Playing With Her Heart (28 page)

“Let’s make it a
party,” I say dryly, and she calls Clay and tells him his presence
is required.

Soon we pull up to The
Last Stand on Lexington, and the name is apropos. I toss my bow tie
and jacket on the seat of the car, unbutton the top two buttons on my
shirt and head inside with my sister.

The Last Stand is like
a railroad apartment, long, narrow, and all bar. There are no cozy
booths for intimate encounters, or low-lit nooks where you’d take
someone you’d want to touch under the table. This watering hole has
one purpose—to get smashed.

“Glenlivet?”
Michele asks.

“Fuck Glenlivet. I’ll
take a Macallan tonight.” I don’t need anything to remind me of
her
.

Clay joins us, and it
feels right to be with these two people right now. People I know,
people I trust. Soon, I’ve downed my third glass and my head is
feeling fuzzy, and the vise around my heart is starting to loosen as
we drink and talk about everything except show business.

At two in the morning,
the bartender says it’s last call and far be it from me to deny The
Last Stand another chance to pour another drink. We finish off a
final round, and stumble out into the middle of the night.

“You guys take my car
uptown. I’m going to take the subway.”

Michele raises an
eyebrow. “In your state?”

“The subway was made
for times like this.”

On the train, there’s
a woman in a nurse’s uniform dozing off a few seats away, a hipster
in a hoodie listening to music on his phone, and a skinny guy weaving
down the car who’s probably had more drinks than me. I slump down
in my seat, the guy in the tux who spoke at the Plaza, who dedicated
a song to an actress.

Who’s heading home
well past midnight, in a lonely subway car.

* * *

Jill

It’s better this
way. It’s better this way. It’s better this way.

I repeat that all night
long as I sleep fitfully. I say it over and over in the morning as I
run along the West Side Bike Path. I mutter it under my breath as I
head over to Central Park.

This is who I am. I am
a girl who runs, and today some of the ladies I coach are running a
half-marathon so I am here to cheer them on. I blot out the fact that
they didn’t expect to see me at the finish line. That I told them I
had an event the night before but would be rooting for them from far
away. But this is where I should be because there’s no room in my
life for anything more. There’s no room in my heart for Davis, or
Patrick, or anyone.

My fate was sealed long
ago, and I’m better off this way. When I am alone I can’t hurt
someone again. As the first of my gals cross the finish line, I raise
an arm in the air and cheer wildly, as loud as I possibly can. I jump
up and down to prove how goddamn happy I am. She sees me and smiles
broadly.

“You did it!”

She jogs over to me and
collapses into my arms, and I hug her.

“I’m so happy for
you,” I say, because I am. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.

This is my life. This
is safe. Running.

But after they’ve all
crossed the finish line, and celebrated, and had their pictures
taken, and high-fived each other, they disperse. Heading home to
families. Heading elsewhere. And I am where I’ve always been.

Alone, with this
bruised and worn-out heart of mine.

I leave the park, and
though I’m tempted to walk past The Plaza, what would be the point?
I can’t have him, I can’t have us, and I can’t bear the
reminder so I walk down Broadway, thinking that I could get lost in
the theater district, that I could buy a ticket, catch a matinee, and
let myself
believe
that the razzle dazzle of
Chicago
or
the underground lake in
Phantom
could take all my cares away.
So I make a go of it. I head for the scene of the crime and buy a
nosebleed seat for the matinee of
Wicked
at the Gershwin
Theater and settle in to watch the witch fly across the stage and
fall in love with the hot guy, but remain misunderstood even through
the end.

For a few hours, I
forget about the past. But when the curtain rises and the actors take
their bows, I am reminded that I’ve been there, done that, and
still have the empty space in my chest to prove that my tricks and
techniques don’t always work. I leave and wander downtown.

I check my phone once,
but he hasn’t called, and he hasn’t texted. Not that I expected
either. He’s not a texter, and I don’t deserve a call.

I don’t deserve him.

