The beauty of the past belongs to the past.
–Margaret Bourke-White
Gwen
Marc’s eyes widen when I ask him if he wants food.
“Not like a date,” I rush to assure him. “After all, I’m with your brother. Or sort of with your brother. Well, not at all with your brother but you know that. I just thought, you know, you might like to eat.” The laugh that emerges from my mouth is awkward and nervous to my own ears.
What is wrong with me? You’d think I haven’t talked to a real live person before.
He must not notice, though, because he nods. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Let’s go see if Charlie wants anything.”
We walk back to the computer room, where we find the tiny redhead clicking keys on a laptop and muttering to herself.
“Hey, Charlie. You want food?”
“You guys go ahead.” She waves, her eyes never leaving the screen in front of her and her fingers still tapping away. “There’s some issues with the basic infrastructure of their server and I want to make sure their LAN can handle the load when we get hella people to donate.”
“Right. You can call for a company car to take you home when you’re done.”
“Got it.” She flicks a thumb up, then keeps typing.
Marc calls somewhere for a car to come get us as we walk to the front entrance. We stop in at the office to say goodbye to the director and let her know that Charlie is still there working. The director gives Marc a big hug before we exit for the streets.
Within minutes, a sleek sedan is pulling up and Marc opens the door for me to slide in.
“This is fancy,” I say.
“Welcome to the lifestyles of the rich and not so famous.”
I laugh. “I’m more used to the lifestyles of the broke and desperate.”
He watches me in the dim interior of the car, broken by the occasional flash of a street lamp as we drive. “Not anymore, right?”
“Well. Not quite that bad. There was a time, though, when I had given up the modeling jobs and I wasn’t getting nearly enough photography shoots. Let’s just say if it weren’t for Maria at the bodega on the corner, I might have starved.”
He laughs and then his head tilts a little as he regards me. “You’re not like most people I’ve met.”
I grimace. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No, it’s a refreshing thing. Most people don’t talk about their hard times, you know? Everyone has a façade they like to present to the world, and it’s all the best and happiest moments.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t see the point in trying to be someone other than myself. I tried that. Didn’t work out.”
He nods, his eyes assessing me for a moment before he glances away. “What do you like to eat?”
“I’m not picky. I’ll eat anything that won’t eat me first.”
“Have ever you had a burger from Raoul’s?”
My mouth drops open. “What? No. They only make like twelve of them a night. It’s damn near impossible to get one.”
He smiles slowly. “What if I told you that everything you think you know is a lie?”
“Well, I’d say hand me a red pill, Morpheus.”
He laughs. “You know, he never actually says that line in the movie.”
“I know. Yet another falsehood spread by viral memes.” I shake my head in mock outrage. “What is this world coming to?”
We laugh together and then I have to ask, trying not to get too excited, “Can you really get us burgers from Raoul’s?”
“We supply all of their cooking equipment. So yes. I don’t typically call in these types of favors, but I’d be willing to make an exception for the woman who’s saving my brother. Although I have to admit I’m surprised you’ll eat one.”
“Why is that surprising?”
“Most models I’ve been around only consume cigarettes and diet soda with a splash of cocaine.”
I grin. “Well there’s your mistake. I’m not a model.”
He calls in our order from the car and the driver takes us to SoHo. We’re dropped off in front of the small storefront and when we walk in, they immediately seat us at the bar. The bartender greets Marc and they shake hands.
Marc introduces me as a friend and then we order drinks. Once we each have a glass of beer in front of us, the bartender goes to the back to get our food.
Raoul’s is an artsy French bistro with three dining rooms. The walls are decorated with nudes and jazz portraits. Above us spans a tin ceiling. The space is filled with the scent of garlic and fresh baked bread. It’s not quite five yet, but people already fill the tables and crowd one end of the bar.
“You didn’t introduce me as Brent’s girlfriend.”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket and hangs it on the seat. “Should I have?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then the bartender brings us our plates and for a second I forget my own name because the mouthwatering burger in front of me looks like a work of art. It’s a giant brisket patty topped with greens and piquant au poivre sauce inside a challah bun. “Oh, wow.”
“I know.”
There’s a comfortable silence for a few minutes, amongst the tinkling of silverware against plates and the murmur of the early dinner crowd, while we eat our burgers.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.
“Considering the third degree I subjected you to all afternoon?” I pretend to think about it. “Nah, you get nothing.”
“Seems fair.”
I take a sip of beer and then wink at him. “Go ahead. I probably owe you one or twelve.”
“Why did you agree to date Brent?”
“A few reasons,” I hedge. It feels wrong admitting I did it to further my own career. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason, but it was the main one.
“I guess I’m surprised you aren’t already in a relationship or dating someone else, is all.”
“I’m not really looking for anything like that right now. I don’t have time for a relationship. I’ve been working really hard on a project and if everything goes as planned, I’ll be traveling a lot and it’s not fair to start something that will turn into long distance at best and end in a fiery pile of pain at worst. So this arrangement with Brent works out for me. Since it’s temporary.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re a romantic.”
“Is it that obvious?”
We share a smile at our mutual sarcasm.
“Travelling sounds fun,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to take a year and just travel the world with a backpack and no firm plans. Just leave everything behind and go where the wind takes me.”
“That does sound fun. Sounds like we share a bit of the wanderlust.”
We turn back to our burgers in silence for a few moments before Marc speaks again. “But what if you fall in love?”
