I hesitate, torn. This is what I wanted, for them to leave. Or at least to have their fight somewhere I didn’t need to witness. Now, though…
My nerves prick at me. Something doesn’t seem right. Lark’s posture earlier, maybe, or the way Sheryl totally blanked me. If this is about me… If this is all my fault… shouldn’t I be trying to make it right, if I can?
Maybe I can talk to Sheryl. Tell her I came onto Lark, that I pursued him, and it was a temporary thing, it’s over now. I won’t stand between them anymore.
I pace behind the stage, eyes and ears peeled for any signs of the couple. It doesn’t take long before I hear the rumble of raised voices, muffled by a door. I trail the sound until I find an office with Marcel’s name on it, the door shut tight. But the lights are on inside, and the door is made of a foggy, tinted glass. Through it, I can see the outline of two figures, standing close by.
I pause just on the other side of the door, my breath held.
I shouldn’t do this. I should leave them alone. Or else knock and walk in there to announce my presence. But the raised voice is feminine—it’s Sheryl, yelling, in a way I’ve never heard before, and so I pause outside the door, my hand on the knob, torn.
“—get your act together,” Sheryl’s shouting, now that I’m close enough to hear through the glass panel. “Between the red eyes and the whiskey-sweat stench, you could pass for a homeless addict right now.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. My stomach clenches. I’ve never heard her talk like that before, to anyone, let alone Lark. Maybe she’s really angry about something—potentially about me—but still…
Also, it hits me. Why is he bleary eyed… and does he really smell like alcohol? I didn’t notice it earlier when I said good morning to him—and I always notice how Lark smells. Maybe Sheryl’s just guessing, because he looks like he didn’t sleep last night.
Why didn’t he sleep last night? Was he thinking of me, tossing and turning, the same way I was the whole rest of this week?
My guilt feels like a compound, snaky thing, constantly twisting and finding new soft places where it can bite me, take out chunks, eat away at me.
Lark says something back to Sheryl, too quietly for me to hear more than the comforting rumble of his baritone. I wish I could hear what he’s saying. I wish I knew what was going on here.
“We had an agreement.” Sheryl’s voice drops lower, furious now, and I’m forced to lean closer to the door to hear the rest, which only sets my heartbeat rabbiting in my eardrums. If they catch me out here, it will be obvious what I’m doing. I have no excuse for this. “And this… whatever the hell this is?” Through the glass, I watch the shorter shadow gesture a hand at the taller one. Sheryl, waving off Lark as if he’s nothing. “This is not part of our agreement. So I want you to stop moping about whatever sleazy whore you’re moaning over—yes, don’t act like I’m an idiot, Lark, I’ve known you for years—and get your shit together. Is that clear?”
Another soft reply from him. I still can’t hear it, can’t hear what he’s saying at all, but through the glass, his shadow straightens, shoulders back, arms stiff at his sides. It looks like he’s standing up for himself, or at the very least, not cowing before her.
Then the smaller figure pulls back an arm, and I hear a sharp cracking sound.
I don’t register what just happened until I see the taller figure’s head snap to one side, and a hand raise slowly to cup its cheek.
She just slapped him.
My stomach sinks all the way through the ground. Oh, God. She does know there’s another woman—but from the sounds of it, she doesn’t know it’s me yet. Hitting him, though?
I’m still standing there, frozen with shock, when she does it again. Backhand this time. Another sharp crack that makes me wince reflexively.
I know he hurt her, but…
All too late, I realize Sheryl’s shadow is now storming toward the door. Reflexively, I leap for the nearest large object—a stage curtain hanging nearby—and wrap it around myself. Just in time, too. The click clack of a familiar pair of heels storms out of Marcel’s office, as Sheryl strides back through the studio.
I hold my breath until a distant slam far off in the distance—followed by Marcel’s curse, probably as her opening the exit door ruined his lighting. Only then do I dare to exhale, to start to breathe again, my chest aching from the held breath.
I realize I haven’t heard Lark walk past. Being careful not to move too quickly or draw attention to myself, I fold a narrow slit in the stage curtains to peer through.
Sure enough, there’s Lark, standing only five feet away from me, his brow furrowed as he glares out in the direction Sheryl just left. His fists are balled, and there’s a hand-shaped angry red mark on his cheek. My first instinct is to go to him. Offer him ice, tell him it will be okay, offer to cover up the mark with some foundation before anyone else in the studio sees, in case he doesn’t want to answer any awkward questions.
But I don’t move. Because I’m aware that I was just eavesdropping on a very private fight—a fight I most likely caused. My heart drops into my gut. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
I pull the curtain closed again and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting until Lark leaves too. Like Sheryl, he beelines straight across the main studio floor. When I peer out again, he’s paused beside the stage, glancing around, like he’s looking for somebody. Failing that, he shakes his head, murmurs something to Marcel, and then heads out of the studio.
A minute later, just as I’ve summoned the courage to come out from behind the curtain and approach the stage again, my phone buzzes. It’s a new text, from Lark.
Sorry I missed you. Had to run. Urgent business matter. You’re doing amazing today, though. Just wanted to tell you that. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.
