Chapter 20
20
Two white-gloved butlers part the main ballroom’s double doors, revealing a view even more stunning than the one before. The space had been beautifully dressed when we arrived, but now that the sun has set, romantic uplighting casts a sapphire glow across the room. Lush ivory florals adorn every table as candles reflect off art deco windowpanes, which expose the glittering skyline. The entire ballroom has been transformed into a jewel box suspended high above the city.
It’s finally showtime, which means the moment has come for my grand entrance. “Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the sensational, chart-topping, Grammy Award–winning recording star Ella Simone.”
At the emcee’s introduction, three hundred pairs of eyes shift their attention my way with a burst of applause. When the spotlight falls on me, Ennio takes his cue to play the lively opening chords on the piano. The crowd parts, marking my path toward the stage. I take a deep breath, raise my microphone, and sing the opening words… Clock strikes upon the hour and the sun begins to fade…
Despite the lyrics, I couldn’t have possibly understood at three years old that beneath her electric smile, Whitney was singing about bone-deep longing. That the song was composed in major chords has always masked its subtle undertones of melancholy. But as those same melodies cascade from my lips, pictures flood my mind—memories from the last ten years intermixed with flashes of the past two weeks.
Images of all the nights I slept alone in the back of a crammed tour bus because Elliot chose last minute to fly private when I didn’t want to break rapport with my band. Or weeks I’d spend roaming empty hallways in any number of his cavernous homes, or holed up in hotel rooms with service trays long gone cold—waiting for scraps of time we could spend together because when we did, it so often felt like magic. Like in our studio sessions where we’d spend hours on end refining a lyric or layering parts. But now I realize that even then, we were on opposite sides of the glass.
Suddenly, I’ve reached the center of the room as well as the pre-chorus. Scanning the crowd, I find Jamie swaying to the music while wrapped up in her date’s arms. In the next moment, I make eye contact with Miles and am briefly held in place by the gravity of his stare.
It’s possible I’ve never felt a song more intensely than the way I’m feeling this one now. I want to dance with somebody. I want to feel the heat with somebody. The words are simple and true, and they conjure images of the last time I danced with him and all the ways I want to do it again. Even if my baggage is too much of an obstacle for Miles to overcome in order to consider something as simple as taking me out on a date—right now, I don’t even need that much.
Just a dance—a way to feel a little less lonely in all of this madness.
Because logically speaking, he’s got spring training in just under two weeks. And I’m plotting a whole career rescue mission. So when it comes to a real relationship, I get it—ain’t nobody got time for that.
But we have time for a dance.
We don’t need to belong to each other, or make proclamations for the world to obsess over or rip apart. I’ve been there and done all of that. Seen it from every angle. And I’d rate the whole experience a whopping zero out of ten—would not recommend.
I ascend the stairs to join my band on the stage, and now it’s time to really have some fun and let go. After attaching my mic on its stand, I spread my arms wide to support my diaphragm as I belt out the big note. And when the night falls, my lonely heart calls…
When my voice soars, the crowd cheers and my background singers come in strong with immaculate three-part harmony. I glance around to see each member of my band sitting squarely in the pocket, at the height of their game. It simply doesn’t get better than moments like this—when that fairy dust kicks in, and suddenly, I’m flying again.
“That was absolutely spectacular !” Shelea says, after meeting me at the side of the stage. “I’ve never heard that rendition before—oh my god!” Her eyes widen with excitement. “Will there be a studio version on streaming?”
“First off, thank you!” I say, smiling politely while trying to catch my breath. “But this was just a special treat for everyone here tonight.” I gesture toward the room, still buzzing from the performance.
“Well aren’t we the lucky ones,” she replies as she leads me through the main floor and guest tables, many of them still clapping and beaming. Some even filming me as we pass by.
Now that the performance is done, I am free to enjoy the night with Jamie, her date, and the boys. For a ten-thousand-dollar donation, I was able to secure us a small table that’s been discreetly situated by the windows with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline.
“And here you are,” Shelea says, once we arrive at the surprisingly empty table. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to have Angelo come find me. I hope you enjoy the night!”
“Oh!” I say, grabbing her attention before she leaves. “I’m sorry, it’s just…have you seen Angelo by the way? Or Rodney? Or Jamie, for that matter?” I ask, trying to mask my anxiety.
She smiles and points over her left shoulder toward the dance floor. “I think they all got bitten by the love bug during your performance.”
