Bittersweet (27 page)

“Jeez, I’m dying of thirst over here,” Max calls when I finally make my way back down the bleachers to our seats. “What took you so long?”

“Just bumped into … my past and my future.” I hope so anyway.

Maxine rolls her eyes but grins as she sees the expression on my face. “All right, all right, enough with the Philosophy for Dummies,” she says, then turns back toward the field. “LET’S GO, BLOODHOUNDS!”

* * *

I sneak out front to keep Max company for her one cigarette while the coach makes his speech about not taking the first win of the season for granted. I check my watch, but the game finished over an hour ago and so far there’s no sign of Greg at the restaurant. Maybe they’re still filming. Or he’s changed his mind about being sorry. Or… I stop with the possibilities because Maxine’s elbowed me in the ribs.

“Max, I swear to God, one of these days you’re going to give me a blood clot or something.”

“Sorry—but look, here comes lover-boy,” she says, extinguishing her cigarette hastily. She winks at me, shakes a mock-chastising finger at Greg as he strides toward the restaurant, and then she slips back inside. The noise from the restaurant momentarily spikes, before the door closes again and it’s back to a muffled roar of rowdy jocks and music.

I step down from the restaurant porch and go meet Greg as he’s halfway across the parking lot. He stops when he sees me coming toward him, his silhouette outlined in the streetlights that have just clicked on as twilight descends. One hand pushed in the pocket of his jeans, one pushing his hair off his face—the gesture’s already so familiar to me, but still does something crazy to my insides. I nod over toward one of the big trees on a grassy knoll nearby and start to stride over to it so he’ll follow me. I flop down onto the grass under the tree and look up it at. It’s been a long day, and the couple of beers I drank in the heat of the Dogwood sun have made me feel sleepy. Greg lays down beside me and we both look up for a while without saying anything, just staring at the leaves swaying, light winking in between them as they flutter in the breeze.

Eventually I look over at him and see that he’s tucked his hands behind his head. He’s lying closer to me than I’d thought. And he’s not looking at the leaves. He’s looking at me.

“How do you do that?” he asks softly, and I frown, confused. I’m on my back too, but I roll onto one side so I’m facing him.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re just… Every time I see you, you’re more beautiful.” He blinks, then turns his head to stare back up at the tree’s branches. Like that was a totally normal thing to say.

I feel prickles of heat creep up the back of my neck, and my mind says
deflect, deflect, deflect
. “See, you said you liked the face paint, but now that I’ve washed it off, you’re like ‘Oooh,
that’s
what her face is supposed to look like.’”

He just turns back to me and smiles.

“I know,” I say, more quietly. “I can’t take a compliment.”

Greg sits up slowly and bends his knees a little, resting his arms on top of them. “Cathy, listen, about the other night, with Bethany—”

I sit up too, shaking my head. “I should have called before I turned up, and I should have told you that I trusted you. I mean, obviously. I’m so sorry to have even suggested otherwise.” He nods, and I pick at a blade of grass. “But I don’t blame her. Look at you. Even I’m jealous, and I think you might kind of like me,” I say, my mouth quirking into a half-smile.

He grins. “I think you’re right, I think I might kind of like you.” His face grows serious. “But as soon as she showed up at my apartment alone, I should have told her we’d rehearse some other time. It was dumb.”

“Well, like we said, we’re both sorry, right?” I reach over for his hand, weave my fingers in between his. “It’s kind of a bummer though—I had some interesting plans for Bobby’s tiramisu,” I murmur, but then laugh at myself. “That sounds so wrong.”

Greg leans closer. “I don’t know, it sounded kind of right to me,” he says, leaning in to kiss my neck, then moving over to my lips, then edging me back so I’m flat on the ground again, his fingers creeping under my Bloodhounds jersey.

“Hold up a minute there, sports fan,” I say breathlessly, pulling away reluctantly. “Joe is in the restaurant. He’ll come out here any minute for a cigar with the coach—you really want him to see you pawing his daughter on the ground?”

Greg pecks my lips once then relents, and I exhale, sitting up next to him, close, so our shoulders touch. “What are your plans tomorrow?” I ask.

