I must not have understood the movie, because afterward Harris and Martin absolutely fell all over their producer client, plying him with compliments. Martin deemed it “a sure box-office hit” and Harris agreed that “fans are going to go crazy.”
But when we were in the privacy of the car again, Harris exhaled long and slow and said, “Well, we better start working on a strategy.”
Martin groaned. “How do we even begin to defend that? That piece of trash is going to bomb.”
“I don’t know,” I said hopefully. “Maybe you’re underestimating how base the American population has become?”
“Even Americans won’t go for that drivel,” Harris said.
I could feel Harris’s mood begin to shift from lighthearted and fun to agitated. And I got it. I really did. Nothing could sour my mood like a perfectly good project gone wrong. My mind turned to the notes from my frozen embryo story, still sitting in my desk drawer. I hadn’t been able to stomach them, for obvious reasons.
But I was super bummed about what the shift meant for my night. I was hoping for a nightcap, a kiss at the stoop, a promise of a second date. New York Amelia was fresh and fun and open to, if not love, at least a handsome man to escort her about town.
Martin cupped Harris on the shoulder and said, “I’ve got your back, man.” It was very reassuring and very… straight.
“You always do,” Harris said, as though they had been working together for decades, not months. “I’m just going to leave it all to you.”
I could tell he meant it because some of his stress seemed to dissipate in that moment. Not all of it, unfortunately. When we got back to our apartment, Martin took off down the sidewalk, claiming he needed to grab something from Duane Reade. I was still hoping that Harris might suggest a drink, but there was no question that his mind was somewhere else.
He took my hand, kissed my cheek, and said, “May I call you some time? Take you out on a proper date that doesn’t involve a movie high school boys will be streaming on repeat soon?”
When I said, “Please do. I would really like that,” Harris squeezed my hand.
Then he turned, got back in the car, and, with a final glance, was gone. It made me feel wistful and wanton. And I was confident that he felt the same. He would call tomorrow. He wouldn’t be able to wait. I just knew it.
Only, after three days of silence, I was beginning to feel like he either hadn’t been interested or I hadn’t laid my cards on the table obviously enough.
“So he hasn’t said a single thing about me?” I prodded Martin, yet again, as he shook martinis. Our apartment might have been shoebox tiny, but Martin—and my mother—had made sure it was fabulous. The entire thing had a very Hollywood Regency vibe. It wasn’t the comfortable, classic look I normally went for, but this was a new life, a fresh start. I needed something different than normal. And this high-glam vibe was perfect. Plus, the egregious number of mirrors made the space feel slightly bigger.
While my mother had made sure the apartment was decorated to the nines with furniture she had stashed in the attic from Aunt Tilley’s first apartment decades ago, she had also made sure to tell me how cramped the apartment was. She asked if it’d be nice to go back to Palm Beach. Or maybe come home? I had quipped, “Why, Mom? One family member in the attic just not enough for you?”
I found myself very amusing. She found me less so.
Now, Martin said, “Liabelle, what do you want me to do? The man is my boss.”
Now I was suspicious. In classic Martin fashion, he hadn’t directly answered my question. “But has he said anything about me?”
Martin shrugged coyly, and I reached for the martini he was delivering to our chic slipper couch, which was covered in a high-shine, low-pile velvet the exact color of a pink Akoya pearl, and gave him the evil eye.
He sighed, dramatically folding himself into one of the beautiful Lucite creations, trimmed in gold, that Mom and Aunt Tilley had procured from a thrift store in—where else?—Palm Beach in the ’70s.
Every thought of Palm Beach was a reminder of Parker, of that spark I felt and, maybe most of all, of the way in which I had failed him. The Summer Splash was coming up, and, normally, I would have been excited to go home for days of parties and croquet and tennis and, obviously, fishing. But this year I had told Mom I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face Parker. I couldn’t be reminded of all the pain I had caused.
“I just told him that you hadn’t done much getting back on the horse since Thad, and that I didn’t know if it would be that easy to convince you.”
I was aghast. “Martin! I liked him. You knew that. I at least wanted to go on a proper date before I wrote him off.”
He looked shocked. “Well, that’s not what you’ve been saying for the past five months.”
He wasn’t wrong. “Well,” I sputtered. “You’re my best friend. You should be able to read my mind.”
He smiled at me wickedly, and, as though he had conjured it, the doorbell rang. I figured it was a new neighbor dropping off a casserole. I had obviously forgotten momentarily that I was no longer in the South, where casseroles were social currency.
I looked at Martin. “I thought I was living with a man so he could protect me in situations when unexpected strangers ring the doorbell.” He crossed one leg over the other and sipped his martini. I was on my own.
I got up and crossed the room, noting that I did feel impossibly glamorous in my mirrored apartment, holding my martini. Martin had even insisted I get a blowout today to lift my spirits. I wasn’t exactly financially secure at the moment and hadn’t wanted to part with the money, but it had been worth every penny.
I opened the door to an unspeakably devastating Harris, in a tux, holding two dozen red roses and a bottle of champagne. He grinned. “Martin suggested that a text might not win me another date.”
I laughed, even more grateful my hair wasn’t in a messy bun. “Come in, come in.”
Now Martin stood up, taking the flowers and the champagne. “Well played, boss. Well played.” Then he paused. “Oh God. There isn’t some heinous limo waiting downstairs, is there?”
Harris laughed, the kind of laugh that took over his entire body. Everything about the way he moved seemed effortless. Even for a girl who had sworn off men, it was intoxicating. “Just the town car.”
“Um,” I said. “If we’re going somewhere fancy, I’m not sure I’m black-tie-ready.”
“Check your bed,” Martin said coyly.
I put my hand on my heart. “I retract my previous statement. You can read my mind.”
I gasped when I saw it, recognizing the dress right off the bat: a vintage straight sheath Chanel gown in a vivid emerald green. I had seen it on Martin’s grandmother in the photo of her on our end table, and it was effortlessly stunning. I’d had no idea he even had it. It was very me. Well, me if I had ever been able to afford Chanel. Which I could not. I slipped it on, Martin zipped, and it was official: I felt like a princess.
“So, where are we going, exactly?” I asked Harris.
“That’s for me to know.”
“Do you think I’m safe with him?” I mock-whispered to Martin, realizing the martini had made this all quite a bit more fun.