“We’re all good,” I said.
It felt so nice that I almost believed the lie.
25
THIRTY-FIVE
THE SUN SET OVER CENTRAL Park, leaving a glittery afterglow, which poured in through Marea’s windows. The long yellow-and-orange marble bar seemed to echo the sunset outside, and I sat at the far corner, poring over my script notes, pretending to be important enough to occupy a space so elegant without drooling in every direction.
All at once, the collective chatter quieted, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I glanced up, seeing the eyes at the bar widening toward the front door. Asher stepped inside with his jet-black hair perfectly tousled. He walked tall, but his attention darted around the room and he clasped his fingers together nervously. All these years, and he still wasn’t used to strangers’ eyes on him. His hands went to his sides as his eyes found mine, and he approached me with a warm smile. I tried not to stare at his hard torso, which was peeking out under his white deep V-neck shirt—which he somehow made fancy with a dark blazer.
I fumbled with the straps on Summer’s white silk top from the Row—running my hand over my clavicle so that I wouldn’t reach out and grab him. I should have brought Elsa’s blue gloves. I should have poured gasoline into my eyeballs. I should have done something to make being in the same room as Asher Reyes—both of us all dressed up and grown-up—less swoon-worthy. I needed to Act One Elsa my way through this: “Conceal, don’t feel.”
I hopped off the stool as he hugged me, and I soaked in the lavender pomade in his hair.
“So, you’ve had quite a last couple days,” Asher said, grinning as he pulled back.
Wandering eyes hiding behind crystal-clad cocktails took us in—strangers pretending not to give a shit, while absolutely giving a shit. I was too unimportant to be looked at this way.
“Well, being in your orbit was always entertaining, why should now be any different?” I said.
He raised his brow and shot me a sly grin. “I could say the same to you.”
Heat found my cheeks and I elbowed him in his side, indicating that he quit flirting with me, that he stop reminding me of the times where I stripped naked and made him follow me into a moonlit lake. Yet I looked down at my hands with a shy smile, giving him every indication that I wanted him to continue flirting with me. And I did. I didn’t just want to nudge my elbow into his ribs. I wanted to use my hands to take off his blazer. And his pants.
Asher glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes, interrupting my maybe-reachable fantasy. He leaned down toward me, allowing the heat of his mouth to linger over my ear.
“Okay to go over there, smile at each other, and let that guy snap his one photo?” he asked, nodding to the other side of the bar, where the smarmy subway man stood outside the window, rocking back and forth on his heels, waiting.
Asher got the bartender’s attention without even trying, and we ordered our drinks and made our way across the room, where the paparazzo got his money shot and scurried away like the lizard he was.
A few glasses of pinot later, Asher and I sat nestled side by side in a discreet corner booth. We had finished dissecting the themes of each of the movie’s songs, and moved on to laughing over our shared memories. Namely, the time I visited him in San Diego and his parents’ dachshund shat inside his mother’s Valentino heel. Asher wiped a tear from his eye, holding his ribs to quiet the belly laughter.
“I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time,” he said, leaning his jaw on the back of his hand, holding my gaze.
Historically, Asher and I rarely laughed like this. That’s what was actually funny—the puzzling kind of funny. We were two very intense people. We didn’t bring out the humor in each other. As kids, we spent more time exploring our places in the universe, our hearts, our crafts, and what we meant to each other than we spent trying to make each other giggle. “Find someone who makes you laugh” was a line I had always heard. But finding someone who made me see the world in psychedelic colors was equally intoxicating. It was a different kind of love language. I lost myself in Asher Reyes faster than I had ever lost myself in a joke, in a rom-com.
I leaned back into the leather booth, holding my stomach, my body swirling with red wine and house-made agnolotti, my eyes darting away from his strong gaze.
“So…” He brushed his hand over his chin, then strummed his fingers on the table. “How’s your love life?” he asked, rather uncasually.
Garrett’s lips flashed in front of my face—just briefly, but briefly enough to show my hand, to illustrate that my love life was a garbage fire.
“That good, huh?” Asher said, taking in my expression.
“Yours?”
Asher shook his head, indicating it was nonexistent.
“You know, my longest relationship ended when I was a teenager,” he mused with a shy grin.
“Join the club,” I said.
I picked up the script between us, twirling a gold brad in my fingers. He squinted, trying to discern my messy penmanship on the back of the script.
“‘See You if I Get There’…”
“Just an idea for the first track.”
“Punchy title,” he said, smiling. “Speaking of, did your lawyer connect with mine?”
“Yeah, she forwarded me the contract, and she’s redlining a few items, but otherwise said we can close on the big terms. I think she was supposed to be letting your guy know as we speak. Shelly said the contract was ‘unexpectedly fair.’”
“Why, thank you,” he said, taking a bow with his hand. “Just don’t get used to that. Contracts, business affairs, lawyers, negotiations—usually takes months.”
“So why didn’t it?”
“Because we don’t have time to go back and forth—I’d like to get this shooting in two months. As soon as you’re ready, let’s lay down your demo for ‘Up North.’”
“Oh, I can record it in my mom’s closet.”
Asher frowned. “Don’t be silly. My friend owns a studio. He’ll let us record there.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“Mags, it is,” Asher said. He leaned in, eyes wide on mine. “Let’s make this as beautiful and rich as possible. I want the demo to knock everyone out of their chairs, even if it’s going to get re-recorded by another voice. I want the studio to know what they’re getting with you, and I need to show our actress how high that bar is.”
“O-okay,” I said, stammering.
He tilted his neck at me. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard, realizing my face had fallen. I picked it up and smiled. The truth—that I hadn’t been inside a studio in five years—was stinging from all sides. I didn’t know what would happen when I walked inside studio doors, but based on the heart palpitations taking over my body, I was terrified that it might not be as easy as one, two, three.
“Yeah, I’m good. It’s just”—I pointed to my brain—“there’s a lot happening right now.”
“Nice to see some things haven’t changed,” he said with a smile. He shifted in his seat, twisting the napkin in his lap, eyes on me. “Why do you have your dad’s guitar, Mags?”