He sighs hard. “I wish they were all about
pawing
you,” he says with a chuckle, “but we’re shooting from five a.m.” He looks exhausted just at the thought. “Which means I should get an early night,” he mutters. “I swear, if we don’t get a decent night alone together soon, we may have to settle for a not-so-decent moment or two…”

“Mmm, an indecent moment with you sounds pretty good to me,” I reply, and lean over to kiss him again.

Greg grits his teeth in frustration as he pulls away. “Guess I should be grateful we’re still shooting for now anyway—day after tomorrow is the big premier. If the ratings don’t do what we need them to, we won’t be filming much longer.”

I don’t even want to think about that as an option, and I suddenly remember Max’s plan. “Uh, we’re having a little viewing party actually. I mean, if you’re not planning on watching the premier with the cast and crew?” I say “cast” through slightly gritted teeth myself. Greg shakes his head.

“Not if I could be spending time with you, I’m not,” he says. “I’ll be there.” He leans down and runs his lips up my arm.

“How soon after… Um, how soon after it airs will you know if the ratings are good?” I ask, reaching up to put my hands in his hair as he leans his head on my shoulder.

“Next day,” he says, muffled, and I can hear the tiredness in his voice. If I could curl up with him here under the stars, I would.

“Next day,” I repeat. “OK.”

He sits up straighter and looks at me. “Then our fate will be sealed.”

I press my lips together. “Don’t be so dramatic,” I whisper, trying to sound jokey, but it really does make my stomach flip to think that if
Bittersweet
doesn’t do well, he could be going back to New York in a matter of days.

“Occupational hazard,” he says, then stands up and dusts himself off, reaching down for my hand to pull me up too. He pulls me straight into his embrace, eyes closed, and I sink into his kiss.

“You better get back in there before cigar time,” he murmurs eventually, his mouth still close to mine.

“Sure you don’t want to come inside?” I ask.

He shakes his head, then closes his eyes and groans. “Don’t say things like that to me, Cathy,” he says, his voice low.

I reach up and kiss his jaw, tickling it with my tongue. “I can’t help it if you have a dirty mind,” I whisper. “See you day after tomorrow.” I step away, not letting go of his hand until the last moment.

“Can’t come soon enough,” he says, then turns and starts walking away.

“No girl wants to hear that,” I retort with a grin, and his gorgeous laugh echoes back at me as he strides on down the road.

I’m standing by the door to our apartment building doing some stretches for my run when I see Max, laden down with shopping bags, struggling toward me, still in her work uniform.

“Oh, thank god,” she pants, seeing me open the door.

I grab a couple of the bags from her and follow her upstairs to let her into the apartment. “What do we need all this stuff for anyway? I just got a couple six-packs and some chips. How many people did you invite?”

“A carefully selected handful, that’s all,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “But I thought we could make a little effort with the canapés, you know.”

I put my hands on my hips. “You mean you thought
I
could make a little effort.”

“It’s just assemblage, honey, it’s fine. Anyway, why are you going running now? We need to get the apartment ready and—” She looks around the spotless interior.

I shrug. “I’ve been stress cleaning. And that’s why I’m going for a run too. I’m … tense.”

Max comes over to me and grips my shoulders. “C, don’t put so much pressure on yourself, or on him. I’ve seen y’all together—you have something. Even if the show isn’t successful, you’ll find a way to make it work.” Her brown eyes widen sincerely and I have to admire the romantic in her. I wish I had so much faith in the power of love, but fate always seems to have other plans for me.

“My life is here, Max. His isn’t. He’s an actor, with real prospects, you know? Somehow I don’t think Dogwood Community Theater is going to cut it.” I break away and start to redo my stretches.

She chuckles a little and goes to start unpacking the shopping. “I have enough faith for the both of us. Besides, the show is going to kick ass, you’ll see. I’m excited already. It starts at nine, so be back by seven latest, all right?”

“All right, all right…”

* * *

I’m still staring at myself indecisively in the mirror, wondering how dressed up I should get for watching a TV show in my own apartment, when the buzzer goes. I check my watch, but it’s only just past eight o’clock. Could it be Greg already?

I tear off the shirt I have on, grab a V-neck sweater, hold it up to myself quickly, and then frown at my reflection. “Max, could you get that?” I yell.

Max answers the door and I hear a familiar voice, but it’s not Greg’s. I pull the sweater over my head without scrutinizing myself too much more, and run a brush through my hair before swinging my bedroom door open and heading down the hallway.

