16
Sutton
Later that night, I had just finished researching all the vital details on a rising filmmaker who’d requested a meeting with me next week. The filmmaker had nabbed top honors at Sundance and wanted to bring both marquee names and unknowns into his next project, a dramedy about a group of guy friends a few years after college. I placed my file and notes on my coffee table and poured a glass of chardonnay, allowing myself a few minutes to kick back.
With a wineglass in one hand, I wandered over to my bookshelves, scanning for a paperback I’d held on to since university. I took a sip of the chardonnay, then pulled the dog-eared book from the shelf and sank onto my soft couch, pulling a red chenille throw over my legs. The Artful Dodger hopped onto the sofa and curled up next to me, and I opened the book and turned to my favorite page. “Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Was it kismet that he adored this line too?
A sign, maybe?
I ran my index finger over the line, letting the memories of this afternoon flash past. Reeve and his kiss. Reeve and the way he caught me on the steps. Reeve and his words “I’m always happy to catch you.”
On the coffee table, my phone pinged with a text, and I placed the book on the couch and reached for it. It was from Reeve, and I would think it was odd, him texting as I was thinking about him, except that I thought about him so much, it was a statistical probability.
Opening the text, I tapped on the picture he must have taken that afternoon, right after we’d parted ways in front of one of the library’s two stone lions.
He’d captured the steps leading into the building, on the exact spot where he’d kissed me and time had stopped and the world had begun spinning around us. The moment I came undone for him.
There was only one word with the photo. One word and one punctuation mark: Encore?
I ran my fingertip lazily across that message, as if the word itself made me feel all these tingles, even though it was the memory of Reeve’s lips.
Encore. He was asking for a repeat performance. Not of what I’d done to him in the stacks, though I was sure he wouldn’t mind another one of those, thank you very much.
But rather an encore of a show-stopping kiss.
I didn’t answer his question. That would mean admitting how much I wanted another kiss like that. But curled up on the couch now, I did allow myself a reply: “I am reading your favorite book right now.”
My finger hovered over the send button. If I sent this, I was choosing to engage. I was pressing beyond the physical and acting on the emotional. I would be getting to know him in a deeper way.
I hit send.
Moments later a reply arrived. Tell me one of your favorite lines . . .
I flipped through the book, easily finding another one. “You won’t like it, because it’s about her.”
“Try me,” he wrote back.
I tapped out another quote, one that tugged at my heart. “There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion.”
I took a sip of my wine, and soon Reeve’s name reappeared, but it wasn’t a text. He was calling.
I froze. Should I answer it? He knew I was around. Would he think I was avoiding him if I didn’t pick up?
He’d be right. I couldn’t fake my way out of this one.
“Hello there,” I said in my best sparkly voice. I was never aware of my own British accent, but I’d been told that it made me sound both smart and aloof. Those were traits that might serve me well right now.
“I love that line too.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. I think it’s about the ways we have these ideals of different things and people. Don’t you? I mean, why do you love the line?”
I loved it because it was passionate, because it was big, because it was epic. But I wasn’t prepared to say that, so I turned the question around. “Do you, Reeve? Have ideals about things and people?”
He paused before answering, and I wondered where he was. I heard music in the background, but from a stereo or home speaker, not a club. He must be at home. “Yeah. Of course. I’m sure I have this ideal about acting and theater and the craft, right? I kind of have to.”
I was eager to learn more about the man. “Why? Why do you have to?”
“I just think you can’t do this as a career if there’s anything else you remotely can see yourself doing.”
I nodded. “I believe that. I believe that about any type of art. Writer, painter, actor. It has to be the only thing for you.”
“Right. And it’s like that quote. It goes beyond her, beyond everything. It becomes everything.”
Everything. I let that word resonate in the air around me. Actors loved acting first, best, and only. If I let my heart too far out of my chest, I’d have no one but myself to blame. Reeve might sound alluringly interested in this lovely getting-to-know-you phase right now, but that’s because he was throwing himself into this role—the role of the boyfriend—in the only way he knew how. Wholeheartedly, and with a creative passion.
We were just that. A creation.
It wasn’t kismet. It wasn’t a sign.
This was yet another scene in the script of our relationship. And that was totally fine, right? I didn’t really feel anything for him. It’s not as if I was longing for this thing to extend beyond a week anyway.
I yawned, big and long and exaggerated. He might have been able to tell it was a fake yawn. But I needed an out, and it was the best I could do. “I’m sleepy. I better go. I’ll see you tomorrow for a dress rehearsal, so to speak.”
“See you tomorrow, Sutton,” he said, then paused. “I can’t wait.”
I hung up, took a long swallow of wine, placed the drained glass on my coffee table, then made room for my main man, who curled up by my knees. I closed the novel and reached for my files, reminding myself that actors were part of my job, not part of my heart.
Even though I couldn’t wait to see him too.
