The Redhead Revealed

Conveniently, pictures of Jack and Marcia had surfaced as well, including a new batch of the two at lunch in L.A. Holly was a master at spin, and the Grace and Jack story was quickly dropped by the mainstream media when Jack refused to comment.

On the fan websites, though? The story ran rampant and wouldn’t go away. My reviews were decidedly mixed. Rumors and speculation ran wild as to whether or not I was really his girlfriend. I was called Grace Sheridon’t, Grace McOldAss, and That Redheaded Hamilton Fucker. That last one was pretty funny, actually.

And there was a small group who seemed to really like the idea that Jack was maybe, possibly dating an older woman. I had a feeling these women were all in their thirties. Just a feeling…

I allowed myself a peek that first day, and then I stopped looking. It was too hard to see the pictures, and it was too hard to see how happy Jack had been that night—his big night. Before I broke his heart.

I was in the final weeks of rehearsal, as the first week of previews had been pushed up to the week after Thanksgiving. I was in a black funk most of the time and not looking forward to celebrating a holiday right now. Which was fine, because the rehearsal schedule left no time for cooking or cavorting, and Holly had ended up stuck in L.A. The entertainment industry never slows down, even for a holiday. The cast had turkey sandwiches and cranberries from a can for lunch break on Thanksgiving Day, but otherwise the day slipped by unnoticed.

Leslie knew I’d broken up with Jack, and while she looked at me like I was the most insane person on the planet, she didn’t ask me about it. Poor Michael didn’t know what to do with himself.

He knew I was devastated, but I don’t think he quite understood what I’d done, or why I’d done it in such a dramatic, all-or-nothing fashion. I was questioning this myself, but my decision was based in self-preservation, and as much as I was in total and complete hell, I was pushing through it. I’d had to end it, before it ended us.

Now I focused all my energy on the show and on Mabel, the aging beauty queen.

Ah, Mabel.

She became the conduit through which my frustration flowed, and it all came out on stage. I was powerful. I was broken.

I walked at nighttime, late. After rehearsal, I roamed the streets of Manhattan, losing myself in the city. New York was beautiful, and totally unlike any other city I’d lived in. It seemed to be enormous and untouchable, a giant. But it was really lovely and warm when you broke it down neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street. Because there were so many people there, I relished the anonymity. Everyone was bundled into coats and hats, and no one knew anyone. You could be anyone or no one in this town. I walked and walked, and I tried to beat back the voices in my head.

Jack’s movie opened. I’d tried to avoid all things Time since the night of the premiere, but it was nearly impossible to do. I almost threw my laptop out the window when I saw his face on my Yahoo! homepage. I broke into tears when I walked past the posters on every street corner, or saw the magazines on every newsstand.

Women everywhere wanted him. I’d had him. Had been loved by him. And I pushed him away like it was my job. What the hell was wrong with me? I picked up the phone to call him a dozen times, but I just couldn’t.

Holly was oddly silent on the entire matter, choosing to keep our conversations light and airy, not focusing on anything too intense. We had only one discussion about Jack. She’d been telling me a story about another of her assistant’s celebrity freakouts. Sara tried so hard to play it cool, but it became too much for her and she cried, laughed, and damn near pissed herself when Lane came into the offices.

I laughed so hard at the image I had tears in my eyes. “Oh, man, you know Lane is riding high on his Time fame!”

I was just about to ask why he’d been at Holly’s offices when she said quietly, “Aren’t you going to ask me how he’s doing?”

I stopped laughing almost instantly, but the tears remained. She didn’t mean Lane.

“How is he?” I whispered.

“Miserable,” she said.

I was quiet, taking it in.

“Grace, you know I love you, and I will support every decision you make. But I think, well…”

“Well, what?”

“I think you might have been wrong on this one.”

I sighed. Heavily. “I know you love me, but I just need this right now, okay? I know you don’t understand why I did what I did—hell, I barely do. But right now, I just need some time. Please, let’s not talk about this again until some more time has passed.”

She waited a moment, then agreed. We talked a few more minutes, then she told me she loved me, and we said goodbye.

This whirlwind romance with Jack had brought up every insecurity I’d ever had. Sure, we were great when it was just us, but when you put it in the context of real life? It had to end. I didn’t know what I wanted in my romantic life, but it no longer made sense for me to be playing house with a twenty-four year old. No matter how much I loved him.

And Michael? He was my rock.

We spent even more time together. A few nights, he walked me home from rehearsal, and we talked as we walked. We talked about anything and everything—avoiding all things Hamilton, but anything else was fair game. We let some feelings out that had been carefully walled up for weeks, years even. Did it make me forget about Jack? No, but it did help. Spending time with Michael and remembering how good and simple things once had been was incredibly helpful. It eased some of my guilt over the terrible way I’d ended things with Jack.

One night, when rehearsal had ended early for a change, I heard Michael call after me as I headed out the door.

“Hey, Grace!”

“Hey, what?” I smiled as I turned around.

“Great rehearsal today. I didn’t think you could get any better, but, man, lately you’re really on fire!” His whole face lit up. He stood next to me in the doorway, hair wild. His warm brown eyes gazed into mine.

Those damn eyes. I’d thought about them for years.

“Yes, well, breakups are great for creativity, aren’t they?” I chuckled ruefully.

He stopped smiling instantly. “Oh shit, Grace. I’m sorry. I know this is tough right now. If there’s something I can do…” He trailed off.

“No, it’s okay. You just gotta go through it, right? I’ll see you tomorrow.” I patted him on the arm and turned to walk out.

“Grace?”

“Now this is getting ridiculous.” I laughed, looking over my shoulder.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I was going to take a walk, then grab some dinner on the way home. Why? What’s up?”

“Well, I was thinking we could grab dinner and maybe a movie?”

