14. Maisy
14
MAISY
The baby-faced man sashaying my way grins like he’s about to stir up a heap of trouble. He already tricked me into taking a picture with him last night, then he had the gall to share the photo on my Instagram account with the caption “Miggy + Angel 4Ever.”
Miguel plops down beside me with a bag of gummy worms in hand and drapes a leg across my lap. “What do you think?” he asks, twirling his foot in circles.
With close-cropped dark hair and deep dimples in his round cheeks, he could pass as a giant toddler. Despite being thirty-four years old, his youthful porcelain face reminds me of a cherub, and he calls me his angel. But make no mistake, there’s nothing cherubic about Miguel Espinoza. Mischievous should be his first name and Egomaniac his last.
I press my lips into a flat line and squint at the green moccasin he’s showing off. It has gold threading and matches the bow tie he’s wearing today. “I promised not to lie to you after your kilt era.”
With narrowed eyes, he says, “You swore a blood oath to never bring that up again.”
Miguel found himself trapped inside the last kilt he designed. When he modeled it for me, he employed an army of safety pins to secure the yellow and brown monstrosity around his waist. I pricked my finger while freeing him, at which point he made me swear to forget his kilt phase ever happened. Hardly a “blood oath.”
“This situation calls for the reminder,” I say. “You’re a repeat fashion offender.”
“And you’re a sourpuss with an angelic face. Like Lucifer’s sister.” He hisses while yanking his foot away like I burned him with hellfire. Dramatic little prince.
Miguel’s an architect—a brilliant one—but he’s determined to become a fashion trendsetter. I admire his tenacity, but his execution leaves much to be desired. Over the years, he championed kilts, suspenders, and those old-school thermal underwear with the butt flaps, which he called “free-jamas.” Now he hopes coordinating moccasins with bow ties will become the hot new trend.
Disregarding his comparison of me to the devil’s sibling, I change the subject. “Where’s Graham?”
“He’s in the shower, where I would much rather be than here with you.” The droopy gummy worm he stabs in my direction isn’t the least bit threatening.
I steal the candy from his fingers and stuff it into my mouth. “No one’s keeping you here.”
Miguel’s responding smile lacks humor, and I wish I could take back my snarky comment. He spent a year apart from our group, and I can imagine how lonesome that time was for him. Studying him a little closer, I notice the stress lines around his eyes. Being separated from Graham was hard on him. He presents a lighthearted disposition to the world, but he internalizes his pain, allowing it to fester until he shuts down. A method of coping I’m more than familiar with.
“How are you feeling, Miggy? Be honest.” I squeeze his thigh in encouragement.
He lets out a long sigh, the playful mask slipping from his face altogether. “I’m surprised. Wary. I was starting to believe this day would never come and thought about moving on.”
The melancholy in his voice tugs at my rigid heartstrings. Like me, Miguel hides his vulnerability. Beneath the sarcasm and dramatic antics lies a sensitive man who loves deeply and longs for fathomless love in return.
His decision to end the relationship with Graham a year ago didn’t come with an ultimatum. Miguel chose to put himself first because he felt Graham wouldn’t. Not that anyone faults Graham for his reluctance to make their relationship public. The movie industry and, more specifically, his former agent were the culprits pressuring him to hide his true self. People surrounding Graham—the ones who were supposed to protect him—convinced him his career would end otherwise. His indecision cost him Miguel instead. Tragic.
“Being apart has been as hard on him as it was on you. But I knew he would come around because he loves you too much to let you go.” I grab his hand and lace our fingers together. “And I’m glad he did, because y’all belong together, and you both belong with me.”
“Thank you, angel. I’ll admit I’m worried he might change his mind, but I hope not. My heart won’t survive another break.”
“I’m confident he won’t.”
“I won’t,” Graham says from behind us.
Startled, our heads snap toward the kitchen where he leans against the wall with tousled wet hair, wearing nothing but a pair of burgundy boxers. He clearly has an aversion to clothes. Miguel and I sigh in appreciation as he prowls toward us with a smirk and a wink. His lithe, toned body is a true work of art.
His flirty expression falls away when he takes the bag of candy from Miguel and tosses it aside. Sitting on the coffee table with Miguel’s knees caged between his long legs, he links their fingers together and kisses each of Miguel’s knuckles while gazing into his eyes with pure adoration.
“You’re stuck with me, darling, until the end of time. And the whole world will know I’m proud to be yours.”
