Bittersweet (17 page)

I pull a face. “Well, apparently they’re not, or weren’t, in a relationship. But that kiss looked pretty convincing to me…”

Maxi squeezes my arm into her side. “A little competition is healthy. Makes you want it more,” she says.

“Uh, I think that makes
you
want it more,” I retort, but then I spot Greg pacing in the narrow space between two of the trailers they’ve set up off to one side of the street, and damn it if my heart doesn’t skip a beat again at the sight of him even though I
just
left him. I need to get a grip. I notice he’s frowning though, and although I can’t make out what he’s saying at first, as we get a little closer I can tell he’s struggling to keep his voice down. Guess the call with his agent isn’t going so well. I try to catch his eye and wave goodbye, but he stops his pacing and I finally make something out.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me again, I’m serious.” He ends the call just as he notices me watching him, and his expression flickers between worry and then into a forced smile. I wave quickly, and then wait for the blonde girl to hold the tape up again for me and Maxine to duck under and head away from the set.

Huh. That was kind of odd. Phones and Greg are clearly a bad mix—but at least this time I know it wasn’t Bethany. I doubt he’d tell his agent not to call him though… I swallow down a hard knot of concern. What is Greg really hiding? Just when I think I have a bead on him, something else comes up that reminds me he really is a stranger after all. The scary thing is—I’m not sure that matters to me. If anything, it only makes my need to know him even greater.

I pulled a double shift all day and into the evening after the set visit, so I didn’t have too much time yesterday to dwell on the weird phone call I overheard Greg take as we were leaving. I did still manage to fit in a few daydreams about that kiss on my doorstep … and other kisses too… But tonight I’ve agreed to come look after Carl, who’s managed to come down with the flu in the height of summer. Dad wasn’t too keen on leaving him on his own while he was at the restaurant overseeing Ray Miller’s sixtieth birthday celebrations, and when I let myself into the house and find my little brother curled up in a ball in bed, I know he really
must
be sick. I fully expected to find him glued to his PlayStation, but he almost reminds me of the little guy I used to look after when he had some icky cold back when I was in high school.

“Hey, Carlito,” I whisper, sitting gently on the edge of his bed. I wave the bag of medicine I stopped off at the pharmacy to pick up. “I brought drugs. Now it’s a party, huh?”

He smiles weakly at me, but I know it cheers him up that I’m not treating him like a little kid, even though he sure looks like one all tucked up under his Spidey bedspread. I look around at the walls covered in posters of semi-clad chicks and hip-hop artists, and can’t help feeling a wash of nostalgia—maybe even longing—for the time before
I
really had any responsibilities. Of course, to
really
go back to that time in my memory, I’d have to think back to before my mom left. And any happiness then would be built on pretty shaky foundations. I see an old photograph of the four of us all together when Carl was just a toddler pinned to his noticeboard, and sigh. Smoothing back his hair to check his temperature, I can’t help noticing how much we both look like her, and I sort of wish we didn’t. Sour memories, etched into our DNA.

I stand up and take a deep breath. “OK, champ. I’m going to go get you some water so you can take these meds, and then we’ll see if you can manage a little chicken soup,” I say. “Bobby made it special.”

“Cool,” Carl says hoarsely, and I can’t help leaning down to kiss his forehead. He grimaces and manages an “ew,” so I know he’ll be on the road to recovery soon.

After he finishes his soup and takes the meds, Carl drifts off to sleep, so I go clean up the kitchen and living room some—I can’t help myself; he and Joe leave things in such a mess—and then settle down to watch a couple of their dumb action-movie DVDs until my dad gets home.

It feels pretty weird being back babysitting Carl and hanging out by myself, daydreaming. Although admittedly when I let my mind wander to some guy back in senior year, it was Jeff while he was off at an away football game or something, not a still-sort-of-mysterious actor guy from New York. I focus hard on the explosions on screen and manage to get through another hour without letting my memories drift to Greg … kissing me … kissing me
down there
in his hotel room… Whoa, whoa, definitely not that—especially not while I’m watching my dad’s TV on my dad’s couch with my little brother in the next room.

I shake myself, but even keeping it clean, I can’t stop thinking about his smile, about him talking about himself as a kid and why he got into acting. I think about how at ease I feel with him, this man I supposedly don’t know.