I crane my neck to find my friends wrapped in each other’s arms, mid spin in the center of the ballroom. The sight of it makes my chest ache in a good way. All I’ve ever wanted for Rodney was for him to find someone who recognized how much of a gem he truly is. And that he’s found it with Angelo, the best kind of person this business has to offer, makes it even sweeter. As for Jamie, she’s been out playing the field for as long as I’ve known her—dodging fuckboys left and right. Marco, the guy she brought with her tonight, seems like he could be another one. But, for her sake, I’ll hold out hope that he’s a surprise. Only time will tell. And it always does.
Not wanting to interrupt my friends and their intimate moments on the dance floor, I opt to have a seat and nurse the glass of bubbly that’s just been poured for me by one of the white-gloved waitstaff. People watching is a tried-and-true pastime of mine. So it seems like an adequate way to busy myself until my friends return. That is, until one by one, I’m visited by guests who are intent on telling me about my “inspired” performance and requesting selfies or autographs in return.
After about the twentieth selfie, and my second glass of champagne, I decide to excuse myself from the table and go on a treasure hunt…for Miles Westbrook and that dance he promised me.
Rising from the table, I head toward the dance floor and begin to press through the bustling mix of bodies. The house band has taken the stage for the night and opted to play big band renditions of Top 40 hits, which have turned out to be real crowd-pleasers for a room that is full of millennial socialites and high-powered philanthropists. Overall, the vibe in here is far more freewheeling and fun than I’d expected for a two-thousand-dollar-a-plate celebrity fete for New York’s upper crust.
The band makes a seamless transition out of Dua Lipa’s “Dance the Night” into a cover of the Cure’s “Lovesong,” prompting everyone on the dance floor to grab someone and pull them close. As I am now even more keenly aware of my solo status, the search for Miles takes on renewed purpose. Then, suddenly, a sharp burst of laughter catches my attention from behind. When I turn to look, I spot his broad back and shoulders swaying to the music. And when a sultry flare of the saxophone floats across the room, with a slight turn and dip, Miles reveals his lucky dance partner. Her arms are draped around his neck as his hands rest at the middle of her back. She looks to be in her midforties, wearing a low-cut crimson gown that flatters her curves and shimmers under the lights. She also looks to be completely enamored and under his spell.
A well-adjusted person might take this opportunity to head to the bar for something dark and neat. Or she might steal off to a powder room where she’ll take some deep breaths in, breathe the chaotic energy out, and return to the party to dance the night away with her friends. But I’ve never been credibly accused of being well-adjusted. So instead, I head for the exit.
Something about the rain makes an empty hotel room feel even lonelier. I’m standing at the window of my suite tracking the flowing streams on the glass, mulling over all the ways I played myself tonight. Half an hour ago I was in the middle of a very loud and crowded ballroom getting overly emotional over a pop song I might have taken a bit too seriously.
I cringe, thinking back on my performance. How it must have been dripping with such desperate innuendo—which clearly didn’t land in the way I’d intended. If it had, maybe Miles would be spinning me around. Dipping me under the blue lights. And sure, I’m going through a public divorce. And there were a million eyeballs in there with just as many camera phones. And the man clearly doesn’t want any drama—but, damn.
All I wanted was a dance.
I’m still in the dress. For some reason I haven’t found it in me to take the thing off. Maybe it’s because I feel like it’s the kind of gown that deserved more out of tonight. Or maybe it’s because I still haven’t let go of the visions I’d played and replayed in my head of stumbling back to this very hotel with Miles, then watching as he slowly stripped it off me.
I shake the images away, walking over to the nightstand in search of the late-night room service menu. I’m willing to bet my current problems ain’t nothin’ a gourmet burger and a basket of waffle fries can’t fix. I’m reaching for the room phone when my private cell starts to vibrate inside my clutch on the bed. Expecting a message from Angelo or Rodney wondering where I’ve scampered off to—even though this time I did text them and Sanders my exact plans and whereabouts—I quickly move to check it.
But when I swipe open the notification, a potent jolt of awareness zaps me upright, because it’s a message from Miles instead.
Mr. Curveball: Are you still here?
I’m more than a little ashamed to admit the reasons why I left without saying goodbye—that I let my hopes get so out of pocket, I decided to pull another disappearing act the minute they were unexpectedly dashed. But I can’t very well pretend I didn’t flee the coop. So I opt for an honest, but short reply.