A small sob escapes Miguel before they meet halfway for a kiss, their hands cupping each other’s cheeks in mutual possession. My eyes and nose sting as I witness the loving exchange between my friends. The hopeless romantic buried deep within me fights against my jaded, hardened surface. I’m certain I’ve won the battle until the men break their kiss, and a grin overtakes Graham’s face when our eyes meet.
“Does something smell bad?” he asks, referring to my pinched facial expression.
I swallow the lump in my throat and feign boredom. “I’m trying not to sneeze and ruin your sappy moment.”
“Liar.” He chuckles and steals another kiss from Miguel before rising to his feet. “I’ll get dressed, then we need to finish packing. California awaits.”
We return to California tomorrow, where I’ll spend two nights before flying across the country to Philadelphia for the music video shoot. We have access to the Austin house for a few more days, but neither of us have a reason to come back once we leave. I could skip the California leg of my trip, but Tatum’s there right now. I miss having everyone gathered in one place and want to spend at least one night with us all together.
Rounding the couch, Graham plants his hands near my shoulders and leans over to whisper in my ear. “You can have this too. Just let go of the bullshit.”
I tilt my head back and gape at him. He only curses when he’s trying to get a point across or he’s in a heightened emotional state. We have an upside-down staring contest for a few seconds before he drops a sloppy wet kiss to my forehead.
“Gross,” I grumble, wiping his slobber off my skin as he laughs his way to the bedroom.
Miguel rests his head on my shoulder with a heavy sigh and puts his feet on the table, ankles crossed. We gaze at his ugly shoes in silence and process the whirlwind of emotions that blew through the house moments ago. The muted TV plays in the background, an accompaniment to the quiet until my buzzing cell phone pops our bubble.
Unknown Number
Hey, this is Jensen. Took Vera to the doc today. She’ll have another appointment soon. I’ll let you know when.
Dumbfounded, my thumbs hover above my cell phone screen. Several questions form in my head, jumbling my thoughts before I can communicate them.
How did you get my number?
What did the doctor say?
Why do I want to see you again?
Instead, I brush the open-ended questions aside, knowing they’ll lead to further conversation with Jensen, and do what I do best. Shut him down.
Me
Thanks.
A row of dots appears and disappears several times, and I’ll bet anything he’s as anxious typing and deleting his responses as I am waiting for one. When the dots disappear with finality, I toss my phone on the coffee table and rub my forehead.
Spending the night with him was a mistake. I’ve spent the past week trying to convince myself I didn’t enjoy being with him, taking care of him, lying next to him while listening to his ragged breathing as he slept fitfully.
Torture. That’s the word I’m looking for to describe how I felt the whole night before sneaking out at sunrise. Thinking about that night seems pointless now that I’m unsure when I’ll be in Walford again.
In my head, I groan in frustration. With Vera’s mysterious health problems and Jensen worming his way into my life, I have mixed feelings about Marzan’s project. I want to explore this career path more than anything, but the timing sucks. I also have reservations about being alone on the East Coast while my friends carry on with their lives on the other side of the country.
What if I’m unable to hold on while their world keeps spinning? What if I fall off and everyone forgets about me and moves on? I often joke about Tatum’s unhealthy fear of missing out, but I’m the one afraid to blink because I fear my friendships will vanish just as fast. Shut up, Maisy. Your friends love you and want you around . God, my insecurities about relationships run deep. I blame my parents.
“What if I add tassels?” Miguel asks, his sudden cheerfulness cutting through the sullen atmosphere.
My gaze slides to his. “I’ll disown you.”
“Your life would be boring without me, angel. Admit it.”
“Only if you admit the moccasins are a tragedy.”
He bares his teeth and hisses at me again without losing his composure. A smile tugs at my lips, and I elbow him in the ribs. I couldn’t be happier that he’s back with us, where he belongs.
Marzan is a dick. A leather-duster-wearing, ass-grabbing, narcissistic dick of epic proportions. The minute shooting wrapped today—the first day on set—I couldn’t wait to get out of the nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Philadelphia. I mean, seriously? Everyone flew here yesterday expecting some inspirational filming location, not an old warehouse with busted windows and rusty metal like you’d find in any city in America. It makes no sense to drag us all to Philadelphia when the band and most of the crew live on the West Coast, including Marion Kazan a.k.a. Marzan. Pretentious prick.