A few minutes later, my cell buzzes from the coffee table and I reach down to read the message, assuming it will be Maxine checking in on me. Or even Carl, trying to get my attention from his bed—he’s lazy like that, though I guess it would be OK seeing as he’s sick.

But when I look down at the screen, my heart almost skips a beat.

Hey.

Just one word. But I know straight away who sent the message, even though I don’t have his number programmed in.

I try to control a goofy-ass grin, and type something back.

Wow. So not only did you check my schedule, you cribbed my number too, huh?

What was that you said about not being a stalker?

As I hit “send,” I think I’m going to look like a pretty big idiot if this turns out not to be Greg.

Guilty.

I picked up a trench coat, hat, shades, and binoculars too, so I’m good to go now.

I chuckle, but I’m a little unsure of why he’s getting in touch. I debate for several minutes what to write back, or whether to just ask him what he wants, even though that would sound rude. Eventually I decide I hate text messages anyway—you can’t really get a read on what people really mean, and I have a tough enough time reading Greg anyway. I save his number into my phone, and then, even though I know he’s got a bad track record with phone calls, I hit call, squeezing my eyes shut and cringing as soon as I do. It rings once.

“I thought I’d creeped you out and you had the cops on their way,” he says. His voice sounds even more delicious over the phone, deep and rich and…

I laugh breathily and bite my lip. “Uh, no, I just thought I’d call. Seeing as I have your number now.”

“Cool. How was your day?”

I frown and smile at the same time. Is he seriously just, like, chatting to me? “It was … busy. Real busy, but at least now I get to relax a little. I just got through watching a speedboat explode out of a yacht in a high-speed chase.”

“Wow. Things are crazier in Dogwood than I thought. I’m clearly missing out on the action sitting here on my couch in this empty apartment.”

I close my eyes, picturing him there. I really,
badly
, want to ask if he would like a little company. I almost do, in fact, but then I remember Carl.

“Hah hah,” I retort. “I’m at my dad’s, watching DVDs and taking care of my brother. He has the flu, and you know how you guys get when you’re sick.”

“Well, I’m sure your bro is reveling in the sympathy there,” Greg says with a laugh, then falls silent for a moment. I hear him take a breath. “Uh, listen, sorry I got called away yesterday. And sorry it was… That it was that scene we were shooting. I kind of spaced on that, didn’t really think it through. I wasn’t trying to make you jealous or anything.”

Is that a note of hopefulness in his voice? “Oh, I wasn’t jealous,” I lie.

“OK. Yeah. Well, good.”

Good? I want to tell him I am actually greener than Kermit over it, but I don’t, of course. I also want to ask him about the angry phone call, but I know it’s not really any of my business—and he didn’t take too kindly to my commenting on his calls before, so I let it lie. “How’s the filming going? Really getting under the skin of, um,
Ethan
?” I ask instead, sounding disparaging in spite of myself.

He laughs quietly again. “Yeah, it’s going pretty good. Evenings are going to be a little quiet though, till we start some of the night shoots. I guess that’s why I… I mean, I just wanted to…” He hesitates, sounding unsure now. It’s kind of frustrating that he won’t just let himself admit what he really wants. “Shit,” he says. “Now I’ve made it sound like I was calling for, um, a
booty call
as I think you put it a couple weeks ago?”

Again he takes the words right out of my mind.

“I
was
just thinking that, actually, yes. Or something like that—you’re right,” I say, smiling a little and shaking my head though I know he can’t see me. At this point I’d take that if nothing else.
Jeez, Cathy, be a little more desperate, huh?

“Well, I may or may not contemplate your booty from time to time—in a totally friendly way, of course—”

“Of course…” What’s he trying to do to me?

“But I actually … I don’t know. I guess I was bored, and my thumbs just kind of scrolled to the number of my one
buddy
in this town.” I smile again like a dummy, and my heart does a weird leap thing. “Although, wait a minute,” he continues. “
You
called
me
. I just sent an innocent text, but you, Ms. Johnson, are clearly on a different wavelength altogether,” he says, and I can hear his grin.

I laugh too, but it fades. “Hey, you’re the one with all the rules,” I say, my voice lowering to a whisper. “If it were up to me… Well, let’s just say innocent would definitely not be the wavelength.”

