42. The Best-Laid Plans
42
THE BEST-LAID PLANS
Harlow
The next night when we reach the theater, we step out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
I’m wearing a little black dress. Bridger’s wearing black slacks.
His shirt is wine red. So are my shoes. We look like we belong together.
This is our subliminal messaging.
It’s like we’re casing the joint, studying all the potential points of failure in our plan to steal our happy ending.
We walk through the glittery crowds toward the St. James Theatre, the marquee lit up brilliantly against the New York summer night, inviting us to take a step into our future as a couple.
“I feel good about this,” I say. Then I grab his wrist and squeeze it.
He takes mine and squeezes back and then we let go. “We’ve got this,” he says, confident, assured.
Like two badass and brilliant thieves, we stride past the brass doors, showing our tickets on my phone to the ushers, searching for my father and Vivian inside the busy lobby.
I scan through the opening-night crowds of theatergoers dressed to the nines. At the edge of the bar, I spot my father with his slicked-back hair, his Gatsby grin, and his new wife.
Except.
Wait.
Who’s that with them? There’s a guy with brown hair and a nice smile. Maybe a few years older than I am.
I steal a glance at Bridger and even though it’s crowded, and even though they can’t hear me, I still whisper as we go, “Who’s that? Did my dad say anything about bringing someone?”
Bridger’s brow knits. “No idea. Probably just someone he ran into.”
But Vivian’s chatting animatedly with a pretty blonde woman by her side. And my gut says no, they didn’t just run into these two.
When we reach them, my father doesn’t seem to notice that we came together.
“Harlow,” he says, upbeat, and that’s another sign something’s amiss. He normally calls me poppet.
But he’s calling me by my name instead. Treating me like a woman, rather than like his kid.
“We wanted you to meet Vivian’s brother,” he says, then he introduces me to the guy with the nice smile. “This is Jack Waters. He works in the music business.”
“At a record company,” Vivian adds. “So he’s in the art world too.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jack extends a hand.
I freeze, momentarily forgetting how to interact with people as our plan crumples spectacularly.
This is not a recon opportunity. This is a triple date.
I take Jack’s hand, recovering my manners. “You too.”
Seconds later, Vivian introduces the blonde to Bridger.
“And this is my best friend, Francesca. She works as an agent too.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bridger says, like a perfect gentleman.
A few minutes later, my father and Vivian, holders of the tickets, guide us to the seats.
Bridger’s at one end of the six of us, sitting next to Vivian’s best friend. My father and Vivian claim the middle seats. And I’m sitting next to some guy named Jack who’s probably very nice. Who’s possibly a lovely man. But he’s not the man I’m in love with.
We make meaningless small talk for a few minutes. When the overture begins, I feel like a complete and absolute idiot for thinking any of this would be easy.