He signs it with a simple x. I have to close my eyes, pressing my phone against my chest, in order to keep from breaking down.
All I want to do is chase after him, out into the parking lot. To pull him into my arms and kiss his bruise better.
Instead, I square my shoulders and return to the stage. There, I find Marcel, no longer ogling his model beau, but gazing past me out the studio doors, in the direction of the parking lot.
One look at my face, and he guesses. “You saw the state Lark was in?”
I nod, careful.
His mouth flattens in disapproval. But he doesn’t offer anything else. He just goes back to watching the photoshoot, this time with his arms folded across his chest.
After a moment, I clear my throat, and venture, “Um… Is that… usual?”
Marcel lets out a long, slow sigh, his mouth pursed in a way that tells me exactly what he’s thinking. “No, Cassidy. I don’t care who you are, or what your relationship, former or otherwise, is to someone else. That’s not usual, girl.”
Staring out across the stage at all the pretty models posing and beaming for the cameras… I can’t help but agree.
18
Cassidy
My first check comes in the mail two days later. I call Becky to scream with her about it, because frankly, it’s more digits than I’ve ever seen written on a single slip of paper in my entire life.
Yes, a huge chunk of my profits go to Sheryl and Lark’s investment firm off the top first, since they bought such a big investment share in my company. But still. This is so much more money than I ever would have been able to make myself, in a lifetime.
“Spa day,” I tell Becky, once we’re both done screaming at the top of our lungs at the universal celebrating girls pitch. “My treat.”
“Cass, you don’t have to do that,” she protests, but I speak right over her.
“Please. I want to. Besides, I haven’t seen you in ages, between work and…” I trail off, biting my lower lip. I’m curled on my couch right now—my extremely expensive, beautiful couch, which Lark bought me after ruining my old ratty one. And across the room, I eye my purse, and my cheeks burn th
inking about the tie still sitting inside.
I keep telling myself that I just left it there so I could remember to give it back to him the next time we’re both going to be at some kind of business thing, either a photoshoot or an interview or what have you. But really, I think I’m just giving myself a subconscious excuse to hang onto it for just a little while longer.
This is totally different from what I did with Norman’s crap, I tell myself. It’s just one stupid tie. And I’m not holding onto it really. I’m saving it for him.
Even I don’t believe me, though.
“Between work and your boy toy treating you like used dog shit?” Becky interrupts my thought cycle.
“He’s not that bad,” I start, but now it’s her turn to speak over me.
“What did we agree after Norman?” She clicks her tongue, disapproving.
“No defending guys while I’m in the throes of a breakup,” I mumble.
“Right, because you always get into a bad habit of putting their needs before yours, and that’s bullshit.” I hear gum pop on the other end of the line. “So, okay. Spa day. If it’ll help take your mind off things, I’m in.”
I force myself to smile, even though it’s harder now that Becky brought up Lark. I’d been hoping for a day of not thinking about him. But she’s right. Spa day is just what I need. I tell her the address of my favorite spa in town, a cute one that has hot and cold plunge baths, steam rooms, facials and massages, the works.
Not that I can usually afford the works. I’m more of the, wait until there’s a 50% coupon day, then go and enjoy the bare minimum activities there, type girl.
Today, though… I grin at my check one more time, planning to swing by the bank on my way to the spa to deposit it. Today, I’m going all out. Fuck it. I deserve the pampering.
I meet Becky in the parking lot, and she pulls me into the tightest hug. I don’t realize how much I needed that until I squeeze her back tightly, and we both let go with matching eager grins.
“Okay, time to act like the most spoiled rich bitches there are,” she announces, and I snort under my breath, following her inside.
The minute we buy our tickets—all-inclusive packages, thank you very much—the attendant’s expression changes, in a way it never has when I’ve been here before, barely scraping enough together for the discount tickets. She ushers us into a private changing room big enough to fit half my bedroom, then wraps us both in fluffy towel-like bath towels before leaving us alone to change.
Once we’re ready, we’re taken to a whole different pool area from the one I’m used to. This one is on the rooftop, complete with…
“Oh hell yes,” Becky calls over her shoulder. “Swim-up bar!”
Sure enough, the jacuzzi—if you can call a pool this big a jacuzzi, although it certainly feels like one when I wade into it—has its own bar attached. Although, I notice all the cocktails are mostly juice, with a hint of diet alcohol splashed in. Oh well, guess a health spa can only serve so much alcohol before it doesn’t count as healthy anymore, right?
We share a green juice cocktail that somehow tastes fortifying, delicious and decadent at once. Then we drift around the hot pool—ignoring the cold plunge pool entirely, because frankly, I came here to get spoiled, not subject myself to borderline torture—waiting for our scheduled massage times.
As we drift, Becky eyes me. I can practically feel her next words coming, and I brace myself. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I reply, a little too quick and loudly. I clear my throat and sip more of my tasty cocktail. “I mean, you know… it’s not like anybody died. It’s just a breakup. And it wasn’t that long of a…” I shake my head, laughing, mostly at myself. “God, it wasn’t even a relationship, really. We just hooked up for a few weeks, that’s all.”
