“You have no idea how much I will miss you, Crazy.” He sighed, pulling back to give me one last kiss.

“Call me when you land,” I called after him.

“I will, love.” He slipped into the car.

I watched it pull away, my fingers at my lips—the last place he’d kissed me. I went back up to my apartment and started to clean furiously, keeping the tears at bay. When I finally finished, it was late. I took a quick shower and climbed into bed. As I settled in, I noticed I’d missed Jack’s call while I was in shower.

I dialed voicemail and heard his sweet voice in my ear:

“Hey, Nuts Girl. Just landed and there were actually paparazzi at the airport. Can you believe that? Bizarre. Anyway, you’re probably asleep, but I miss you already. Call me in the morning? Love you. Say hi to the boobies for me. Bye.”

I flipped on the TV and Golden Girls appeared.

The tears flowed.

Chapter 7

I woke up the morning after Jack left, puffy-eyed from crying, but determined. Determined to work harder at trusting him and our relationship. Determined to focus on the amazing show I was currently part of. And determined to call Holly out on the Great Marcia Redirect, as I was now calling it in my head. Because I wasn’t dramatic at all.

No, not at all…

I had an early rehearsal, so with the time change I wasn’t able to call her until we took a midmorning break. I knew I’d catch her before she even made it into the office.

“Hey, asshead,” she answered. “How’s that fine oonie this morning? Did Jack leave you able to walk?”

I imagined her in her kitchen, still in her PJs, working her way through her first cup of coffee. She always checked the entertainment sites on her laptop while she had breakfast to make sure none of her clients had been arrested in the night—or caught without panties climbing out of a limo. That had happened several times this year alone. What was with these young starlets and their refusal to wear drawers?

“Yes, dillhole, I can walk. We had a great time. Although we did have a bit of an argument. You want to explain to me why you didn’t tell me about this whole Marcia thing? I know you knew about it. Jack told me your plan,” I said, my voice going icy.

She was quiet for a minute, then I heard her exhale slowly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself. I went back and forth about that one, but I really thought it should come from Jack. Trust me when I say that if he didn’t tell you, I was going to—” she started.

“Holly, he did tell me,” I interrupted. “But only after I saw the pictures on TMZ. Damn, that was awful.” My stomach clenched again as the images played on the inside of my eyelids in Cinemascope.

“Jesus, Grace. I’m so sorry. He promised he would tell you. That’s the only reason I didn’t. He would’ve told you anyway. I know he would. You do believe him that there’s nothing going on, right? I mean, he’s missing you fierce.”

She waited to see if I would thaw.

I wasn’t ready for that yet. “I believe him, I just don’t like it. But I get it. She has a movie, he has a movie—press is press, right?” My lip curled a little.

“It is exactly that. Just press,” Holly said. “Once I thrashed him for hanging out with her, the only thing we could do was use it. The more his fans are discussing her and whether they’re dating, the less attention there will be on anyone else he might be dating, namely the unidentified redhead who was photographed with our Mr. Hamilton in New York a few days ago…” She trailed off.

Gulp.

“What?” I asked.

“Yep, it’s all over TMZ this morning. I can’t believe they waited three whole days to post it. Did you two take a walk in Central Park?” she asked, her tone professional now.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“Grace,” she sighed.

My anger bubbled over. “Dammit, Holly, there’s no reason I can’t go for a walk with my boyfriend like anyone else! This isn’t fair!” I yelled, frantically grabbing my laptop. I wanted to see these photos for myself.

“Hey, don’t yell at me. We discussed this, and for the record, Jack wants you two public. He doesn’t care what the press says. He thinks it’s ‘bollocks’—or whatever it is he says when I tell him he can’t talk about you. He doesn’t fully understand what that would create for you though, and if you thought the cougar comment was cruel…Man, they would go for the jugular with him dating an older woman. If you’ll recall, you didn’t want the press either. You wanted to remain the unidentified redhead.”

