“And what about all this Audrey crap? It makes me look worse than Tiger Woods’ latest hook up.”
“Whatever. You don’t and won’t look like a random hook up if he’s still with you, right?”
“Fine,” I huffed. “But you know the thought of being known as Jack’s arm-candy or latest “piece of ass” as Joey so eloquently put it, is not high up on my bucket list.”
“Well, it’d be on mine.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Kidding,” she added. “No seriously, I’m kidding. He’s hot as shit and be still my beating heart,” she slapped a hand on her chest. “The boy really wants to be with you. But you’re out there trying to make something of yourself. He’s got to understand that, right?”
“Yes, not to mention that being Jack’s girlfriend will totally eclipse the point of the evening, which is to establish myself as a legitimate artist.”
She cast a disapproving look over the latest sateen and chiffon number I had on. “Whatever you decide to do, we have got to find you a dress. You look like a pastry.”
I knew I looked pretty bad, and that swirl of lemon yellow cast a sickly glow to my skin. We’d tried it on in desperation. You never know … some things look better on. “What the hell kind of pastry looks like this?”
“I don’t know. I try not to look pastries in the eye for fear they’ll jump down my throat,” she said, seriously.
I snorted.
“You look like I imagine a pastry to be, all sweet and puffy and shit. Definitely not screaming ‘artistic ingénue with hot Hollywood boyfriend.’”
“I give up.” I groaned.
“You can’t. We just need help.” Jazz whipped out her phone and began texting.
“Who?” I asked.
“Didn’t you say Colt had that gorgeous friend who set up your spa appointments. She’ll know, right?”
“Money, Jazz. Money.” I stripped the awful concoction from my body and pulled my jeans back on.
“Puh-shaw. It’s an investment.”
“Whatever.” I pushed past her out the changing room as she bent over her phone, thumbs moving in a blur. There was no way I was spending money on a dress at this stage with all the other financial obligations I had looming ahead of me. I hastily texted Colt and told him to ignore any and all texts from Jazz, that I had it covered.
“Just think,” Jazz continued, oblivious. “You won’t have to pick your own dresses for Jack’s industry events, you’ll have the hottest designers vying for the honor.”
I froze for a moment. God. Really?
“Seriously?” Jazz rolled her eyes as she noticed my expression. “Sometimes I think you were dropped on this earth out of the belly of a mothership. How does that not excite you?”
I just shook my head.
We still had ages to kill before Joey was due to get us, so Jazz and I took a walk over to our favorite coffee shop, Sentient Bean, overlooking Forsyth Park. I had a latte, she had a black tea with local honey.
“So, you practically floated off the golf cart this morning before I burst your bubble.” Jazz cast me a sideways look.
I turned my head and looked out over the park and the long line of stroller brigade mommies who looked to have just finished a long work out. Yes, I should focus on the good stuff that came before my worst nightmare unfolded.
“I’m still floating,” I sighed through a small smile. “It was amazing. The place was so gorgeous.” I told her about the bedside lamp being one of my pieces. “But beyond that, we really talked, you know. About us, about everything. But, not about how to deal with all this stuff obviously.”
“You just talked? Shit, all that romantic seclusion and sizzling tension, and no sex?”
“Jazz!” My skin flooded with heat. Not because I didn’t usually share with Jazz, but because my mind was immediately filled with all the intimate things Jack and I had done.
“Wow. That good, huh?” Jazz shook her head. “All the luck. Seriously.”
I swallowed and shook my head as if I could dislodge Jack for a second. As if. “I thought you and Brandon were, you know, aren’t you?”
“Dang, K. How are you doing it if you can’t even say it? Repeat after me: having sex.”
“Stop deflecting, what’s going on?”
“I’m not the one deflecting, but …” Jazz sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Meh.”
“Meh? Like meh you might be, or meh, the sex is meh.”
“The sex is most definitely meh. We are definitely done. He’s sweet and everything, but honestly, my most important erogenous zone is my mind. When my mind is looking at him like he’s a poor lost puppy, I can promise you it’s the furthest thing from erotic. Not that he doesn’t try hard,” she added.
Joey had clearly ruined her. He’d made her fall for the stubborn, over-bearing, alpha-male type.
“Let’s go see Mrs. Weaton when we get back,” Jazz suggested suddenly. “She’s bound to have some vintage beauty hidden in her closet. Her past is so mysterious, don’t you think?”
“Wow. Brilliant idea,” I said. “Something vintage would be perfect.”
Over the moon to have Jazz and me crowded into her small vinyl covered kitchen, Mrs. Weaton fussed about as Jazz probed her with questions. “Well if you must know, I dated Montgomery Clift in the early fifties,” she declared and looked at us expectantly.
Jazz glanced at me. “Name rings a bell,” she tried and searched him on her phone. “Wow, so you also dated an actor. He was hot!”
I looked over and admired his dark hair and sonnet-worthy cheekbones.
“Oooh. Let me look,” Mrs. Weaton implored.
Jazz turned the phone around to her. She sighed with a touch of sadness, reaching a shaky finger out, and then dropping it at the last moment. “Yes, he was. So beautiful and so tortured. Reminds me a lot of your Jack. Oh, he was so dreamy. Broke my heart, of course, when he started dating Elizabeth Taylor. Although he said it was all for show. What a beautiful couple they made.” She sniffed. “Anyway, a sad soul he was. A brilliant actor, the likes of which I’ve never seen. He lived in those characters, taking them all on board.” Her eyes took on a far away look. “He had a terrible car accident and never was fully himself again. Both his looks and his mind were forever altered.” She eased her thin frame into a chair and placed a plate of cookies down in front of us.
Jazz glared at the plate and gave in immediately. It was hard not to eat anything Mrs. Weaton made.
“I still thought he was beautiful,” she went on in her trembly voice. “I saw him once before the end, at a party in New York City. ‘Iris,’ he said, ‘you were always too good for me,’ and he kissed the knuckles on my left hand.” She rubbed her bony fingers softly over them, her eyes glistening. “I never saw him again. He died a few months later. Heart attack, they say, but I think he was addicted to the pain medication after his accident. I think … he couldn’t deal with living such a public life and feeling like … less.”
My eyes filled, and Jazz swiped a quick finger across her cheek.