My stomach tightens at the lie. It wasn’t all. Not for me.
“You really liked him, though,” Becky says, proving once again that the girl notices more than I usually give her credit for. She leans back against the wall, head tipped onto the side, watching me from the corner of her eye as she lets her body float. “It’s still hard, even if it was just a short thing.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, and prop myself up against the wall next to her, setting my cocktail aside for the moment. “It is.”
“So, you really are officially done? I mean, you went over to his place and gave him back his tie and everything.”
I grimace. I forgot I told Becky about that part.
She notices, and sets her own cocktail down, her expression shifting into another one I’m all too familiar with: stern mother mode. “Cassidy.”
“I forgot about the tie, okay?” I bury my face in my hands. “But I did go there and talk to him. I told him I didn’t want to pursue things anymore because it’s too complicated, and he said he respects that and he’ll back off.”
Becky crosses her arms. “He’d better. I mean, he was the married one leading you on this whole time. What an asshole.”
I hesitate, thinking back to the brief snippets I overheard in Marcel’s office. The argument. We had an agreement, Sheryl yelled. What did that mean? It certainly wasn’t how I’d imagine a woman would talk to her happily married spouse, though. Maybe they were in an open relationship?
But then why was she so mad at him for sleeping around?
She clearly was. Her other words, whatever sleazy whore you’re moaning over, have been playing on guilty repeat in my mind ever since I overheard that conversation a couple days ago. Part of me wants to speak up, defend myself. I’m not a whore.
But can I really argue that, in this position? I didn’t know Lark was married at first. Yet after I found out… Our last full night together flashes through my mind. It feels so long ago now. The way he chased me into the dark parking lot after my TV interview, protecting me even while I was too stubborn to let him. And then the way he caught me in his arms and pinned me against his car, our lips colliding…
That whole night afterward. My last night in his bed, my clothing strewn all over his apartment…
It was weak of me. Beyond weak. And then, to top all that off, the other night when I went over to his apartment to end things once and for all, what did I end up doing? I kissed him. Again. Yes, sure, I broke things off after that, but still.
Maybe I am a whore, I think, and my stomach tightens, the healthy cocktail drink suddenly not sitting right in my gut at the thought.
“Hello? Earth to Cassidy Marks.” Becky’s waving her hand in front of my face now. I zone back in and realize I have no idea what she just asked me.
She takes one look at my face and deduces the same thing. “Cass…” Her voice softens. She squeezes my arm. “You’ll find a better guy, okay? A non-married one. One who respects you.”
She’s right. I should just nod. Agree. But… “I’m not so sure that’s the full story,” I murmur.
Becky arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” We had an agreement. “I don’t know. I overheard this weird thing between him and Sheryl at work the other day. And then she hit him.”
Becky winces. “Damn. Not cool. But maybe she just found out about… You know?” She glances at me pointedly. “Still not okay to hurt someone physically, but…”
“I know.” I grimace. “But, it’s more than that. I don’t know. I mean, I’m not even completely sure he is still married. I just assumed so, after I saw them coming out of couples’ counseling and all—”
“Uh, yeah,” Becky replies, drawing out all her vowels. “Divorced people generally don’t pay for therapy to try to repair their relationship.”
“But, they’re business partners too, so maybe…” I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I chew on my lower lip. “Maybe there’s another explanation.”
“Well, did you ask him about it?” Becky arches both eyebrows now.
“Um…” The green drink churns even worse in my gut now.
My best friend lets out a long exhale that
turns into a groan. “Okay, well no use doing it now, since you’ve finally extricated yourself from the mess.” Then she sets her jaw in what I know as Becky’s game face. “Let’s look at facts. Even if he’s not married, he didn’t exactly disclose whatever the hell his weird current thing with his ex-wife is. And he expected you to just roll with it, all while being in a business relationship with not just him, but both of them. You ask me, Cass, married or not, this situation has hot mess written all over it. Find another guy. One who’s upfront with you.” She squeezes my wrist. “One who doesn’t make you feel like you’re on an emotional roller coaster all the damn time. Someone steady.”
My head bobs of its own accord. “You’re right.” I know she is. It’s just getting harder and harder to keep convincing myself of that.
19
Cassidy
The spa day didn’t relax me as much as I’d hoped it would. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Becky the whole time I was in my massage.
Did you ask him about it?
Maybe I should have. Maybe that would have been the smart thing to do right off the bat. But I tried to talk to him about his past with Sheryl multiple times, and he always freaked out. I can’t imagine it would have turned out any differently if I’d just point-blank asked whether they were still married.
I tried demanding the full story once and he practically ran away.
“It’s not as simple as that,” I mutter to myself on my long drive home, alone in my car with nothing but the blasting radio for company.
As to the rest of what Becky said… it’s true. I should move on. It’s what I’ve been trying to do this whole time. Not to mention, I promised my shrink I would.
But every time I decide to, I’m reminded of the way he looked at me that last time, in his apartment. The desperation with which he kissed me. It was so palpable, I swear I could taste it. A combination of tears and sweat, heartbreak and yearning.
Kiss Me Now Page 14