I smiled in spite of my determination to stay angry with her. I could hear Jack saying “bollocks.”

The pictures came up on my computer. Yep, they’d gotten us at the park. Luckily, they weren’t as bad as I thought. I could remember the two of us kissing pretty frequently on that walk…

There were two images posted: one of us holding hands and the other with his hand on my back as I gazed up at him, smiling. They were incredibly sweet pictures, but I had trouble focusing in the sentiment since I noticed right away how giant my ass looked in a few of the shots. Bad angle? Let’s hope so…But I still felt a little sick at the thought of being the unidentified redhead with the large bum. I saw a run in my future.

Once again, the pictures made me happy and sad. I loved seeing the two of us together, and it was oddly reassuring that someone could take these candidly and capture what we were really like—sweet and a little schmaltzy. But is that really what I looked like from the rear? I did also hate that we were on a website I checked daily to get a celebrity fix…and maybe troll a little for flaws. Now someone could be out there trolling for mine. Stupid flaw-trollers…

Luckily, there were no snarky captions this time. Just a mention that Jack Hamilton had been spotted in New York’s Central Park with a redheaded gal pal. Gal pal—snort. Why do they always say gal pal? Who talks like that?

“Grace! You still there?” Holly called through the phone. I had been woolgathering.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m looking at the pictures. Jesus, Holly. What are we going to do?” I asked, despair creeping into my voice.

“Does this mean you aren’t mad at me anymore?” she asked, her voice equally glum.

“Ah, jeez, fucko, I was never mad at you, just pissed you didn’t tell me. I know you got my back. I just hate being surprised by this stuff. It was really bad when I saw those pictures. And then when he told me you knew about it—you two had discussed it—I don’t know. It felt like I was being handled or something.”

“I know, I know. Next time I’ll make sure you know as soon as I know. Deal?” she asked.

“Deal.”

“As for what we’re going to do? We’re not going to do anything. He’ll continue to deny he has a girlfriend, and if any other pictures of him and Marcia surface, who cares? You know which side his bread is buttered on—and his crumpet, for that matter. It’s probably a good thing you’re not in the same city right now. I’d get a call that you’d been caught going at it under the Hollywood sign.” She laughed dryly.

I paused a moment. “Holly?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between them?”

“Grace, if I thought for a second there was, he would be short one manager. And two nuts. One manager and two nuts.”

“No, no, don’t remove the nuts. I’ve grown rather fond of them,” I warned, grateful to be reminded she would always have my back, first and foremost.

“Pervert. And, girl, you should see how much his fans are hating on her! They can’t stand Marcia. They’re crucifying her online. Poor thing. I wonder if her management team will rethink this—although more people definitely know who she is now.”

“Pfft. No more Marcia talk. It’s giving me heartburn,” I moaned.

Besides, I had other things to worry about. Like the way my butt looked in those pictures. I shifted in my chair a little. Was I imagining it, or did my pants feel a little snug this morning?

“Eh, take some Tums and suck it up, ya little fruitcake.”

***

And so it went. Holly and I were, of course, fine, and she started sending me early press releases and pictures from the photo shoots Jack had been doing for months. As the pre-movie hype machine began to roll, all the photos Holly had been hoarding were slowly released to the press. It had quickly become clear that when Jack was featured in a magazine, sales went up. Simple as that. He was going to be quite a hot commodity, and Holly had her hands full with new press inquiries and requests for additional interviews—not to mention the demand for photos, photos, photos! I was amazed at Holly’s savvy, as there weren’t enough hours in the day for Jack to pose for all the photos now. She’d banked on him. Brilliant. And I was lucky. I got a sneak peek at a lot of the images before they were released.

My goodness he was pretty.

I especially liked the ones from a shoot in Santa Barbara. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I swear I saw something different in those pictures. He always looked, well, perfectly shag-able, but in those pictures? Mmm…They were taken the day after we had our first boom-boom, and I swear on all that is Super Sexy Scientist Guy, he looked…

Pleased.

