56. Be More
STEPHEN SANCHEZ
The bathroom door slams behind me.
Then the stall door.
Then the lock.
Then me as I slap both palms against the steel, breathing hard enough to turn my insides into a tornado.
The party still pulses through the walls.
Jazz.
Laughter.
Christmas cheer.
My blood is confused,
rushing fast all over the fucking place:
between my legs,
up my neck,
in my ears.
I rip my phone from my clutch,
almost dropping it in the toilet.
Celie picks up on the second ring.
“So? How's our Cinderello man?”
Feeling sick, I bend forward,
one hand gripping my stomach.
“Teddy Vale,” I choke out.
Silence.
“Say what?”
I grip the phone harder.
“Teddy. Vale.
“Teddy fuckin’ Vale.
“He’s here.”
She laughs.
“Shut the fuck up right now, you lyin’.”
“Celie, I’m serious. He’s here. Like right now. He held my hand, Celie. My hand. Teddy Vale touched me,” I whisper-shout.
The phone rustles on her end.
“Oh my God. Oh my GOD.”
I smack my forehead against the stall with a clunk. “And Andrew saw it,” I mutter through my teeth. “I emotionally orgasmed on a stage. I had heart-eyes, Celie. I know I did. I felt it. Disney-princess pupils and all.”
She shrieks. “Waitwaitwait—
“what the hell happened?”
“One second I’m standin’ there,
“speechin’ it up—”
She gasps. “You gave a speech?”
“I know. That was my first mistake. ‘Cause next thing I know Teddy Vale steps out of cigar smoke singing my duet, lookin’ at me like I’m the last cigarette before war.”
“…No.”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“No.”
“Celie, YES!”
The bathroom door swings open,
laughter and music spilling in.
Celie and I jolt silent,
stop breathing—
a freeze-frame in the footfalls.
They’re heels. Definitely heels.
They enter the stall next to me.
We don’t exhale
until she pisses and leaves.
Then I spill the best part—“AND THEN TEDDY FLIRTED WITH ME… I think.”
“NO.”
“Yes! He said ‘for you, I suffer’
“I swear to fuckin’ God.”
“IN FRONT OF ANDREW?”
“And three hundred other people.”
I slide down the stall until my ass hits the toilet lid, dress pooling around me like spilled blood.
“Raymond humiliated him, Celie.
“The lead bartender walked out,
“so Andrew got pressed to take over.”
Celie unleashes a string of curses.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the image punishing me all over again: Andrew behind the bar while I drown the ballroom in my arousal.
“I’m a fuckup.”
“Allie…”
“I’m a horrible, horrible person.”
“No,” Celie says gentle.
“You’re human.”
“C’mon, let’s be real. I was two seconds from octopussying the crooner’s face, Celie,” I yell a level above a whisper. “Soaked so hard, I thought I pissed myself. How the fuck do I come back from that?”
“What’re you gonna do?” she asks.
My face falls slack.
“What am I gonna—?
“What do you mean ‘what am I gonna do?’ I called you, friend. That’s your job to give me advice without me askin’ for it. You know how this works. The fuck else you think I called you for, to vent?”
“Ah. So lemme get this straight.
“You hate unsolicited advice
“unless I don’t give it?”
My eyes roll. “Ding, ding, ding.”
“You’re unreal.
“Aight, hooligan.
“Gimme a second to think…”
I sigh.
And the longer the silence stretches,
the deeper the nerves dig.
Then I can practically hear her smile before she says, “Bitch… I got it.”
She pauses.
“But you ain’t gonna like it.”
Lirrah—twenty, blonde, wrapped head-to-toe in black lace—lingers close to Teddy as six of us circle in conversation. She’s Raymond’s latest obsession and the ‘future of music’… if the future means whisper-singing from the throat while staring into the camera as if high off NyQuil.
She looks up at Teddy through four sets of lashes. “So what’s the secret to the best love songs?”
Ace groans loud,
making the whole group laugh.
My gaze falls to the floor.
You get five minutes, and you pick interview question number one.
Across the ballroom, Andrew’s got his back to me, straightening liquor bottles until every label faces forward, wiping already-clean counters to keep himself busy.
Beside him, there are large floor-to-ceiling windows, and right outside is the Rockefeller Tree lit up under snowfall.
It’s all magical, really—
Teddy Vale, a walking poem, next to me,
The Rockefeller Tree,
jazz…
“Hey? I’m serious,” Lirrah says. “Everybody always gives some tortured-genius answer that says absolutely nothing.” She lays a hand on Teddy’s sleeve. “And Teddy, you’re basically the king of romantic suffering and the only real, authentic thing left in music.”
A small laugh rips out of Teddy, and he presses a tongue into his cheek to stifle it.
“Thank you kindly,” he says. “But that’s the whole industry right there, isn’t it?” He lifts his glass with a head tilt. “Everybody says they want ‘real’ ‘til somebody’s bein’ real.”
Nice, nice, nice…
So Teddy Vale has thoughts.
Pretty mouth,
melancholic eyes,
old-soul thoughts.
My crush on him has been manageable
when he wasn’t a real person.
Now he’s real…
Real fuckin’ perfect.