He was always nice to me when he directed Tatum’s music videos. I may have landed this gig because of my connection to her, but I thought my skills captured Marzan’s attention. Boy, was I wrong.
Turns out, the “it” thing he admires about me is my ass, which he made the grave mistake of grabbing. Twice. I wrote off the first inappropriate touch as an accident, but the second grab earned him a very clear piece of my mind delivered by my very sharp tongue. Screw complaining to union reps or whoever drags their feet while dealing with allegations. I can take care of myself.
It won’t surprise me if I don’t have a job anymore. And you know what? Good riddance. If he didn’t hire me for my talent, I don’t want to be here. And if that grabby fucker tries to blackball me in the industry, well, I’ve got friends in high places who can squash his career like an annoying bug.
“Asshole.” Grumbling, I throw back a second tequila shot.
The crew invited me to join them at a sports bar two blocks from our hotel. Philadelphia Eagles paraphernalia covers the space from floor to ceiling, and I’m thankful the professional football season ended already. I can’t imagine how rowdy this bar becomes on game nights. For a Wednesday in the off-season, the place is packed.
“Cheers to that.” Tasha, a wardrobe assistant, lifts her mojito in the air. “Lady, you don’t mess around. The new asshole you ripped into Marzan will be gaping for months. Months! I think I fell in love with you a little bit.”
Her wide mouth stretches into a grin, and I smile in return. It feels good to put men like Marzan in their place. But having another woman—or an entire crew—witness my lambasting and cheer me on feels great. Like my reaction to being groped is validated and supported. I may never see these people again, but I’m confident they’ll have my back if the incident becomes a scandal or impacts my career.
“Thanks,” I say. “I have a pretty firm no-touching policy.”
A burly guy on the lighting crew leans across the table and speaks above the noise. “I’ll be telling my daughter what happened today and how you gave that skinny prick four feet of fuck you .”
“Five feet,” I correct, flashing him five splayed fingers.
“Whatever. You have a big bark and big-ass bite.”
Everyone at the table laughs, including me, but I’m playing off the incident with manufactured nonchalance. On the inside, I’m drowning in disappointment. My high hopes for this project were dashed the second Marzan put his grubby hand on me. Sure, I could’ve held my tongue or let his behavior slide, but that’s not who I am.
I care a lot about the price I might pay for speaking up: my job and my reputation. But I care more about being treated with dignity and respect.
Do I want to be that woman who’s labeled as high maintenance, known for complaining or making a fuss over “nothing?” No. But I won’t stand by and allow men to get away with inappropriate behavior. If they want to turn the tables and make me out to be the bad apple rather than take responsibility for their actions, fine. I’ll be the martyr so the next woman or the one after her doesn’t suffer at the hands of entitled men. I’ll proudly wear the scarlet letter A for agitato r all damn day if even one man gets the message I’m trying to send. Hands. Off. Asshole.
Right when I’m getting fired up again, my cell phone buzzes.
Tate
How was the first day? Did you kick ass?
Yes I did, Tate.
Yes. I. Did.
Me
It was fine.
Tate
Don’t downplay it. Call me and tell me everything!
And you can tell me about that kiss again.
ten kissy face emojis
I made the mistake of telling Tatum about the kiss that happened with Jensen in the alley. Now she sends love-related emojis at every opportunity, much to my displeasure. My strategy for extinguishing her interest in the matter includes blatant disregard and outright denial. She’ll get the message and drop it eventually.
Noting the late hour on my phone’s clock, I wrap up my night. My friends on the West Coast don’t always respect time zones, so I need to make a slew of phone calls if I want to get into bed early and enjoy uninterrupted sleep. Otherwise, my phone will buzz nonstop throughout the night.
Me
Heading to the hotel now. Will call soon.
I shrug on my coat and sling my favorite rose-pattern tote bag over my shoulder. In honor of the short walk to the hotel, I toss back one last tequila shot for the road. “I’ll see y’all in the morning if I don’t get escorted off the property.”
The group at the table laughs, though their amusement sounds strained, like me being denied access to the set could be a real possibility. We say our goodbyes, and I exit the rowdy bar to the sights and sounds of a bustling urban night.
My hotel sits two blocks away. I spot it ahead and make quick strides among the lights and honks and noxious city fumes. In less than one block, I’m dragged into a dark alley for the second time in my life. But this time, the man isn’t Jensen. This time, I fight back.