He paused a moment. “If I say yes?”
“Then … I let you down gently, I think.”
“You think? Damn Heywood, don’t I at least deserve a rejection for the ages? You’re supposed to be a diva.”
“I could burnNOinto your front lawn?”
“Now we’re talking,” he laughed. “Look, if you don’t want it to be a date that’s fine with me. Do you want to hang out anyway? You’re sort of the only person in pretentious, award-winning land I can tolerate, and I could really do with seeing a friendly face.”
So there I was at Caleb’s house, reclining across three garden chairs while he prodded at fish charring on the barbecue. I watched him for a while, wondering what I was doing here. Harper was flying straight from London to Toronto to spend a few weeks filming the sort of New York–set woman-in-the-arts rom-com that had become her standard farebetween arthouse projects. I suppose somewhere between scraping through improv classes and winning Emmys Harper had found a way to make her wryness work for her.
(I tried not to think about the slow trickle of my own offers—and none of them grabbing me the way I craved. I was a considerate professional, an angel on set and a veritable delight to work with, but I was a roll of the dice with the press and not one many were willing to risk. But I trusted Victor to find me something. He always did.)
I knew it wasn’t just the empty evenings left in Harper’s wake that had brought me to this garden. I liked Caleb—a lot, actually. Especially after London.
But that was the issue, wasn’t it?
He was my alibi, so I should keep him close.
But he was also my friend.
And the ex-fiancée of the girl I was … whatever we were.
We picked at food. We gossiped. I suggested he go for the lead in Ivan’s new film—his first screenplay sinceDreadbase.And then, after all that, Caleb sobered and looked across the sprawling hills below. “So, are we going to discuss the fact the thought of us fucking tore apart a marriage?”
I took a sip of lemonade—fresh pressed, which was exactly the sort of thing Caleb would think to make in anticipation of a guest. His hair flopped across his face as he said it, not a cynical comment but edged with concern, even though he was trying to play it off as funny. “I don’t think that’s on us,” I said gently. “Clearly they were having problems already.”
“Do you think she’s okay? I know you two have been close in the past and despite what went down between us, I don’t like the idea of her hurting.”
“I’m sure she’s having a rough time, but she’ll get through it. She was Harper Moore before Joel, and she’ll be the same conniving bitch we all love to hate long after.”
He snorted. “Right, so you’re not close right now.”
I swallowed. “You seem to care a lot about her for someone who was just trying to hook up with me.”
He shrugged. “Of course I care about her. And I wasn’t trying to hook up with you, Nadine. I like you. A lot. Not like that,” he flushed a deep red at my arched brow, and I suddenly felt rather awful for teasing. “I just … I’m the type of person who has to like someone before they can even think about dating and romance, you know? I like you, so it felt like the sort of thing I ought to consider. But I don’t think your friendship is some sort of runner-up offering, if that’s what you’re concerned by.”
“I’m not,” I assured him.
“I just want you to know I care. You can come to me—and I’m glad you did in London. How is everything going?”
I caught the weight. The implication.
Was I still on the verge of a relapse?
I don’t know. I didn’t think so—not as I had been, desperate to numb it all. As awful as it was to admit, the guilt was fading. I was still traumatized by it—bodies and blood and broken bones are horrific. But Joel was horrific too.
I regretted my involvement, but not, perhaps, that it had happened at all.
Did Harper feel the same?
“I’m good, I think. And thank you for London.”
“Anytime, Heywood. You know that.”
We fell quiet, but I could feel pressure mounting until all at once I blurted: “I’m seeing someone.”
I hadn’t meant to—hadn’t thought that was where this was going, but Caleb was just so damn easy to admit things to. A confession was burning on my tongue, demanding utterance. And that’s the one that leaped to the forefront, the secret spilling over like it had to make room for the darker truth.
