The RSVP, page 8
But I didn’t know Ian in the aftermath. I met him a few years after he’d started to pick up the pieces again. I think he mostly did.
Mostly.
Definitely mostly.
Either way, his affairs are absolutely not my business.
But his shoes are, and I can’t stand looking at the bottoms of them. I’m about to ask him to get his feet off the table, when he says, “But I don’t leave till tomorrow.” Then he smiles, a little conspiratorially. “Which is good, because I want to give Harlow a present before I go.”
In no time, the clip of my heart increases.
I try to breathe normally. I fight off the images of Harlow that flick before my eyes. From his engagement party. The way she looked at me when she realized I’d remembered her favorite flowers. The way my chest fluttered annoyingly.
But what did I expect? I gave her flowers, and my blood went hot.
I shouldn’t bother him about shoes when I’m thinking of his daughter like this.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, as nonchalant as I’ve ever sounded in my life.
“I got her a fantastic gift,” he says, and I don’t even need to ask him what it is. He proceeds to tell me.
My eyes pop. “Wow. That’s extravagant.”
He shrugs, but his smile’s too big to hide his excitement. “Well, fine. It’s really from Felicity,” he says, but as if that detail hardly matters—that the big gift comes from his dead wife’s books. Then he blinks, staring at his shoes. “Bollocks. Sorry, mate,” he says, swinging his feet off the table. “Forgot.”
He sounds genuinely contrite.
“It’s fine,” I mumble.
“Anyway, at least Harlow still likes me. Hunter, on the other hand,” he says, shaking his head, frustrated perhaps that his son used to work on our show, then quit recently. “But girls are easier.”
I would have no idea. And certainly, I have no comment on his parenting. I just have no comment.
No thoughts. No feelings. Nothing.
Ian’s knee bounces. “I’ll give it to her when I take her out to sushi tonight. She’s going out with her friends tomorrow night for her official big day. Of course.”
He says it like she couldn't do anything else for her twenty-first birthday. Like kids today.
My jaw tics. Images of her dancing, laughing, flirting taunt me. She’ll be out on the town with people her age, looking beautiful and young and tempting. Her hair swishing, her lips bee-stung, her eyes inviting.
A pang of jealousy stabs me in the chest.
I should really take up yoga.
Something. Anything.
Maybe learning to let go of my no feet on tables rule would be a start.
“I’m sure she’ll have fun,” I say, vaguely, distantly, because I should not—I really should not—have an opinion, let alone a visceral reaction about Harlow’s birthday plans.
Jules knocks on the door again, pokes her head in, her brown eyes all business. “Your daughter’s here,” she says to Ian.
I flinch. I must have heard that wrong.
But Ian is beaming. “Fantastic. Send her in,” he says. Then he turns to me as he rises. “That’s a surprise. I didn’t think I’d see her till tonight.”
Yeah, it really fucking is a surprise. I push back in my chair. “I’ll let you two—” but of course he’s in my office.
And seconds later, so is Harlow. She’s dressed in trim, black pants. Tight, but fashionable and still businesslike. Short black heels. A steel gray blouse—tough but feminine at the same time. Her lush chestnut hair is cinched tightly in a clip.
Her long, graceful neck is dangerous to my pulse. I want to touch the I on her chain, the skin beneath it.
I clench my fists.
“Sweetheart,” he says, then brings her in for an embrace.
“Hi, Daddy,” she says.
That’s odd. Something about the way she just said hi, Daddy sounds a little…intentionally sweet.
And yet still sexy. Too sexy for my own good. I sit up higher in the chair, adjusting.
She holds up a white paper bag with pink lettering. Piece of Cake. “I picked up a cake. I thought we could all celebrate.”
We. She wants us to celebrate?
I’m stuck at my desk. I don’t dare move. My throat is dry. My body is hot. I wish he were gone. I wish I didn’t want that. I close my eyes momentarily, then open them.
Ian smiles. “You know I can’t resist sweets, darling. You got your sweet tooth from me.”
“I did, Daddy,” she says, and that’s different too. It’s like she’s playing up their connection right now.
What the hell is she up to?
She sits down next to him on the couch—across from me.
My desk and a table form a blockade between us yet I’m still off-kilter.
“So it’s good you’re both here,” she continues, her green eyes twinkling and eager.
“Why is that, love?” he asks, patting her hand, the indulgent dad today.
“Because I have something to ask the both of you,” she says, brightly.
Then she meets my gaze, and the utter innocence of her smile is chased with complete mischief.
Like how she looks at me on the bike path. Like how she talked about Ask Me Next Year. Like how she murmured over the flowers.
I’ve no clue what’s coming but I am dead certain that this moment is about to become a dividing line in my life:
Before she asks.
After she asks.
9
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Harlow
They won’t say no.
I repeated that the whole way up in the elevator, at reception, then again when I walked down the hall.
They won’t say no.
Because…I won’t let them say no. I’ve practiced my pitch.