I nearly choke on my bite of delicious beef. “You think I’m going to fall in love with your brother?”
He shrugs. “It happens a lot.”
“People don’t fall in love with Brent. They’re fans that are in lust and they fall in love with the idea of him.”
“Maybe. So you think you’re immune?”
“I do.” At his disbelieving expression, I continue, “What? You want me to fall in love with him?”
“I want Brent to be happy. The rest of it doesn’t really matter. It would make a nice story, though, don’t you think? Two people, pretending to date and then they fall in love and live happily ever after? I feel like I’ve seen that movie a few times.”
“This isn’t the movies.”
Except it starts to feel unreal because a familiar face enters the restaurant behind Marc. And like in the movies he just mentioned—except it’s more of a horror story—my vision narrows and my throat constricts as if I’m being choked by an invisible hand.
“Gwen, you okay?” Marc’s voice is coming from far away.
Lucky catches me staring and then everything around us slows down to a crawl as he acknowledges my gaze with a small smirk. Then he heads in our direction.
Oh, no.
“Gwen, darling,” he says. He air kisses me on both cheeks, his hands gripping my shoulders briefly before he steps back and smiles at us, all charm and grace as if the last time I saw him he hadn’t been a cheating, phony, no-good piece of rat dung.
He looks the same. Too thin. Too chiseled. Too perfectly put together in an expensive shirt and distressed pants that he pays extra for to look casual and like he’s not trying too hard.
I’m speechless. Terrified. There’s a lump in my throat and I can’t speak around it.
Marc thankfully steps into the breech. “I’m Marc Crawford,” he says, shaking Lucky’s hand.
Through the pounding of my heart in my ears, they exchange names and pleasantries.
And then I see her. My former best friend is at the door, eyes pointed down toward the phone in her hand, looking bored and beautiful with her dark wavy hair, designer clothes, and flawless face.
Becca.
She was the first friend I made in New York. And then she ripped my heart in two.
I try not to hold hate in my heart, but all I can think when I look at her is I hope she gets a high five. In the face. With a van. A big one.
Lucky is speaking to me and I rip my eyes away from Becca. “I saw the news about you and the footballer,” he says, like he’s fucking British or something. “Lucky thing, snagging that fish. Maybe you’ll be able to use his connections to help fix your . . . problems.”
He’s always using his name with double meaning. I never realized how lame it was until he was gone. He would always say, they call me Lucky, because I am Lucky and because I get Lucky. In hindsight, it’s so stupid I don’t know why I ever thought he was an interesting person.
But now that he’s here in front of me, everything I’ve thought about saying to him if I ever saw him again is stuck in my throat. About how my only problem was not recognizing him for the snake that he is before it was too late. About how I trusted him and he treated me like trash.
But once again, Marc interjects, his tone firm. “We’re the ones who are lucky. My family and I support her one hundred percent and we would never let anyone hurt her.”
Lucky has enough of a survival instinct to step back. He’s not the biggest fish in this pond. “Nice to see you again, Gwennie. We have to get together and catch up soon.”
He was the only one who ever called me Gwennie, something I used to think was cute but now makes me want to puke my burger all over him.
I still haven’t said anything. I’m barely breathing. Lucky walks away into the other room, and Becca follows without so much as a glance in my direction.
Somehow Marc manages to get our food bagged up and a few minutes later, he’s ushering me outside and into the car. The sedan moves smoothly down the street and Marc gives me a couple of minutes to gather myself before he speaks.
I’m grateful for the momentary peace. It’s like he knows exactly what I need.
But then, of course, he has to ask. “Who was that bonehead?”
I’ve been gazing out the window, shell-shocked. But now I force my gaze to meet Marc’s. “Lucky Carter.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s a model. He’s well known in that crowd. I used to . . . date him.” At least, I thought we were a couple.
He thought we were casually boning while he also casually boned every other female within a ten-mile radius, including my “friend” Becca. But I don’t want to tell Marc about how clueless I was. How everyone laughed at me behind my back when I would gush about my “boyfriend.”
I was so stupid.
Seeing Lucky brings all those insecurities rushing to the surface.
But then I glance over at Marc and feel an equal rush of appreciation. He stood up for me. No one has done that in so long.
“You know, it doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside. Whether you’re scarred,” I reach up and cup his injured cheek, “or beautiful. We all have them. But some scars are invisible.”
I drop my hand and turn back to the window, watching the city lights rush by.
A few minutes later, Marc shifts in the seat next to me, watching me. “I was a pretty good snowboarder.”
“Yeah?”
“I qualified for nationals when I was sixteen.”
“Brent isn’t the only one in the family with athletic ability.”
He nods his head once, a slight dip downward. “But ever since the accident, I haven’t so much as touched a board. I can barely look at one.”
“What happened?”
“I was an idiot. There had been a big storm and then a major freeze and the snow was slick. I was young, reckless, thought I was invincible. I crashed. Ran into a tree. There were icicles, and they fell on me. My goggles were askew from the collision. This side was exposed.” He fingers the damaged side of his face.
He puts his hand back down on the seat between us.
After a few long seconds I cover it with my own.
His palm turns into mine and the movement makes our fingers link. The gesture is so natural, his hand warm and steady against my own, it just feels . . . right. Like we’ve held hands a hundred times before.
The steady pressure and heat of his fingers are a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
I wonder if my hand is having the same effect on him, but I don’t ask. Words might ruin it. We make the rest of the drive to my apartment in silence.