17
Reeve
The dinner was tomorrow. We had one more night of this pretend relationship, and I wanted to have all my lines down cold. I didn’t want there to be any fuckups. But then, with what she’d done to me in the library and what I’d done to her in the theater, I couldn’t imagine anyone would think we weren’t a real couple. Fact was, we had chemistry in spades. There was something combustible between the two of us. It was as if I’d been given the keys to her body, and the same for her with me. As I walked to her apartment that evening on the Upper East Side, I was still thinking about the way we connected—but not just physically, because I liked talking to her too.
More than I’d expected.
Matter of fact, I’d never thought I’d be so into this arrangement. That I’d want more.
I rang the buzzer.
“Be right down,” she said, and I waited on the steps of her brownstone.
I looked up and down her street. It was one of those quiet blocks in the Seventies, not far from the park. There were trees and pretty stoops, and brick buildings and lots of families pushing strollers or holding hands with young children. It was a far cry from where I lived down in the East Village in a tiny shoebox of an apartment that I’d snagged on a sublease when an actor buddy got a touring role in the German production of Book of Mormon.
But Sutton did well for herself, so it was no surprise she could handle a block like this. I leaned against the stone railing that led to her building, watching the street. A few fallen leaves blew past me, courtesy of the crisp autumn that had landed in Manhattan. I wore jeans, combat boots, and a T-shirt—this one with the words Unplug Electric Vampires in a cool white typewriter font. I had on my beat-up leather jack
et, and I hadn’t shaved, so my jaw was rough with a bit of stubble. I ran a hand through my hair, and turned when I heard Sutton say, “Hey you.”
There was something sweet in her voice, something almost romantic. I’d never heard her talk that way before. I turned to watch her walk down the steps with her dog—a tiny little brown and tan mix with a cute face and a worn blue fleece jacket. But Sutton looked even better. I’d only seen her dressed up, and now I was getting a glimpse of the after-hours gal—she had on skinny jeans that showed off every gorgeous curve, short boots, and a jacket.
Then, as if she’d remembered that she didn’t talk in sweet, lovey voices, she cleared her throat and returned to her all-business tone. “Hi there, Reeve. So glad you can join my little darling and me for a jaunt through the neighborhood.”
But I liked it better when Sutton let down her guard, and I was curious about the softer side of this sharp and smart woman, so I tried to draw her back. “Your dog is kind of insanely cute.” I kneeled down to pet the soft little guy.
“Thank you,” she said, and there was that sweetness again, but as I rose to give her a kiss on the cheek—just in case anyone was watching, I reasoned—she was steely once more. Maybe she was the actress because I couldn’t read her anymore. She had this mask on—as if she felt she needed to be friendly, smiling, witty Sutton with me, not the sweet one who melted under my touch.
I wondered where that Sutton had gone. But I didn’t know what to say or how to ask, so I simply gestured to the sidewalk, and off we went, The Artful Dodger at the end of his leather leash, nose to the ground, sniffing and leading the way.
“Quite a fall we’re having, isn’t it?” she remarked.
This is what we were doing? Talking about the weather. “Yeah. It’s definitely fall.”
“So crisp. And the leaves are changing.”
The sky was blue too. But I didn’t need to point that out. “Yep. They are definitely changing.”
“And soon winter will be here.”
What had gotten into her? “That’s usually how it goes. One follows the next,” I said, not bothering to mask the sarcasm.
She gave me a sharp stare.
“And then spring, and then summer,” I continued. “I studied the seasons in school.” But I wasn’t being playful. I was annoyed that she was being so . . . clinical . . . so cool.
“What a great school. And how was your day?” She knew exactly what I was doing, and exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t going to let me in, and it pissed me off.
“It was whatever. I went for a run with Jill. Helped her get ready for her big audition next week.”
“Oh, Jill. You helped her, did you?”
I smiled privately when I heard the jealousy in her voice. She couldn’t hide it, and I was glad.
“Yeah. I help her with a lot of things,” I added, and it was probably a stupid thing to add, but if I could get a rise out of Sutton, I’d take it.
“What sort of things?” she asked coldly as we walked past a shoe store peddling heels that cost half my monthly rent.
“This. That,” I said in an offhand way, stirring the pot.
“Oh. This. That,” she repeated, punctuating each word.
“Why? Does it bother you?” I asked.
“Should it bother me?” Her expression was arch. Completely arch. And it drove me crazy.
“You’re my fiancée. Why don’t you tell me? As my fiancée, does it bother you?”
She didn’t meet my gaze, so I couldn’t even try to read her eyes. She stopped to let her dog sniff a small patch of grass surrounding a tree. “We’re not real fiancés. We’re not real anything. So there’s no real way anything you do could bother me.” She finished her summation on a too cheery note.
“Alright. That’s clear, then,” I said through tight lips. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
She held up a finger. “Wait. There is one thing you could do that would bother me. It would bother me if you blew the deal. So don’t do anything with Jill or anyone until we finalize things, okay? Then you’re free to go,” she said, chipper again.
I scoffed at her, then held my hands out wide. “That is very good to know. Very good to know, indeed.”
