not passed out on the side of the road somewhere.

  “He looks tired,” I said, resuming the conversation. “People get tired all the time. Biology and such. I haven’t seen him in days, therefore I did not make him tired.”

  “He’s not tired, he wasted,” Michael clarified. “He went on a bender last night, mourning the love he may have lost.”

  “That’s not my fault, either,” I squeaked.

  “Are you not the recipient of the love in question?” Michael demanded.

  “Yeah, well, that’s d
ebatable. Did you know that Sam’s not gay? He’s been pretending to be gay for like his entire life.”

  Michael laughed. “Please, the only person who ever thought Sam was gay was Sam. And you, apparently. Really, sugar, I thought you were one of us smart girls.”

  I sat there, my mouth hanging open. Michael had known all along? “But Sam said you two dated for more than a year,” I said. “Why did you date him if you knew he wasn’t gay?”

  “Have you seen Sam’s ass?” Michael countered, and I laughed. “With an ass like that I had to give it my best effort. But even I couldn’t get him to change teams.”

  Because I couldn’t resist, I said, “I saw the pictures Sam took of you and Starla. You are one beautiful man, Michael.”

  “Don’t you forget it, sugar. Now, about our boy here, what do you want me to do with him?”

  “Can he sleep it off at your place?”

  Michael sighed. “Lord knows he’s done it before.”

  “Okay, then have him call me when he wakes up.”

  “Will do. You know, he’s been saying all sorts of interesting things in his sleep.”

  “Interesting?” I asked. “Interesting like what?”

  “All sorts of things,” Michael said. “Mostly about how he can’t wait to get back on his cowgirl and ride her into the sunset.”

  “He did not say that! Or call me that!”

  “Oh, he’s been sharing lots more juicy tidbits,” Michael said. “Been talking all about his Britannica Lynn, her sweet little bottom, and about the time he—”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Just have him call me.”

  “Will do, sugar.”

  “And Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

  “Any time, sugar. We both want our Sam happy.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, we do.”

  I ended the call and grabbed my falafel wrap. “You know, the first time I ordered falafel I thought it was some kind of salad,” I said as I took a bite.

  “Are you getting back together with Sam?” Melody demanded.

  “I just said I’d talk to him,” I hedged. “What happens next depends on what he says.”

  “And what you say,” Melody pointed out. “If you keep shooting him down, eventually he’ll just stop trying.”

  My bite of falafel turned to lead in the pit of my stomach. I put down my lunch, grabbed my phone, and sent Michael a text.

  Britt: Can you tell Sam that I really want to talk to him? Like, super really?

  Michael: I will, sugar.

  Britt: :-)

  “Okay, Michael’s on it,” I said.

  “He’s going to get the two of you back together?” Melody asked.

  “Um.” As much as I wanted to be with Sam, I felt like I should hear him out before I made any final decisions. “Michael’s going to have him call me.”

  “And then?” Melody asked.

  “And then, I don’t know.” I put down my yummy falafel that I was apparently never going to eat and held my head in my hands. “Seriously, Mel, I just don’t know.”

  My phone trilled with yet another unknown number. I accepted the call, and said, “Britt Sullivan.”

  “Miss Sullivan,” said a male voice. “This is Nash Williams, photographer for the Sands Romance novels.”

  “Yes, of course. Hi, Nash.” While I spoke, I wandered over to my laptop; nope, still no contract for those nine covers I’d been promised by the very man on the other end of the call. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I can do for you, actually,” Nash replied. “Sands Romance, they’re being a bit, shall we say, difficult. Before they send over the contracts for the remaining nine covers, they’d like to see a few more test shots. Would you be up for a quick session?”

  “Today?” I asked. I didn’t have anything else booked, but I didn’t want Nash to know that. I had an image as a highly sought-after model to preserve.

  “Sure. If we can get the shots done today, with any luck Sands will have the contracts drawn up by Friday.”

  I did some quick math; contracts by Friday meant possible shooting by Monday, and Britt making her next month’s rent sans life drawing classes or other disreputable pursuits. Not that I was really going to rob that bank I’d thought about robbing a million times. That was just a backup plan. “Okay, I can do them today. What time?”

  “Five sound good?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I ended the call, and took another bite of my falafel. “Well, looks like I have a gig tonight,” I said to Melody.

  “Gig? A gig as in a modeling gig? Can I come?” she fired off.