Now that I’m here, I’ll keep my request simple and direct, all business, the way they’ve taught me by example over the last few years.
I am determined as I reach into the bag and take out the small chocolate cake and then the knife I brought. Sleek and silvery. After I open the pink box, I slice the small cake, then set pieces on the plates I brought too, handing a piece of decadent, rich chocolate to Bridger, then to my father, then keeping one for me.
After all, requests go best with a gift of food.
First things first.
I square my shoulders. “So, I came for my birthday gift,” I say, then purposefully backpedal to explain, “Well, I’m excited for you two to give it to me.” I smile, a winning, practiced, Upper East Side grin.
My father tuts. “I was going to wait till we had dinner tonight, love.”
He told me he has something special for me. He’ll give it to me over sushi. But I have plans for another gift. One I’m giving myself.
“Oh, you don’t know about this one,” I say, mustering all the confidence he’s trained me in. “Because it’s something from both of you.”
My father blinks, confused. I steal a glance at Bridger. A crease digs into his forehead.
Good.
I’ve kept them on their toes and that’s important in a negotiation.
And so, I take the next step in my great heist. The prize? I glance at the man behind the imposing desk.
Him.
“I graduate in a month. With my dual degrees,” I say, making my case, simple and clear. “And I’ve been thinking more and more about what I want to do after graduation. I’d like to work in business and art. But I’m trying to figure out exactly what that looks like,” I say, and that’s somewhat true. Mostly, it’s strategic. “Since you’re launching Afternoon Delight soon, I thought wouldn’t it be perfect if you had somebody here who could help you research all things French and art for your show that takes place in Paris? And while I’m doing that, I could learn more about the business of television deal-making. Then, I can really understand if the entertainment business is going to be the right career for me,” I say, folding my hands in my lap.
There.
I’m done.
I’ve made my simple elevator pitch, the kind these two have always said they want to hear.
Instantly, my father beams. He’s such a pushover. His eyes shine. “Sweetheart,” he says, utterly delighted. “There’s always a place for you here.”
One down.
He looks to his business partner, expectantly. Well, Bridger is in charge of the business side of things, so of course he has the final say.
He’s stoic. Barely moving. He’s a statue at his desk.
“But I’m in charge of creative,” Dad adds. “Bridger would be working more closely with you. Would that be okay?” My father asks me, like it’s my choice.
Yes, Daddy. That would be so very okay. “Absolutely,” I say.
But Bridger is stony. Not moving. Just…breathing.
He’s simply inscrutable. That both scares me and thrills me.
I want to break down his walls. Chip away at them. Discover who he is. Already, I’ve seen the cracks and I want more. I long for what’s behind them. But the only way I can reveal that is if I get closer to him.
That’s my plan.
He purses his lips and swallows visibly. Then he nods, quick and decisive. “Of course. Welcome to Lucky 21,” he says.
I tamp down the fireworks bursting inside me. “Thank you. I won’t disappoint.”
I reach into the bag, take out a candle and set it in the chocolate frosting on my slice. Then I light it with the lighter I brought.
“Make a wish, darling,” my father says.
As the flame flickers, I look across the room at the man I’ve run into on the East River path many times over the last few months.
He tugs on the cuffs of his ruby-red shirt. His lips are a ruler.
But his dark eyes say he’s hiding our secret—the secret of our attraction.
I blow out the flame and make a birthday wish that I’ll seduce my father’s business partner this summer.
Later that night, over avocado rolls and edamame, my father tells me I should arrange a meeting this summer with the attorneys about my trust fund access. “It’s not much, the trust fund,” he says. “But your mother set it up for you long ago. It was her idea. She loved you so.”
“I know,” I whisper around the lump in my throat. That, I have never doubted. I have always known.
Then he gives me a beautiful velvet box. Inside it is a key to a one-bedroom apartment on Sixty-Eighth Street with a view.
Paid in full.
I’m stunned, speechless.
But he has more to say. “I used the royalties from her last Sweet Nothings title for this place. It’s gorgeous. She’d have wanted you to have it,” he says, solemnly. The shine in his eyes makes me think he still misses her in his own way.
My throat tightens. It’s like a gift from her too. “I’m overwhelmed. This is incredible.”
He covers my hand. “And thank you for always…keeping things within the family,” he says.
I don’t move for a moment. This apartment is also some kind of payoff for having kept my mouth shut? Like he used her royalties from her last book to say he appreciates my silence? The silence he told me to keep or someone might go insane?
I don’t know what to say, except an uncomfortable thank you.
Truly, I am grateful. An owned apartment is the ultimate extravagance in Manhattan.
Especially since I can put this to good use for my seduction plans.
10
THE DOUBLE TEXT
Harlow
Technically, this is my first job.
Babysitting the Bancroft twins down the block when I was thirteen doesn’t entirely count. Everyone babysits after all.
Then, I read up on babysitting, took a CPR class, and learned the basics.
I don’t know what to study before I start at Lucky 21. I suppose I’ve been studying the ins and outs of TV production for years, absorbing it from the air around me, in the conversations.
