Chapter 25 I’m Not in Love.
I’m Not in Love.
Josie
“I THOUGHT YOU weren’t coming,” Sean says with his standard nonchalance.
“I changed my mind, but too late, so I had to fly Spirit.”
His face crumples in horror. “I’m so sorry!”
“Eh.” I shrug and take another swig of warm but expensive champagne. “I’m resilient.”
His green eyes almost glow in the yellow outdoor lighting as they meander over me. “You look… astonishing.”
“And you look like a startled waiter. No purple today? No cravat? No wainscot? What gives?”
“I think you mean waistcoat. And you’re just being mean; I’m ravishing in a tux.” He strikes a pose, hands burrowing into the pockets of his perfectly pressed pants, chin dipping, gaze darkening.
“That you are.”
I finish off the champagne and slink forward.
That pouting mouth tempts me, lips slightly parted, the bottom one full and heavy and dangerous.
I wonder if he’ll come in for a kiss, but he doesn’t move, although a familiar hunger burns in his eyes.
He’s leaving it up to me, and no wonder.
I’ve been giving him mixed signals from the beginning.
He’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Chaotic Josie.
It makes me feel kind of powerful, not gonna lie.
I turn my cheek to the side, touching it to his for one of those air kisses I normally despise. With one final weighted glance at his lips, I thread my arm in his and angle my face away. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking me to a swanky party? What are we doing by this dumb, boring pool?”
He tucks my arm tightly against his torso. You’d think it was a kiss the way my body reacts—wax under a flame.
“You could’ve just called, you know,” he says, leading me across the empty pool deck to the casino doors. “Your serial killer scavenger hunt was not necessary.”
“You loved every minute of it.”
“I did,” he replies without hesitation.
We cross the noisy casino, and I watch Sean’s demeanor change as the elevator doors close with us inside.
He adjusts his tuxedo jacket, flings back the blond swath of hair, and takes an extra-deep breath.
He flicks me a wink and takes my hand as the elevator dings. His persona has officially switched on.
The doors open, and the live music greets us like a swelling tide. It takes a minute for me to register what I’m hearing. My heart stutters.
“Is that… Bono?”
“The one and only.”
I look at him like it’s a joke, but it’s not a joke.
Are you kidding me? I want to run down the hall screaming Bono’s name—maybe even tackle him and then scream his name into his face—but instead I hold tight to Sean’s hand as we follow the wide hotel hallway to a room where oh-my-freaking-hell it’s honest-to-God Bono standing there singing in a room, and everyone around us is acting like it’s normal.
“You’ve never seen him perform before?” Sean asks me.
“Well, yeah, but not like this.” I’m practically frozen in place. “Do me a favor?”
“Sure,” he says.
“If I look like I’m about to do something asinine, stop me.”
“You’re clearly on the verge,” he says. “Come on. The buffet will keep you out of trouble.”
He tows me by the hand to another room split in two by an ostentatious table piled high with food.
My stomach rumbles at the sight of it. We grab a couple of plates, and I start loading mine up with anything that looks good.
I don’t recognize most of it, but who cares?
At a party like this, it’s got to be good.
And I have to admit—I miss these kinds of parties.
Of course, the ones I went to weren’t this next-level, but Juan Ernesto’s cronies could throw a pretty swanky fiesta.
Sean serves himself some protein and vegetables, and we eat standing up.
“How is it?” he asks me, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve stuffed my mouth so full of some kind of savory puff pastry that I can’t answer him for a full ten seconds. I also realize I have no idea what I just ate.
I swallow hard and put on the snobbiest British accent I can muster. “The truffle, goat cheese, caviar tartlet was a celebration for the taste buds.”
“Wow,” he deadpans. “You really don’t know how to act around tourtière bourguignon.”
I pick up the next piece of food-slash-artwork with my fingers and shove the whole thing into my mouth. Immediately, my eyelids flutter in ecstasy.
“And that one?” Sean feigns serious interest.
I swallow. “The stuffed pangolin scales sprinkled with flecks of forty-five karat gold was a gustatory delight!”