There is nothing left
to save me from what I did, and maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow I’ll
man up and say I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to say anything
more than that. Since I can’t have him.

I return to my
apartment. It’s early evening now and Kat is curled up on the couch
watching
You’ve Got Mail
, one of her favorite movies ever.
One she made me watch a year ago, and I fell in love with too.

“Bryan’s out of
town for the weekend,” she says, patting the couch. “Come join
me.”

I shake my head. “I’m
tired.”

She hits pause on the
laptop, and eyes me up and down, taking in my fleece jacket and
running pants. It occurs to me that I went to the theater dressed
like this. It also occurs to me that I don’t care.

“Have you been
running all day long?”

“Something like
that.”

“Hey, you don’t
seem like yourself. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe
you, Jill. Did something happen with Davis at the gala last night?”

I flinch, but then turn
stoic. “No. Nothing happened. It was fine. We had a fine time. I’m
beat though. I need to go nap.”

I don’t nap. I
shower, put on pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and settle into my room.
I read Aaron’s last letter again and again, and I watch a video
where the woman my brother loves shares her whole heart on TV. And I
wish I could find a way to be like her. But that’s not a choice I
have.

Davis

The punching bag swings
wildly after my final hit. I’ve been pummeling it for the last
hour, but as I unwrap my hands, zip up my sweatshirt, and leave the
gym, I feel as if I’m the one who’s been pummeled.

I’ve somehow made it
through the day though, and each one that follows will be easier. I
return to my loft, strip off my gym clothes and take a long, hot
shower, washing away the remains of the day.

I pull on jeans and a
casual button down, but don’t tuck it in, then find my phone and
dial the nearby Chinese takeout. I place an order, but when I hang up
something feels eerily familiar and I can’t quite place it. I
furrow my brow, trying to pull the memory to the surface. Then it’s
there as I flash back to a few nights ago. When Jill said Chinese
takeout was her favorite food. When she
also
said she thought
about us so much it scared her. Then I remember last night on the
dance floor when she very nearly told me how she felt.

“
Do you think
everyone knows?”

“
Knows what?”

“
How we feel.”

Those words echo
loudly, clanging in my head, reverberating around my whole apartment.
Like neon lights blaring on. Like a goddamn marquee in Times Square.
The sign that was in front of me the whole time, but I didn’t see
it until now.

We.

How we feel.

I rewind the night once
more to be sure, replaying every moment with her, every word, every
second. Then further, back to the diner when she told me she wasn’t
going to spend time with Patrick anymore, then to the restaurant when
she told me about the last guy she was with.

How she hurt him.

I’ve always sensed
she’s hiding something, hiding her true self. I’ve always
believed she wants to be seen, wants to be understood, wants to be
known. And now, twenty-four hours after she ran away from me, my gut
is finally talking to me and it’s telling me loud and clear there’s
something else going on.

I’ve always known
when she’s acting. She wasn’t acting with me.

Jill wasn’t using me,
I was never a career move for her, and Michele’s advice isn’t the
reason she took off last night. When she bolted it wasn’t about me,
or us, or what’s been happening over the last several weeks. It was
something that goes back much further for her. It’s about her, and
it’s about why she hasn’t been close to anyone in a long time.

Whatever it is, I’m
not walking away without understanding her.

I reach for my wallet,
slip on a pair of shoes and grab a jacket. Then I leave, and hail a
cab. On the way, I call the Chinese takeout and cancel my order. I
don’t call Jill because I don’t want to talk to her on the phone.
I want to see her in person.

Soon, the taxi pulls up
to her building in Chelsea, and I’m at the door in seconds,
pressing the buzzer.

“Hello?”

It’s not Jill’s
voice.

“Hi. I’m looking
for Jill. This is Davis –”

But I don’t even
finish. I’m already buzzed up as a voice calls out through the
speaker, “Second floor.” I head up the concrete steps, my shoes
echoing in the stairwell. I reach the second floor, and I realize I
don’t know the number of her apartment, but I don’t need it.
There’s a woman with light brown hair holding open a yellow door.