“Hey, baby bro! Hey, guys,” I say, grinning at Carl and three of his friends. They’re all staring at Maxine, who is wearing only a very sheer camisole and bra with her jeans. “Uh, Maxi, you want to finish getting dressed? Impressionable eyes,” I mutter, gesturing to her top half and then nodding toward the boys. She winks at them before striding back to her room while their gaze follows her, and then I take the opportunity to grab Carl and kiss his cheek until he gets all squirmy and blushes.

“Quit it, Catherine!”

I ruffle his hair, then let him go. “You’re lucky you’re even here, squirt,” I remind him. “How’s Dad? You’re making sure he takes his blood pressure meds, right?” I ask, my tone more serious now. Carl nods and I squeeze his arm, then turn to his friends.

“You guys want a soda?”

“Got any beer?” one of the boys asks, flopping onto the couch and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

“Uh, nice try, kid,” I retort. Just as I’ve finished laying out some chips and getting them drinks, the buzzer goes again, and Jenna and Matthew, a guy she’s been dating, turn up. Carl gives up his seat for her, and her date sits on the floor next to her. I almost feel bad for my brother as I see the crestfallen look on his face when the guy starts running a hand up Jenna’s leg.

When the buzzer goes again and I check the time I see it’s almost a quarter to nine, and the show will be starting soon, but it’s not Greg—a couple of the girls from The Salon, and then Todd arrives with a buddy, his sister Cindy and Cindy’s new girlfriend Patricia. The living room is starting to look pretty crowded, and I widen my eyes at Max as she lays out more appetizers and hands out drinks.

“What?” she asks innocently.

“A handful?” I say, raising my eyebrows. I’m not sure where me or Greg are even going to sit, but then again it’s five to nine and there’s still no sign of him. I check my cell but there are no messages, and he keeps going to voicemail.

“I’m sure he just got held up. He’ll be here,” Max says to me quietly, laying a hand on my arm before climbing over the bodies strewn across the furniture and floor to squeeze onto Todd’s lap. “OK, guys,” she says, raising her voice. “This is it!” She turns up the volume and everyone focuses their attention on the screen.

Music starts, and the pre-credit sequence begins with Johnny Lincoln striding down Main Street, a bag slung over his shoulder. His voice-over starts, and Max squeals in delight. We all cheer, recognizing our town right there on national television. By the time the opening credits roll everyone is laughing and pointing things out, then chattering loudly during the commercials. Finally, as the ads finish, we settle in to watch as the show starts in earnest. Everyone settles except me, I guess. I’m still glancing toward the door and my cell anxiously, but my heart leaps as I notice Greg come on screen—though it stutters a little when I realize his scene is with Bethany. But he’s great—so natural, so sexy, so …
not here
. What the hell is going on?

When the show breaks for commercials a second time, I get up and sneak back to my room, trying his number again in private. It goes straight onto voicemail once more, and I fire off another text, saying I’m a little worried. But just as I do, I hear the buzzer go.

“I’ll get it,” I shout, running back out of my room. I fling open the door to our apartment, waiting anxiously for him to come up. But when I see him looking up at me as he reaches the top of the staircase, I step out into the hallway and pull the apartment door closed behind me.

“Hey,” he says. His face is pale, his eyes are bloodshot, and his voice is hoarse.

“Hey,” I say softly, coming toward him.

“Cathy, I’m so sorry I’m late, I … I wanted to call, but—”

“Greg, is everything OK?” I know it’s obviously not, but it’s just a thing people say, I guess. He exhales hard and takes my hand, but just as he does, his cell starts to vibrate in his other hand. He pulls back and looks at the screen for a second.

“Sorry, I have to get this.” He swallows, then answers. “Frankie? Did you find out? Is she lying or not?” he says, turning away from me, his voice hard. I know Frankie’s his brother but I have no idea what’s happening or who’s been lying.

He listens for a while, then closes his eyes and rubs his free hand over them. “Jesus. OK. OK,” he whispers. I’m in agony, and I run a hand up his arm, but he steps away, over to the window in the hallway outside our apartment. He stares out at the darkness, nodding. “OK. Good,” he says. “All right. No, I’m OK. I just… I can’t believe all this time I didn’t know.” He sighs again, and I think I see tears forming in his eyes. “Don’t fucking tell me it’s not my fault, Frank.”