His face stretches in faux amazement. “That’s impressive considering gold only goes up to twenty-four karats.”
“What is that?” I stab my toothpick at a meat platter. “Is that prosciutto?”
“Iberico ham,” he corrects me as I slide a thin rolled-up slice onto my tongue. My mouth literally comes alive.
“No, no, no.” I point my toothpick at him as I chew in ecstasy. “It’s zebra. Raised in a field of flowers and fed on the nectar of fairies.”
He aims a melon ball on a toothpick toward my lips. “And this melon was watered solely with the tears of baby koalas.”
“Yum,” I say. “I can taste their koala-y sorrow.” There’s a bowl of smooth white nuts on the table. “Are those macadamia nuts?” I ask.
“The most expensive nut in the world,” he confirms.
I grab a handful and shove them into my mouth. “How many Rolls Royces can I buy with what’s in my mouth?” I warble.
“You could probably get a Kia.”
As I reach for a crab salad stuffed pastry, Sean stops me with two hands out like a traffic cop in a school zone. “Whoa. That one’s got shellfish in it.”
“I know.” I pick it up and squint at it. It looks so good, but then again, looks can be deceiving when it comes to seafood. “It’s complicated.”
Bono launches into “With or Without You,” and I shove the hors d’oeuvre into Sean’s mouth and head for the stage area.
He trails me, still chewing. “I’m going to have to do fifty extra push-ups to make up for eating that, you know!”
For the next hour, I drink champagne and get introduced to a lot of actors I grew up watching alongside Keefe O’Sullivan.
I can still feel my hand sandwiched between Liam Neeson’s warm palms as he greeted me with enthusiasm.
Mark Hamill’s eyes are just as blue as they were in the original Star Wars.
I almost aspirated my drink when Samuel L.
Jackson recited the Go the F**k to Sleep book at my request. I think Jamie Lee Curtis may have unofficially adopted me, and I even got a chance to speak Spanish with Salma Hayek.
Eventually, it’s time to meet the guest of honor. When Sean leads me over to his dad, I’m more nervous than I should be—it’s not like we’re a couple or anything.
“Congratulations on another year closer to the sweet release of death,” I blurt, then try to make up for my morbid joke with a fun disco move.
“Thank you,” Sean’s dad says, raising an eyebrow. I’ll be regretting that interaction for decades.
Sean’s mother, Sorcha, is tall and slim with a classic beauty and Siobhan’s ginger hair. I bob my head in her direction. “I won’t even try to be clever with you, ma’am.”
She pastes on a practiced smile. “How lovely.”
At the end of his set, Bono announces that it’s time for the birthday festivities to begin. We all join him in singing “Happy Birthday” to Sean’s dad, who smiles graciously all the way through before accepting the mic.
“Oh, g’wan, thanks for that,” he says in his clipped accent. “Now that I’ve turned sixty-five, I guess that means I can retire!” Everyone laughs.
“He’ll never retire,” Sean whispers to me. “He loves acting too much, and everyone here knows it.”
“It’s not the number that matters, though, is it?
” his dad goes on. “It’s about the people you have around you.
It’s about friends. Thank you all so much for being here.
” He spreads an open palm wide, revolving on a heel to acknowledge the crowd as we all applaud.
“And it’s about family.” His tender gaze falls on his wife, children, and grandchildren.
“Come on up here and show these nice people how lucky I am!”
The sea of bodies parts for Sean and his sister and mother to make their way to the low stage along with Siobhan’s husband and their two ginger boys, who appear to be about five and seven years old.
Keefe O’Sullivan gathers them all in a messy, festive hug amid the applause.
He brings the mic to his lips again. “I’m so proud of my wife, Sorcha, my daughter, Siobhan, and my son, Sean.
My son-in-law, my grandsons. They’re everything to me.
Everything. Thank you all for the birthday wishes! Enjoy the party!”
I clap along with the crowd. Wow, Seamus wasn’t even mentioned. I wonder how Sean feels about that.
Sean is leaning in toward Bono, saying something into his ear before aiming a smile directly at me. You’d never know there was turmoil underneath that polished shell. The fact that he shared his worries with me at game night makes me feel special. Favored.