Ugh. No movies. Time posters everywhere. You can’t handle that.

“Ugh, no movies,” I said, shaking my head vigorously and pointing at the poster on the bus stop across the street.

“Oh, right! Of course. That was rude. I just thought…I don’t know…” His head tilted down toward the ground.

On impulse, I reached out and raised his chin. “How about just dinner?” I asked.

I surprised myself.

I definitely surprised him.

We’d eaten dinner together countless times since I’d moved to New York. This was different. We both knew what I was asking.

My fingers felt the scruff of his whiskers. He hadn’t shaved today. His hand tentatively reached up and took mine, raising his eyebrows to see if this was okay. It was the first time we’d physically acknowledged each other this way since being thrown back together. Up until now it had been playful hugs and punching.

“Dinner sounds great,” he said, grinning.

My heart beat a mile a minute. “Let’s go,” I said. I opened the door and led him out into the street. Into the city.

As we walked, we kept our hands clasped. At one point, he noticed me glancing down at our entwined fingers.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s okay.” I nodded, shivering a little in the night air. I had on my leather coat, but it was November on the East Coast, and it was cold.

He let go of my hand and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer. He looked at me, questioning again, and I nodded once more, although The Drawer was rattling a little.

Had enough time had passed since the end with Jack?

It’s been weeks.

It was time to explore these feelings I was having. It was a little strange being so close to another man, but this was Michael, after all. Yet still my thoughts strayed to Jack. I wondered what he was doing tonight. I wondered if he’d ever understand what I was doing.

I wondered if I’d ever understand what I was doing.

Michael smelled different than Jack, but good. Like wool and sage and lemons. And Right Guard. He smelled the same as he had in college, when I fell in love with him. This felt odd, but right.

We ended up at a small sushi bar on the West Side, close to my apartment. I’d become a frequent patron of this restaurant—fantastic spicy tuna rolls. We squeezed into a booth at the back and ordered hot sake. As we sipped, I realized we could very well be on our first-ever date.

I was suddenly nervous, and it seemed he was as well. I’d look at him, then he’d look away. He’d stare at me, and I’d look down at the table. We were in a constant state of blush. He was red to the tips of his ears, and I could feel my chest burning bright.

When we both looked away for the tenth time, I reached across the table and grasped his hand. “We’re being silly, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” he said, letting his breath out all at once. He looked instantly more relaxed, and I giggled.

His eyes twinkled. “It’s silly that after all the time we’ve known each other we’re so nervous,” he said, picking up his sake with the hand that wasn’t clasping mine.

“As I recall, you used to make me nervous all the time,” I said, sipping from my own tiny cup.

“You nervous? Ha. You didn’t seem so nervous the night you attacked me,” he teased, setting down his cup and holding my hand in both of his. He traced the inside of my wrist with his fingertips, and my skin reacted with goose-bumps.

“I really did attack you, didn’t I?” I laughed as the waitress set down our tray, and we began to eat.

“Yes, you really did. You actually knocked my head into the wall behind me so hard I saw stars,” he said, mixing wasabi and soy sauce with his chopstick.

“I did? Well, I wanted to get your attention, and I figured shoving my tongue down your throat would do the job pretty quickly.” I laughed, suddenly feeling a little less at ease.

“You always had my attention, Grace,” he said quietly, looking up at me through his long eyelashes.

My heart leapt, then my stomach clenched. I thought of Jack.

Michael picked up a piece of salmon with his chopsticks and raised it into the air. “Well, Grace, here’s to you. And to the show. And to Mabel, who I now think I created expressly to bring you back into my life.” He smiled, those damnable brown eyes warm.

“To Mabel,” I added, raising my own chopsticks in celebration.

We spent the evening enjoying each other. I felt more and more relaxed as the night went on, and despite some momentary pangs for enjoying dinner with another man, I pushed through it.

This is what you wanted, remember?

“Do you ever think about that night, Grace?” Michael asked as we lazily sipped the last of our sake, waiting for the check.

“Yes. Sometimes. Do you?” I asked, knowing instantly what he was referring to, my voice steady. His gaze met mine, and neither of us looked away this time.

“Yes. More so lately. Over the years I thought about you and wondered where you were, what you were up to. I missed you sometimes,” he said.

“I missed you too,” I whispered, my voice no longer steady.

The check came and he put his credit card down without even looking at the waitress. She took it away while we stared at each other.

He licked his lips.

I tugged at my hair.

Our eyes never left each other.

The check came back to the table, and our gaze finally broke as he signed the receipt.

He stood and helped me with my coat. I was fighting with my scarf, trying to get my hair out from underneath it when he leaned in to help. I felt his fingers graze the back of my neck, and the instant spark from his touch made me take an extra breath. He brushed my hair out of the way and straightened it out. I stared up at him, the scent of warm wool and lemons thick in the air between us.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low.

“I think so,” I answered, looking deep into his eyes.

He led me to the door, and we walked the few blocks to my apartment. We didn’t talk. I kept my arm looped through his, and he kept me close. We stopped in front of my door, and he looked at me.

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning, eight a.m.”

“Yep, eight a.m.,” I answered, swinging my arms nervously.

“Grace, I’m really glad we did this. It was really…nice,” he said, biting his lower lip. I felt a wave of nostalgia crash through me, as I remembered what had made me fall in love with him back in the day.

“Me too,” I replied, focusing all my attention on that bottom lip.

“So, goodnight,” he said, and turned to walk away.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That bottom lip, that lip. My entire world was tied to that bottom lip. Why were all the men in my life constantly biting on their lower lip? And why did I find it so sexy?

I saw Jack—Johnny Bite Down—in my head, his face broken and sad that last night in L.A. I saw Michael holding my hand as we walked the streets of New York.