“This is about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Here’s what I’m going to say. Once…” I rolled into him. He reached out to finger my nipple, and I stilled his hand. “Are you listening to me?”
He nodded.
“I understand you’re in this unique position, and girls are constantly falling in your lap, but you always have a choice. At some point, one way or another, you make a choice. And I’m not inclined to let this go on much longer without you making a choice. I trust you’ll let me know when that happens.”
He nodded again, slow. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”
los angeles
On the Wednesday of the second week of September, Daniel and I attended Windwood’s Eighth Grade Back-to-School Night. All summer our exchanges had been civil, perfunctory, business as usual. But there was something about him that evening that I could not quite put my finger on. He was oddly charming, attentive. After the welcome and the walk-through and the mediocre coffee, he insisted on escorting me back to the parking lot. And as we neared my car, he came out with it. “Are you seeing someone?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You just seem happy.”
“I can’t just be happy? I have to be seeing someone?”
“That’s not what I said.” He smiled.
I watched him wave to Rose’s parents across the lot. So polished, controlled, Hollywood. The very qualities that had drawn me in that first year of grad school. He, the cocky Columbia Law student with the intense eyes and perfect pedigree. He, who had wooed me over Viennese coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam. How quickly I’d fallen.
“Do you remember Kip Brooker?” He turned back to me. “He left Irell a few years back to go in-house at Universal? I had lunch with him the other day… His wife’s family has a place in the Hamptons. They summer in Sag Harbor every year. He told me he could have sworn he saw you there, at a restaurant, with one of those guys from August Moon. Like on a date. Which seems crazy, because…” He shook his head then, laughing. “That would just becrazy, right? For a million reasons that would be crazy.”
I smiled at that, deflecting. “Is there something you want to ask me, Daniel?”
“I thought I already did.”
“He’s a client.”
He stopped. He was not expecting confirmation. “A client?”
I nodded, watching him process. His poker face failing him.
“Is that his story or yours? Never mind. Sorry. None of my business. Get home safe,” he said, tapping the side of the Range Rover.
I’d already started the car and was adjusting my belt when he turned back and indicated for me to roll down the window.
“That’s not entirely true.” His expression was stern. “I’m going to take your word for it. But on the off chance you’re lying, I want to point out that your having any kind of relationship with this kid would likely kill Isabelle.”
“Duly noted,” I said, and closed the window.
Hayes arrived at my doorstep that Friday. In the weeks that had lapsed since our Hamptons tryst, August Moon had completedrecording their album in New York. They’d taped a bunch of footage for their upcoming documentary in London. They’d performed on a popular TV show in Germany and accepted an MTV Video Music Award via satellite because they were tied up recording a charity single at home for the BBC. But Isabelle’s return from camp and the start of the new school year made it so I could not join him for any of the above. And so when Hayes booked a ticket to visit his first free weekend, I was thrilled. That it coincided with the opening of our September show made it all the more satisfying. Hayes had come to L.A. for me.
I hugged him for a very long time. And the feeling I had in his arms—protected, safe—was one I could not remember having felt in a while.
“One would think that you’d missed me,” he laughed, his face buried in my hair.
“Just a little.”
“Are you going to invite me in? Or are the Backstreet Boys still here?”
“Actually, the Monkees,” I laughed, leading him inside.
Isabelle was at school, and then fencing. We were alone.
“So, this is home?”