“I’ve got one more song in me tonight,” Bono says, the mic carrying his voice across all the rooms. “And I want to invite Josie Days to come up here and sing it with me.”
My stomach falls out of me. Either that or it’s teleported away using some futuristic tech one of these superrich people has access to.
“Come on up here, Josie. Sean says you’ve got a lovely voice. Let’s hear it.”
Next thing I know, I’m onstage standing beside Bono himself, and Sean has dropped down to audience level, grinning at me like a trickster in a tux. Bono cups the mic as he hands it to me. “What would you like to sing?”
Some noises come out of my mouth, but they aren’t words, and they certainly don’t represent any version of a “lovely voice.”
“You pick,” I finally manage to say, the mic heavy in my hand.
“A love song, I’m guessing.”
“Oh!” I bluster. “I’m not in love.”
He nods at his band. “Perfect.”
The guitarist strums the opening notes of the 70s song by 10cc, and Bono sings the first line.
I jump in just in time to catch the end of it.
The crowd grows quiet around us as we harmonize on the anti-love ballad, a song where the singer doth protest too much.
Sean stands motionless, hands deep in his pockets, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
I sing the title line right at him. I don’t care that the harder I sing it, the more it looks like I, too, doth protest too much.
Sean plays his part with a lot of shrugs and a venti order of charismatic nonchalance.
We are actors acting, except, at the same time, tapping into the real thing, too. Isn’t that what acting is?
It’s strange to be up here onstage. This is something I was sure I’d given up forever, and I’d made peace with that. The purple tint of my glasses makes it even more surreal, like this parallel universe I’ve found myself in bends light differently.
I see Sean differently in this place, too.
Instead of looking up at him, the lights winking off his pedestal, I’m the one on top.
He blends into the crowd below, another macadamia nut in a bowl overflowing with them.
But from this vantage point, little things begin to stand out.
Not just that devastating mouth, but the grinding of his jaw alongside it.
Not just the piercing green of his eyes, but the nervous way they watch the room.
Not just the impressed look he rewards me with as I sing, but the flicker of wistfulness clinging to it.
Spotting all these things should make me want him less.
I mean, this is Sean O’Sullivan. He’s supposed to be larger than life.
No one wants to see his weaknesses. But somehow, the cracks in his shield only make me want him more.
It’s like with art. When you first look at a piece, all you get is an impression.
A feeling. Good or bad. Excited or disgusted.
Energized or bored. But once you learn about technique, about color, composition, medium, or about the artist themself, you begin to look at the same piece in a different way.
Something that made you sad before might move you to tears.
A piece you love might bring ecstasy. One you originally hated might make you realize that you hate it because it reminds you of something you hate about yourself.
As I gaze down at Sean O’Sullivan, singing the heartless lyrics that are really a cover for the songwriter’s authentic fear, I see something similar in him. He’s protesting too much. Everything about him is protesting too much.
You deserve to be happy, and so does Sean.
It’s a stupid, trite word—happy—but I have to admit, it’s got appeal. Emmy thinks Sean and I could make each other happy. Is she right or just hanging ten on an oxytocin wave?
Regardless, if I came here to be a friend to Sean, the least I can do is be an actual friend to Sean. Get him alone. Ask him how Seamus’s homecoming went. Let him talk. Really listen.
When we finish the song, I thank Bono for the duet and step off the stage, where Sean hands me a fresh flute of champagne.
“Well, well, well, you’re full of surprises, Josie Days.”
“Why? Because I can sing?”
“Because you can perform.”
A part of me inside stiffens with fear. Did I just let too much Savannah Bateman out? Will people see it? Recognize it?
“Hey,” I whisper, “you want to get out of here?”
He lowers his voice. “Where do you want to go?”
I raise my glass. “I’m tired of this top shelf crap. I want some watered-down, stay-up-all-night proletariat champagne. I want champagne to burn the Bastille for!” I pretend to throw the empty flute onto the floor but then place it on a passing waiter’s tray instead.
Sean glances once over his shoulder at the rest of the party before his fingers thread themselves through mine. “Well, I do love a good revolution.”