  “These are test shots, so no, you can’t come,” I replied. Melody frowned, so I added, “I can take you to an actual shoot, though. Just not this one.”

  Melody brightened. “I’d like that.”

  Once Melody and I had finished our lunches, we spent a few hours watching bad daytime television. I wondered if the dearth of decent programming was what drove people to spend their days in cubicle farms. When four o’clock rolled around I threw a few things in my bag, then I texted Michael.

  Britt: I’m headed over to Nash’s for some test shots. Tell Sam?

  Michael: Anything to get this lunk off my couch.

  Britt: Love you, Michael.

  Michael: Whatevs.

  Britt: XOXO

  I slid my phone into my bag, and faced Melody. “Okay, I’m off to my shoot. I should be back in a few hours.”

  “Break a leg,” Mel said. With that, I headed out the door. I’d pose for the test shots, and before long Sam would call. For the first time in days, thinks were looking up.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  Britt

  I rode the elevator up to Nash’s studio, more nervous that I’d been when I’d been booked for the cover shoot. It felt weird going there without Sam; if I was honest with myself, I’d admit that Sam was part of the reason I’d agreed to do the test shots today. Okay, Sam was most of the reason. Working on those nine covers would mean lots of sessions at Nash’s studio, and therefore lots of working with Sam. Then Sam and I could spend time together, and I could get to know the real man, the one behind the lies. I hoped I’d love the real Sam just as much as the Sam that was a figment of my imagination.

  The elevator door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness. I checked the buttons to make sure I’d selected the correct floor. Yep, I was on the floor fourth, but the normally bustling studio was deserted. “Nash?” I called.

  “Britt, hello there,” Nash greeted, walking toward the elevator. “So glad you could make it today.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “Where is everyone?”

  “I’m afraid this shoot will just be you and I,” Nash said. “I wasn’t scheduled to shoot anything today, but when Sands called earlier and asked for the test shots I didn’t want to wait. Are you okay with it being just the two of us?”

  I wasn’t, especially after what had happened with Ben, but my empty wallet and I decided to just power through the awkwardness. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Are there costumes?”

  “The only costume we have on hand is the dress you wore for the last shoot,” Nash replied. “What Sands is interested in is how you work with the camera, not the outfits, and if your look is strong enough to carry a cover without Giovanni.”

  Of course my image can stand up to that oily, muscle bound freak’s. “Well, then, I guess I’ll go change.”

  As I made my way to the dressing room, Nash called after me, “Will Sam be meeting you here, later on perhaps?”

  I thought of the picture Michael had sent earlier, of Sam passed out drunk on his couch. That man wouldn’t be going anywhere for days. “I don’t believe so.”

  I got myself into the ochre gown, no mean feat without someone to help with the laces, and scowled at the grease stains, courtesy of Giovanni. I also kept my bodice at a respectable level, as opposed
to Sam’s nipple-baring tactics; really, I’m an idiot for not seeing through his façade after that incident. What gay man cares about a woman’s breasts that much? When I stepped out of the dressing room, I saw Nash setting up a few props.

  “Auditioning for Sam’s job?” I smirked.

  “I’d never make the cut,” Nash said. “People like Sam are one in a million.”

  Truer words were never spoken. I smelled coffee and glanced at the full pot. “Is that fresh?” I asked.

  “I just brewed it,” Nash replied. “Help yourself.”

  I did, only to frown when I tasted it. “This is really bitter,” I said. “What kind of coffee is this?” I asked, looking for the package.

  “Some swill one of the gophers picked up. I’ll get you a Starbucks later.” Nash made a final adjustment to the set, then he grabbed his camera. “I thought we’d start with some profile shots.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, setting down my horrendous coffee. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Four

  Sam

  When I woke, the ills of my body momentarily overcame the ills of my heart, being that my eyes were sore, my head pounded, and there was a crick in my neck. All in all, I felt the same I always did when I woke up on Michael’s couch. I rolled to the side and grabbed my phone from my back pocket, only to frown when I checked the display. Britt still hadn’t called or texted me.

  “Maybe she’s right, maybe I can’t fix this mess,” I muttered. I opened the gallery app on my phone, and scrolled through the pictures of Britt I’d uploaded. God, but she had looked like an angel in that blue and gold dress. My angel, that’s what she was—emphasis on the was. “Maybe it really is over.”