He laughs into his glass as he continues, “Be authentic… long as it doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”
“A-fuckin’-men,” Garrick toasts.
Lirrah pops her hip. “Huh. Another tortured-genius answer,” she teases.
Clyde laughs.
Teddy looks over the crowd, then lifts a finger off his glass. “Alright, sweetheart.” He throws back a sip, clears his throat. “Answer’s bad timing. That simple.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she whines.
He turns his head in her direction, gestures to the room with his drink. “Two people meet at the right time and they’re not sittin’ in studios ‘til three in the mornin’,” he says, unrushed, voice soft-Chicago. “They’re off somewhere doin’ Marvin Gaye activities, producin’ babies, not records.”
A laugh buckles behind my pressed lips,
then breaks free, joining the others.
My eyes sprint to the bar
just as Andrew starts to turn,
catching the tail-end of his stare.
I sip from my drink.
Lirrah clutches Teddy’s bicep.
“You’re holding out on me, now, Teddy,” she keeps going on and on… “Give me sadder. More miserable than ‘Bad timing.’”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, drops his head back lazy.
“Worse timing.”
Another laugh breaks out.
Teddy shakes his head,
glancing at me over the rim of his glass,
and a small grin appears.
The kind born from two people arriving at the exact same thought
at the exact same time:
She’s not looking for the truth.
She’s looking for some secret ingredient for a hit single.
He sets his drink down on a nearby tray,
turns to her, adjusting his waistband.
“Okay, darlin’. Quick survey,” he says, pointing around the room. “With a show of hands, who here’s in a happy, healthy, loving relationship?”
Two hesitant hands rise.
Teddy gestures politely.
“And may I ask, what do you do?”
“Public Relations,” says Dominique.
“And you?” he asks Garrick.
“Finance.”
Then he motions around the group,
pointing at Lirrah first—
“Artist.”
Then me.
“Artist.”
Then Ace.
“Artist.”
Ace points at his chest. “Alcoholic.”
Teddy tips his head. “Same thing.”
Everyone laughs.
Clyde points between Teddy and me. “So how long’ve you two been workin’ together?”
Me and Teddy answer at the same time:
“We haven’t—”
“—Just tonight.”
Teddy glances sideways at me.
“…this is literally the longest conversation we’ve ever had.” He flicks a humorous grin at me. “Or lack thereof—is she always this quiet?”
The she you're speaking of
currently can’t form words.
A chorus of absolutely-nots bounce around, and Ace’s crafty glare slide between me and Teddy.
I know that look.
I shake my head fast, subtle.
“On my life?” Ace nods toward me. “You should write with Allie at least once before you die. That’s an experience.” He points to me with his drink. “No joke, the two of you in a room together? That’d be epic shit.”
“C’mon, now,” Teddy laughs,
“you write too?”
My lips part,
but my word bank’s still empty.
Ace’s laugh saves me.
“Bruh, you’re so fulla shit.”
Teddy's brows bunch,
and he turns to me fully,
gaze falling over my face, my dress,
guiding a bead of sweat
down the center of my chest.
That’s when it clicks in him who I am.
“Oh, hell…” he mutters.
“That Allison Taylor?”
He steps an inch closer when someone passes behind him, and it lights up every one of my nerve-endings.
“I really had no idea.
“I wasn’t briefed properly for tonight.”
I can’t move.
Or look him directly in the eyes.
Or speak.
His grin falls slant when I don’t answer,
his one lazy-lidded eye falling heavier.
“See, and now I’m embarrassed.”
He points around the circle.
“And no one thought to warn me?”
He blows out a breath,
then leans sideways into me,
his mouth dipping closer.
“You got a little mercy for me?”
I shrug into my shoulder.
“Mercy starts on your knees—”
Wait.
I felt those words leave my mouth.
I just said that shit out loud.
To Teddy Vale.
My eyes widen.
Teddy laughs under his breath.
“Well, now,” he lifts his shoulder.
Just leaves it at that.
Open ended. Like, perhaps...
God, the image pops into my head despite me, and I swallow the groan climbing my throat.
Fucking whoremoans, I swear.
My eyes drift back to the bar.
Andrew’s looking at me—
a dull, jaded stare.
I can’t take it any longer.
“Excuse me,” I say,
peeling away from the group.
Andrew turns to snatch a bar towel from a shelf, starts wiping down the already sparkling wood.
When I reach the bar, I slide onto a stool across from him. “Someone’s bartending very aggressively right now,” I tease. “Might wanna relax your shoulders before you tear a muscle.”
An empty laugh slips out of him.
“I’m calm. I’m calm,” he mutters,
then stops abruptly,
dropping his palm on the counter.
“Actually, no the fuck I’m not—
“why he makin’ you laugh?”
I roll my eyes, secretly loving it.
“You’re Jerseying hard right now.”
“Funny.” He rips his eyes away, reaches for the rag again. “Was about to ask if Allison’s okay in there.”
I drum my fingers across the counter, swinging the stool slow from side to side, watching his muscles throb in his arms.
“Andrew…”
His head lifts, gaze moving, first to me,
then over my shoulder.
The veins in his neck pop blue,
and he stands taller,
stepping away,
head tipped back slightly.
“Brace yourself, baby.