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Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness.
–Yousuf Karsh
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GWEN
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MY PRESENTATION ISN’T until one, but I’m up early to prepare Monday morning. I brew coffee and get to work. I’ve been over this a million times, but there’s got to be a way to make it better, to make it even more compelling, to get my words across.
There’s a knock at my door and I get up to let Martha in.
“Hey, Martha. You want coffee?”
“Oh, yes, sweetie.” She comes in slowly, shutting the door behind her, and I get out a mug and put it next to the coffee pot for her.
I get back to work, the sounds of Martha toddling around in my kitchen a familiar accompaniment. Which is why I barely hear when she asks me a question.
“What did you say?”
“The people calling me about you. I told them you’re a nice girl who didn’t do anything wrong.”
“People . . . called you about me?”
“Yes, this morning.”
What? I hadn’t looked at anything online yet today. I shut the Wi-Fi off on my computer and kept my phone off so I wouldn’t be distracted. I turn it back on and, with a sinking feeling of doom, load up my web browser.
There’s another article. In Stylz. Of course.
It’s Marc and I.
My stomach drops when I see the pictures.
There’s a fuzzy one of us kissing at the club the other night. Another clearer shot of him getting out of Brent’s car and walking up to my apartment building. And yet another, both of us in Brent’s car, driving away the next morning, clearly freshly showered and smiling and . . . oh God.
This is a disaster. This is going to ruin Brent’s career. No one will believe anything he says. This will kill him. And Marc and their family business. Their dad is going to freak out and Marc will end up dealing with most of the fallout. Not to mention my interview later today . . .
With shaking hands, I turn on my cell phone. There’s a ton of missed calls, but none of them are Marc. He hasn’t seen the article yet.
I glance over the story again, seething when I notice the title. “Beauty and the Beast.” Fucking Marissa.
I call Marc.
“Hey, beautiful,” he answers after one ring, his voice light and happy.
“Marc.” My voice cracks on his name.
“What’s wrong?”
“I . . . you haven’t seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“There’s . . .” I can’t say it. Instead, I sigh and say the one word I know will clue him in. “Marissa.”
He’s already clicking away, the tapping of his fingers the only sound until— “Shit.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead. I stare at my phone. Did he hang up on me? I try to call and it goes straight to voicemail.
No, he doesn’t get to do this.
I grab my keys and purse and then I’m out the door, walking in the direction of their apartment while tapping for an Uber on my phone.
It’s takes forty-five minutes to drive to his place because of an accident on Henry Hudson Parkway. I want to scream, but that won’t make the cars in front of us move any faster.
The doorman recognizes me and lets me go up.
I have to talk to him. See him. I want to throttle Marissa when I think of the pain she’s already put him through, and now this?
I knock, frantic, and the door swings open and there he is, in slacks and a button-up shirt like he was getting ready for work when I called. I want to rush into his arms but he’s on the phone. He steps back to let me in.
“Yeah, she’s here.” He hands me the phone.
Confused, I take it. “Hello?”
“The presentation is off.” It’s Starlee.
My eyes fly to Marc’s and I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, even though she can’t see me. I didn’t even think about my appointment later today, or how this news would affect my deal with Starlee.
“What were you guys thinking? You were supposed to help Brent, not make things worse.”
“I didn’t . . . we didn’t . . .”
“I don’t have time for excuses. I’m too busy trying to fix your fuckup. No one in this town is going to give you a shot now, and you have no one to thank but yourself.”
She hangs up.
I pull the phone from my ear and stare down at it, numb with shock. Starlee has the connections to ruin me. Completely. This is worse than what happened last year with Lucky and Marissa. I can’t dig myself out of this. My dream is dead.
Marc takes it from me, careful not to touch my fingers with his.
The lack of contact chips off a piece of my heart. I step closer, as if the proximity will make him stop pulling away. “Marc, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, Gwen, it’s mine.”
I don’t have a chance to respond because the door swings open and slams against the wall, startling me into a jump.
It’s Brent. When he sees us, standing next to each other in the doorway, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are trained on Marc, unblinkingly hostile. His jaw is tense, his arms rigid by his side.
Brent stalks past us into the living room and Marc follows him.
I follow Marc.
“Brent, listen,” Marc starts.
“No, you listen. I never did that to you. Never. Not once. Not even when your girlfriends were throwing themselves at me, fully naked. I still kept my damn hands to myself.”
“You weren’t really dating!”
“Does it matter?”
I feel like an interloper, watching them fight, even though it is about me.
“You barely even know her.”
“And you do?”
“Yes! I was the one spending time with her when you weren’t here.”
“I know, and I trusted you. More fool me. You knew I had feelings for Gwen,” Brent says.
I’m stunned by that revelation. I mean, with all the leaning, I had an inkling Brent was wanting more than the fake dating, but I didn’t think it was serious. I thought he just wanted to fool around or something, not that there were feelings involved.
We had fun, but everything we talked about was on the surface. It was never like with Marc.
“Oh, come on. This isn’t about your feelings for Gwen, it’s about how this is the first time a girl has chosen me over you and your ego can’t take it.” He smiles, but it’s not any smile I’ve ever seen on Marc’s face, filled with an almost ferocious glee.
It stuns me. Has it been about this the whole time?
“You have feelings for me?” I ask Brent. He nods and I turn to Marc. “Did you use me to serve your own insecurities about your brother?”
He blinks and his head moves back as if I’ve lobbed a direct hit. “No. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
Do I? Am I so damaged from Lucky and this damn city that I can’t tell the difference between truth and fiction? A flood of panic threatens to overwhelm me. Everything I wanted was in reach. This is about so much more than Marc and Brent’s issues. Things were changing for me, someone was going to take me seriously, and now . . . everything is ruined.
“I’m not sure what I know.”
“Gwen,” they both say.
I look at Marc—pleading and contrite—and then Brent—hurt and angry. And then I think about what I’ve lost today. It’s too much. “I can’t deal with this.”
My feet are moving. They continue arguing behind me, but I keep walking in a daze into the elevator and out onto the street.
People walk by, on their cell phones, talking to each other, focused on getting to their lunch or work or whatever. I stand in front of Marc and Brent’s building for a few minutes until the doorman asks if I want a cab. I wave him off and start walking.
I end up in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain. It’s cold and cloudy and people bustle by, hugging their jackets to themselves, trying to keep warm.
I don’t have a sweater.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I need my family. They always pick up my pieces.
Reaching into my purse, I find my phone.
My fingers are almost too frozen to swipe, but after a few tries the call connects. “Gemma?”
“Are you okay?”
Only one word from my mouth and she knows something is wrong.
The tears start to fall, warm tracks on cold cheeks.
“Gwen. What the hell is going on? Do I need to kill someone?”
“I don’t know, Gemma. I thought he was . . . I thought it was— I thought we were— I lost everything! Again!” And with that I burst into sobs.
It takes a few minutes for me to calm down. Gemma’s talking, and I think it’s mostly gibberish at first, just words in a soothing tone, but then she says, “Can you get to the airport?” in a sharp pitch that gets my attention and stops the waterworks for a minute.
My head drops forward. I have my wallet and phone. That’s all I really need. “Yes.”
“Get to JFK. Sam’s booking you a flight out.”
Home.
The thought sparks a little bit of warmth in the hole in my chest.
I’m going home.