Sated.

Wicked.

Freshly done.

In love?

Sigh. Yes. In love. He looked in love.

And still impossibly horny…

Holly also sent me the interviews he was doing. Most evenings, just before bed, I went through all the new Jack goodies she’d sent me, followed by a check to see what was where on the internet. Some of his interviews were just priceless—really captured him. The female reporters often got quite flirty (who could blame them?), and once, when asked whether he preferred blondes or brunettes, Jack quipped, “It depends.”

“Depends on what?” the reporter asked, leaning forward and seeming to forget she was on live TV.

“I mean, are they all lined up and I get to choose? Like a buffet? Or is this strictly self-serve? What are my options?” Jack asked seriously.

She didn’t get the joke, poor thing (she wasn’t even a blonde…), but after that, the buffet line was the most-downloaded sound bite on the internet for three weeks straight.

See what I mean? Priceless.

Jack and I had agreed that I was never to take things personally when he said he wasn’t seeing anyone. And in fact, he was now using the interviews to talk directly to me.

“Listen up, Nuts Girl. When I say, ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ what I want you to hear in that tiny little head of yours is, ‘I love you, Grace,’” he instructed on the phone late one night. “When you hear me say, ‘No, I’m not seeing anyone right now,’ what you need to hear is, ‘Yes, yes, I am, and she has the best tits in the free world.’ Can you do that, please?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll listen for your secret messages. Jeez, this is so cloak and dagger. You’d think you were a spy or something.” I laughed.

“Maybe we can role play that specific scenario next time I see you—although I’m not sure how you’d take to being dipped entirely in gold.”

This quickly turned into a discussion of whether I would indulge his Bondian fantasies in the future, although frankly I think he just enjoyed torturing me with the words “Pussy Galore”—emphasis, of course, on one word in particular.

He really did get into the girlfriend question now, and he relished finding new ways to make sure I knew he was thinking of me. I found I could tell when he was really missing me, because he’d deny it more forcefully, sometimes adding a “Girls never talk to me.”

I made sure to give him a little more phone boom-boom on those nights.

***

Rehearsals were going really well, and the show was coming together. Michael was finally pleased with the tone of the script, and his rewrites were limited now to simple phrasing changes. It was a real show.

We now worked exclusively in a small black box theater, but because we weren’t putting up a full production, we used a limited set. The show relied heavily on its music and the work of the actors to demonstrate what it could be, if it were to receive full backing. The process was thrilling, and as we approached the preview dates, I became more and more nervous.

I was relying heavily on Michael for guidance, as his vision for my character, Mabel, was absolute. He leaned on me for moral support as well, as this was his first attempt at a musical of any kind. He had a writing partner for the score, but the spoken words, the lyrics, the melodies were all Michael O’Connell.

We’d slipped back into our old college ways. The shorthand we used made it infuriating for anyone else to try to get a word in edgewise when we were on one of our tangents, cracking each other up into fits of crying laughter. We argued about music, movies, politics—oh boy, did we argue about politics. This subject almost caused an actual fight one day at lunch when I threatened to remove his Adam’s apple with my spork if he didn’t agree with what I said about healthcare. Needless to say, people stopped wanting to dine with us.

I’d forgotten how thoroughly I used to rely on him back then. He was like my own cute little moral compass. He called me on my shit, he extolled my virtues when I needed propping up, and he knocked me down a few pegs when I got too big for my britches. But we’d been college students when we were friends before. We were still figuring out who we were, and since we were in drama, we did it in a big way. Now that we were adults—at least chronologically—we’d mellowed, slightly. I realized the quirky emo boy I knew in my twenties had evolved into a fully formed, wonderfully smart and funny man in his thirties. He’d been seasoned in the post-college years, and although he’d kept the idiosyncrasies that would forever link him to that boy in the Ministry T-shirt, he was all grown up.