But I don’t like to make mistakes. I don’t want to mess this up.
As I head to the door of my apartment on a Monday in late May for my first day on the job, I reach for the knob when my phone buzzes.
I nearly jump. What if that’s Jules? I report to her. What if she wants me to show up early? If she does, I’d have to run.
I grab my phone, slide it open.
Dad: Are you sure you don’t want a ride? I can send Jasper over right now. I don’t need the car for another hour.
That’s so very him. But no.
Harlow: Thanks, Dad. But I’ll walk.
Dad: If you insist! I’m on set all week. Let me know if you need anything.
I tell him that I will, but I don’t plan to need anything from him.
I take off, wishing I didn’t feel so…unsettled.
Maybe the walk through the park will settle my first-day jitters. As I head across Sixty-Eighth Street—my street, something I’m still not quite used to—I talk back to my worries.
This is a summer internship. You’ve got this. You’re smart. You’re diligent.
But as I peer over the canopy of green trees in the distance, my gaze landing on the black skyscraper that houses Lucky 21, the nerves start up again, like little birds flapping their wings in me.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
These aren’t job nerves. They’re man nerves.
And I know why. Since I strutted into Bridger’s office more than a month ago and made my wish, a few things have happened.
I’ve graduated from college.
I’ve moved into my own apartment.
I’ve visited my cousin, Rachel, in San Francisco too. She’s my mom’s sister’s daughter, so it was good to catch up with another Dumont woman.
But I’ve only seen Bridger twice in the last month or so. The first time on the path, he barely slowed, but I still asked him how Afternoon Delight was going. “No complaints,” he’d said. Then he glanced at his watch and said he had to go. He smiled convivially and ran off.
The second time I saw him on the path, he was on the phone. He pointed to his earbuds and mouthed call.
That’s why my stomach is bouncing.
What was I thinking, engineering this internship? Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Maybe I’m just a silly girl.
Maybe I’m—
I slow my pace around the edge of the park when something gold comes into view.
Is that a birdcage over there by a bench? I walk to it. Tilt my head. It’s gilded, a home for a bougie parrot. There’s an equally fancy sign hanging from the bars in an ornate frame.
Better than TV—free to a good home.
I shake my head in amusement, then do what any good New Yorker would do. I snap a picture of it and post it on my social feed, titling it TV for hipsters?
As I cover the last few blocks, my nerves fade. Maybe I simply needed a distraction and photography did the trick.
When I reach the black building, I take the elevator up to the office I know so well on the fourteenth floor. There I give my name to the peppy receptionist—Christian—but he playfully rolls his eyes. “Hush, Harlow. I know you,” he says.
Right. Of course.
I’m the picture of nepotism. Will everyone hate me? Think that they’re here on merit, but I’m here on…well, I’m here on scheme.
Regret swirls in my gut. This was a bad decision.
Christian pops up from the desk and ushers me down the hall. “How is your morning so far, Ms. Granger? Can I get you a coffee? Tea?”
He’s trying to wait on me. This can’t be good. I can’t have the people who work here thinking they need to tend to daddy’s girl.
“I’m great, Christian. Thanks for asking,” I say, and up ahead I spot Bridger’s door. It’s wide open.
“If anything changes, let me know,” Christian says, then flashes a helpful smile, bordering on obsequious.
“You don’t ever have to get me a drink,” I assure him.
“We’ll see…” Christian says, singsong.
I may not win this battle. And as we pass Bridger’s office, I lose another battle, since I can’t resist stealing a glance. I don’t see him, though. I only hear him, saying, “I’ll be there at three. Yes. We can discuss the credits then.”
I wonder if he’ll invite me to the meeting. Discussing credits seems like part of what I’m here for.
Seconds later, Christian sweeps out his arm, indicating a group of cubicles. “The interns,” he says, then whispers, “You’re hardly one.”
But I am. I truly am. “I’m definitely one.”
He rolls his eyes again and sails back to reception as a woman with immovable brown hair rises from a chair, then sticks out a hand. “I’m Jules Marley. Bridger James’s administrative assistant. I’ll see you to your projects,” she says with robotic efficiency. “And I can definitely help you feel like an intern.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m working on a…database.
I don’t see Bridger all day.
Guess Jules was right.
When I arrive on Tuesday, Bridger’s not in his office. Jules mentions something about an off-site meeting. “You can organize the production photos in the Dropbox folder,” she says crisply.
“Great,” I say, injecting all the pep in the world into my voice. “I’m happy to do it.”
“Good,” she says, then gives me the login and leaves me to it.
I spend the day sorting.
So fun.
On Wednesday, I get to—wait for it—check links.
Woohoo.
Okay, fine. Website links break. It’s important to check them and blah, blah, blah, but this is mind-numbing work. When I’m rappelling down the rabbit hole of Sweet Nothings episodes links, my eyes turn heavy. My brain feels syrupy, and my mind drifts to other days, other places.
