He wanted to press her.Because why?He held the question back.
“I end up in the tabloids as the jilted wife or what have you.”
Yes, he wanted to say,but that’s new. That’s Reggie and his cars and his bullshit, and you said you hadn’t been out in “ages.”
Esme had said on that call that Blair hadn’t been hanging out with her friends. Jack wasn’t good with friends. He didn’t have many. But his image of professionally successful and—here was that dreaded term again—emotionally intelligent women was that they did. That their strong social bonds were probablywhythey were so successful and emotionally intelligent.
“But I can go out if I want to,” Blair said. “There are places you go when you want to be photographed and places you go when you don’t.”
He forced himself to listen to what she was actually saying. That was probably what an emotionally intelligent, professionally successful friend would do. “Why would you everwantto be photographed?”
“These days, I wouldn’t. But there are times when you have to control the narrative. It’s part of the job. Unfortunately.” She cocked her head. “Or at least it was part of the job when I was acting. It feels less important now.”
A man in chef’s whites approached, and Blair grinned. “Chef!”
“Blair!” He lowered his voice. “Or should I say Barb?” The two of them embraced, their mutual affection palpable.
“Josh, this is my friend Jack.” Jack appreciated that she didn’t use his full name. Not that he expected anyone to recognize it the way they would hers, but still. “Jack, Josh opened this place right aroundthe first time I lived in the house we’re in. We used to come here when Cal was a baby.”
“And here you are all these years later, even though you’re superfamous now,” Josh said.
“It’s my favorite restaurant. Why wouldn’t I come to my favorite restaurant?” There was something odd about the way Blair had posed that question, as if she were asking herself instead of Josh.
“What’s this about ‘the housewe’rein’?” Josh wagged his eyebrows.
“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Blair said quickly. “Jack is a friend staying in my pool house temporarily.”
It alarmed Jack that he and Blair would be perceived as a couple, but he supposed it was a logical conclusion.
A server approached with two plates.
“Something to munch on while you look at the menu,” Josh said. “Olives from the farm garden warmed with black truffle oil, and some rosemary and leek focaccia.”
“Thanks, Josh.”
“What’s with the Barb thing?” Jack asked after Josh left.
“Barb Tybee. It’s the fake name I use. Barbara is actually my middle name, and Tybee is an island off the coast where I’m from.”
“You reallyarefamous.”
She quirked a half smile, and one dimple popped out. “I really am famous.”
Yeah, that had been an idiotic thing to say. “I just meant…” What? What had he meant?
“I know what you meant, and I appreciate it.”
“What did I mean?” He really wanted to know.
“You don’t think of me as a famous person. You just think of me as… me.” The second dimple appeared. “Even if you don’t like me a lot of the time.”
Jack couldn’t make himself utter the wordsI like you, so he justmade an exceedingly uncharacteristic vague grunt and picked up his fork.
Dinner was great. The food was outstanding—and so was the company. Hedidlike Blair, and at some point he abandoned his attempts to psychoanalyze her and just enjoyed her company. He wasn’t accustomed to any of it, to feeling invigorated by being out in the world, by talking to people.
Though he was aware that he wasn’t with “people.” He was with Blair.
“Do you ever think about who you are aside from your art?” he asked as they tucked into a shared slice of orange-almond cake. It was his version of answering her question about whether you had to love something in order to make art. Or trying to answer it, anyway.