He doesn’t respond to that. We’re quiet for an agonizingly long moment, and I chew the inside of my cheek, my heart starting to race nervously. Should I not have said that? I figure it’s better to be honest though. Why can’t he just let go? It scares me that
I’d
be more than willing to take the leap, with a guy that is clearly dealing with some crap I don’t understand—but it also hurts that he’s still holding himself out of reach. Why torture me?

“
Cathy…?
”

I sit up straighter as I hear Carl call from the other room. “Sorry, I have to go. The patient needs me,” I say, pressing the phone to my cheek like I could somehow get closer to Greg through it.

“OK. Sure.” Now he’s into minimal syllables. Maybe that jibe about his friend-zone decree really was a mistake. I don’t want to mess up whatever it is we
do
have.

“Um… Do you want to go for a run tomorrow morning?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, if you think you can keep up?”

“With you? I’m not sure if I can, actually,” Greg replies. “But yeah, OK.”

Hmm. He still sounds a little weird, like he’s withdrawing again. “OK,” I repeat. “Well, why don’t I meet you down on the river path by the Nelson property, say eight o’clock?”

“All right.” He’s quiet for a second. “Cathy… Have a good night.” A moment later I hear the line go dead. No goodbye—of course.

Anyway, good. A run. A benign interaction that allows for cardio benefits but with no sexual congress. Though I will get to see him in shorts again. Awesome. And he will get to see me sweaty again. Not so awesome. And I hope his weird mood doesn’t last. Either way, as I go to check on Carl, I know I haven’t been so excited about the prospect of a workout in a
long
time.

Forty-one minutes. I felt like a sucker after thirty, but I’ve still waited, and now he’s forty-one minutes late. So what does
that
make me?

Three joggers—including Sonya Thompson, of course—have passed me and looped back while I’ve sat here on the bench by the Nelson property waiting for Greg like a super-duper, industrial-plunger-level
sucker
. I look at my watch one more time, then finally get up off my butt, stretch, and start to jog away. I know he can’t have forgotten. I did say eight, didn’t I? I know I did. I just want to think of some reason why he wouldn’t have shown up when he said he would. The simplest—like, he overslept—are somehow making way for things altogether more unreasonable. And that’s not helped when I see Greg walking toward me as I jog down the river path, holding an apologetic hand up in front of him. He’s clutching a can of soda gingerly.

He’s not in shorts. He
is
in his Ray-Bans.

It kind of pisses me off how my stomach goes into knots just knowing he’s finally here.

“Cathy,” he says, his voice with a heavy coating of sawdust. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I, uh, didn’t think you’d still be out here.”

I stop in front of him. “Yep. Three quarters of an hour after we were going to meet,” I say curtly, eyeing his jeans and T-shirt. I fold my arms. “That’s some unusual running attire.”

“I’m sorry. I really am,” he says. “I tried your cell—a lot—but you weren’t picking up.”

“I don’t run with it.” I start walking the path again briskly, pretending to care about keeping my pulse rate up by touching my fingers to my neck. To be honest, the irritation I’m feeling is doing a pretty good job of that anyway—as well as the now-familiar heart-quickening whenever he’s in the vicinity. “But I’m guessing the gist of what you were going to say is that you’re not coming?” I throw over my shoulder.

He catches up to me, steps in front of me, and stops, forcing me to come to a halt too. “Look, I
am
sorry. I slept through my alarm,” he says. “After I spoke to you last night, some of the guys from the cast called and they wanted to go out—a team-bonding thing, you know?” He pulls off his sunglasses and winces like a vampire at the bright glow of sunshine. “I couldn’t say no. I’ve told you how much this gig means, and if I don’t make an effort to keep in with everyone… We need to build chemistry, gel as a cast and whatnot. Like I said, I did try to call you when I woke up.”

“Keep in with
everyone
?” I say dubiously. Or mainly with tall, willowy brunettes? He doesn’t take the bait, and I add swiftly, “Anyway, it’s cool. It happens. It was just a run, right?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d still be waiting here for me,” he says. “But I’ll collapse in a heap if I even try and run right now, so you’re better off without me.” His eyes drift to the ground and he does look a little green, but I feel like he’s doing that thing again where he’s saying two things at once. Anyway, he couldn’t be more wrong; these days it’s starting to feel like being without him would be like missing… Well, if not a limb, a good number of digits at least.