Me: No.
Mr. Curveball: Where’d you go?
Mr. Curveball: Can I come see you ?
There’s a flutter in my chest when I read his words, and my heart starts to race. Giddy yet petrified is the only way I can think to describe the feeling. It’s been so long since I’ve done this, whatever this is. Given our track record, at this point he could be trying to chase me down with a paycheck for my performance—something I already assured Shelea was unnecessary.
Me: I’m in a suite at the Mandarin hotel.
Me: Ask for Lena Horne at the front desk. I’ll let the concierge know to expect you.
Mr. Curveball: See you in twenty.
The minutes crawl like hours. I check the clock, and with five to spare, I consider changing out of the dress. But then I remember the two dozen or so tiny hooks up the back that made Rodney and Jamie curse the gods as they caged me in it, and I abandon the thought. Next thing I know the doorbell is ringing and I’m nearly leaping out of my skin.
When I open the latch and pull back the door, Miles is standing at the threshold with one arm braced on the frame. A smattering of raindrops dust his forehead and shoulders, and he’s eyeing me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Hey,” he says, straightening to his full height and nearly filling the doorway. I notice his tux jacket neatly folded over one arm.
“Hey,” I reply, while leaning on the door for much-needed support.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
Wordlessly, I nod and step back to let him enter the suite. Following Miles inside, I note the strong shape of his traps and deltoids as they move beneath the cream-colored cotton of his dress shirt. Somehow, even with a visitor, the room feels quieter in the stilted gaps of our conversation.
“So…can I get you a drink?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence. We’ve entered the sitting area, which seems to have shrunk down to the size of a matchbox.
Miles nods. “I’d love a water, thanks.”
Get the man a water. This I can do. With measured steps I head over to the minibar, open the fridge, and grab a Voss bottle. All the while I am keenly aware of Miles’s attention on my back, can practically feel the heat from his unbroken gaze. But when I turn around, he about-faces and starts to pace back and forth like a mass of pent-up energy. And I begin to wonder if he’s as nervous as I am.
“Here you go,” I say as I approach to hand over the bottle. When he takes it, our fingers brush just slightly, creating a tiny spark of electricity with the contact. Neither of us reacts.
With strong hands, hands marked by vein patterns I’ve basically memorized at this point, he unscrews the cap and takes a moderate sip.
Growing impatient and thoroughly confused, I cross my arms over my chest. “Can I ask you a question?” I say.
He swallows, and the moving contours of his neck nearly steal my focus. “Of course,” he replies.
“Why did you come here?”
At this, he laughs but it’s without humor—just a short, sharp fluttering exhale through smirking lips. “I think we both know the answer to that,” he says, pinning me with his eyes.
Caught off guard by his directness, I straighten. “I think we both certainly do not .”
Miles shrugs. “That’s on me, then, for not making it clear.” He sets the water down on a side table and steps closer to me as the tension blooms between us. “I’m here because I think you want me here…just as much as I want to be here.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh—more out of disbelief than anything else. “You’re right. This is news to me, Miles. Because last I checked I had ‘too much baggage’ for you.”
Miles shakes his head. “Since the day I met you,” he says, stalking forward, “I have wanted to be alone with you.” With his thumb and forefinger, he reaches up to loosen his bow tie. “When I said I think about you, I meant I do it all the time.” The fabric unravels, falling loosely on either side of his neck.
My breathing is heavy as I back up toward the wall. At this moment, I can’t think of anything I’ve wanted more than his answer to my next question. “What do you think about?” I ask, swallowing thickly and staring up into his dark eyes. “When you think about me?”
“I think about being with you like this,” he says, gesturing between us. “Somewhere behind closed doors. With no one watching us. I wonder how you’d act around me, react to me, if you could really let go…if I could help you let go.”
I swallow again. And this time I’m pretty sure he hears the gulp. Because for the first time since entering my suite, he smiles that broad smile that gets me weak in the knees. Miles is close enough to me now that my back is pressed against the wall, the same way it was that night on the roof. The night of our video shoot.
In tandem, our bodies expand and contract with the rhythm of our heavy breathing. “I think about that too,” I say, almost panting.
“Yeah?” he asks, taking both hands and sliding them up my arms, leaving chills in their tracks.
“I want to know what it’s like to let go with you,” I confess on a shuddering breath.
Then the words “You never need to tell me twice” fall from his lips before they crash against mine.