“I’m Kat,” she
says and extends a hand, and it’s weird that we’re shaking hands
at a time like this. But formalities still exist even when the woman
you love is running from the world.

“Davis Milo,” I
say. “But you knew that, evidently.”

“I had a feeling you
might be coming. Come in.” She ushers me inside and it’s strange
to get a glimpse of Jill’s life and where she lives, and
immediately I survey the living room with its old beaten up couch, a
coffee table with a silver laptop on it, several necklaces, and a
vase of flowers. There are framed posters on the wall of Paris and a
photograph of the first woman to run the Boston Marathon.

“She’s kind of a
wreck right now,” Kat adds, then gestures for me to follow her down
the hall. “She didn’t really feel like talking to me. But I have
a feeling she probably wants to see you.”

I stop walking.
“Really?”

Kat nods. “She likes
you. A lot. And I’ve never seen her like this. She’s usually the
happiest person in the world.”

I nod, but say nothing.
Because she can be the happiest person, and she can also be the
saddest.

Kat knocks on the door
to Jill’s room, and I wait, more nervous than I’ve ever been.
Because I don’t know what to expect.

“Come in.” Her
voice is empty, devoid of any emotion.

Kat opens the door,
lets me in, and closes it behind me, leaving us alone.

Jill’s sitting
cross-legged on her bed, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Her
hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her face is scrubbed free of
makeup. She’s clutching a letter in one hand and her phone in the
other as she watches a video. Next to her on the red comforter is a
brown box that’s been opened and looks to hold mementos, photos and
letters.

“You’re here,”
she says in a monotone.

“I’m here,” I
say, and I have no idea if she wants me to stay or to go.

“My brother’s
coming to town tomorrow,” she says in the same dead voice.

“Yeah?”

I lean against the
closed door. I haven’t been invited in technically so I don’t
want to sit next to her, even though all I want is to be with her.

She nods, staring at
the screen on the phone. “Have you seen this video?” She doesn’t
look up at me.

“What’s the video?”
I ask, playing along, even though I really want to ask what the fuck
is wrong, and why she ran out, and when’s she going to tell me what
the hell is going on in her head. But the moment is a delicate one,
and she’s not even truly present. She’s someplace else, and I
have to find a way to bring her back.

“My brother. Well,
his girlfriend. She was on the
Helen
show a couple months
ago.” Then she plays the video on the phone and I hear the talk
show host saying in an affable, friendly voice, “I can’t imagine
you’ve had any trouble finding takers though. So where do we stand
in your quest? You’ve been dating JP and Craig and this guy Chris,
but we never saw the video from that date. Are you really going to go
through with this? Are you going to walk down the aisle?”

There’s silence from
the woman in the green shirt sitting next to Helen, so the host
continues. “What I really want to say is can I help you pick out
your dress? Maybe help you get a tiara for your hair, a little
princess crown or something? And maybe we can schedule your wedding
to the Trophy Husband winner to air on TV too?”

Jill stops the video,
but she still doesn’t look at me. “They’re happy,” she says
in a barren voice. “He’s so happy with McKenna. And Reeve is with
Sutton. And then, look at Kat. She’s so happy it’s like she has
extra servings.”

She lifts her eyes to
me, and I’m jolted. I’ve never seen her so heartbroken. Even in
all the scenes she’s played where Ava is bereft, she has never
looked this ruined. My heart pounds with the fear that I’ve lost
her. That she’s completely slipping away. Still, I have
to ask.

“Are you happy?” I
brace myself for whatever she might answer. “
Were
you
happy?”

She just shrugs,
jutting up her shoulders. Then she tosses the phone on the cover of
her bed and grips the letter tighter. “How can I be? I can’t be
happy. I can’t be happy because of this. Don’t you understand?
Don’t you get it? It’s not possible. I can’t have this,” she
says, gesturing from her to me, the look in her beautiful eyes so
immensely sad. This isn’t the woman I know. But this is the woman I
fell in love with, and I want to do everything I can for her.