“Anyway, let’s go over tomorrow night’s dinner and how you need to behave,” she said as we reached the crosswalk and waited for the light. She pointed one finger at The Artful Dodger, and he sat instantly. The dog was well-trained, and that’s what Sutton was all about. Training me. That’s who she was. Bright and shiny on the outside, cool and calculating on the inside.
We walked for several more blocks, and she reviewed the ins and outs, the expectations, the potential questions, until our fake relationship was airtight and hermetically sealed. She was the instructor and I was the pupil, and she wasn’t going to let me forget it. As we turned back toward her apartment, she issued her final directive. “And of course, you should feel free to touch me. Hand on the leg, hand on the arm. Holding hands, kiss on the cheek. All of that is totally acceptable,” she said, then shot me that smile I’d come to recognize as her “thank you very much, we’ll be in touch” look.
Then there was a scuffle of paws. The rattle of a chain collar. Out of nowhere, a big, brown German Shepherd barreled down the sidewalk, snarling at the little Artful Dodger. His teeth were bared, and his nostrils were flaring, and he was off the leash. The German Shepherd’s mouth was open, and he had one thing in mind. Evening snack.
Sutton shrieked.
Instantly, I lunged through wiry fur and snapping teeth for the bigger dog, grabbing the prong collar as hard as I could and yanking the German Shepherd away from The Artful Dodger. The big dog growled and whipped his head around, unveiling sharp teeth that looked as if they could sink holes into skin. But I held on tight to the chain on the dog’s neck, even as the German Shepherd scraped his jaw against my wrist trying to twist loose. Then with my free hand, I scooped up the tiny pup, tucking him under my arm, like a football being cradled by a running back. The pony-sized dog yanked and tugged, and for a second I thought my arm was about to be tattooed with a set of dog bite marks, then I heard a voice call out.
“Henry! Henry! You bad dog!”
The shepherd cocked his ears and wagged his tail and was suddenly a sweet, doting animal searching for his person. A dude in loose jeans, ballcap, and sweatshirt rounded the corner, a look of surprise on his face. In one hand, he held a nylon leash. He ran to the German Shepherd and stopped.
“I’m so sorry. We just got him, and he has some issues, but we’re trying to train him.”
“Some issues? He almost killed our dog,” I said, tucking the shivering little guy more tightly in my arms.
The man looked legit contrite. “I’m really sorry.”
Even so, that dog needed to be leashed and this guy needed to know. “You have to be more careful. There are kids and other dogs and people everywhere, okay? He was about to bite our dog.”
“Okay, I said I was sorry.”
I relaxed a bit. But only a little because I was still pissed. “Yeah. So good luck with the training.”
The guy clipped the leash back onto Henry and pulled him the other way. I turned to Sutton who stared at me, eyes wide and mouth agape. “You saved my dog.”
I passed him into Sutton’s outstretched arms, downplaying it.
“He’d have been fine. He’s a tough little guy.”
Sutton shook her head, her voice quivering, as she clutched the dog. “I can’t believe you did that. You were so fast,” she said breathlessly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “You just reached your hand in there. He bit you. That dog bit you.”
I was tough. I could handle it. “It’s nothing. I swear it’s nothing.”
“Let me see.” Sutton reached for my wrist, touching tenderly around the red indentation from a canine tooth.
“There isn’t even any blood. I’m totally fine.”
She was insistent. “We should get this cleaned up.”
/> “Sut, it’s nothing. I swear I’m totally fine.”
“Please.” She looked so pleading, so warm again. This was what I had wanted. Not to be bitten, or to be nursed and fretted over—because the mark she was so concerned about was barely a graze. But I wanted this Sutton. The one beneath the veneer.
“How about this? I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
18
Sutton
I absolutely owed him a drink, or ten, but I didn’t want to leave my darling alone, so we popped into a bodega for a beer for Reeve then went back to my place where I poured a white wine for myself. The Artful Dodger was safe and sound, snoozing in the middle of the king-size bed, surrounded by extra blankets to make him a cozy nest.
As it should be.
I was still shaken, and shaking. The whole thing had happened so fast, and I’d go a long time before I lost the memory of my darling dog almost becoming a snack for that German Shepherd.
And Reeve. I hardly knew what to think. He hadn’t even hesitated. And his reflexes—I was still wrapping my head around the way he dove into the melee and saved my most favorite mammal in the entire universe.
We sank into the soft couch in my living room, drinks in hand.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I said again, setting a hand on his arm, squeezing it. “I don’t say this lightly, but you are my hero.”
His smile was warm and genuine. “I’m just glad he’s fine. He’s a good dog, and he’s your dog.” He took a sip of his beer then confessed, “Actually, I hope this doesn’t make me less of your hero, but I’d help save any dog.”
Less of my hero? Just the opposite. He loved animals. My heart was in a race with the electricity zipping through me just being this close to him.
Careful, Sutton, careful. That was my tender spot, the gap in my armor—a man who loved animals. If Reeve figured that out, I’d be helpless.
I took a drink and placed my glass on the table. “That actually makes me even happier to know it wasn’t just my dog. But that you’re a dog superhero.”
The Pretending Plot Page 9
