A Little Too Much

Chapter Eighteen

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE and I’m working. So ho, ho, fucking ho. And the cherry on top is that the only person in the bar is Bill-Bob, so I’m probably looking at five bucks in tips.

Brett will be there when I get home from the bar tonight. His flight got into Newark at six. He texted me from the airport to ask if I wanted to come to the cast party. I lied and told him I wanted to, but I was working. The working part wasn’t the lie.

It’s been six weeks, and I know I should be dying to see him. I’m not. But the thing is, I have to stop thinking about Alessandro, and the quickest way I can think to do that is to drown myself in Brett.

I’ve spent the two and a half weeks since I last saw Alessandro working and walking. I’ve got a five-mile loop I do around Central Park every morning now—avoiding Bethesda Fountain. I don’t know if it’s the exercise, or the fresh air, but it’s the only time my mind clears enough that I can think straight. When I’m walking, I know what’s what. I know who’s who. The rest of the time, I find myself pining over things I can’t change. Things I can’t have.

Bill-Bob staggers off his stool and leaves a little before eleven, and when I clear his spot, I see I’m indeed clairvoyant. A wrinkled five is tucked under his empty mug, like he thought it might blow away or someone might steal it.

When the phone rings ten minutes later, I’m leaning on the bar, half asleep. I flip the phone—one of those old jobs stuck to the wall with an actual cord—to my ear.

“Hey, Hilary! How’s it hanging?” Jerry says.

“Low as your Christmas balls, Jerry. And fuck you very much for making me work tonight.” I was so pissed I had to work that I’m actually out of uniform. I’m in my most comfortable jeans instead of my ass shorts.

“Slow?” he asks.

I point the receiver into the empty room. “I can’t hear you over the roar of the crowd, Jerry, what did you say?”

“If it’s slow,” he’s saying when I stick the phone back to my ear, “you can lock up and go home.”

“Do I still get paid for the last three hours of my shift? Because I’m bringing home a whole five bucks in tips.”

He blows a laugh into the phone. “Call it your Christmas bonus.”

That’s all I have to hear. “ ’Night, Jerry.”

“Merry Christmas,” he’s saying, but I don’t wait for him to finish before I slam the phone back into the cradle.

By the time I get home, I’m tired and cranky and I just want to forget the whole freaking day. I twist my key and push open our apartment door, and when it opens, Brett is there on the couch, buck naked and totally ready, waiting for me. When I hear a long moan and a series of grunts from the TV, I know why. He’s got the porn channel on.

He stands and has me pinned against the back of the door in a heartbeat, tugging my coat off. “Miss me?” he asks, a wicked smile on his face and a bleary look in his eyes. That, coupled with the whisky on his breath, tells me he’s totally drunk.

“Yeah. How was the party?”

“You should have been there, babe,” he slurs, tugging at the zipper of my jeans.

He yanks them down, and I keep telling myself I should want this. It’s been a month since we’ve been together.

I want this.

But instead, as he gets my jeans somewhere around my knees, I shove him away and pull them up. “Stop, Brett. I had a shitty night at work and I’m way too tired for this.”

A drunken smile tugs at his lips. “Excellent. We haven’t played this one in a while.” He pins me against the door again and kisses me hard.

I cringe thinking of all our sex games when we first got together . . . his favorite of which was the “reluctant virgin.” I hate myself for ever thinking that was fun.

His hand massages my breast as he nips at my ear. “You’re so fresh, baby. So young. You feel so fucking amazing,” he slurs, starting his role-play.

“Stop, Brett,” I say, shoving him away again. “It’s not a game. I’m just not into it tonight.”

He pulls away and scans me with hooded eyes. “You’re serious.” He grabs himself as his eyes narrow into a glare. “After a month, you’re going to leave me standing here like this.”

A stone sinks in my stomach. But I can’t do it. The thought of sex with Brett makes me physically ill. “I don’t think this is working anymore, Brett.”

He pushes back from the door, his glare sharpening at my words. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“I . . . I’m moving out. As soon as I find a place.”

His face twists. “Fuck that! If you’re moving out, you’re doing it now. You can take your sorry ass and sleep on the street for all I care.” He spins a circle and throws his arms up when he swings around to face me again. “Do you have any clue how many girls I could have fucked on tour, Hilary? Do you? It was a lot. Every night. But you know what? I didn’t do it.” He turns and drops onto the couch. “This is just fucking unbelievable. You breaking up with me,” he adds with a bitter laugh. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“I’m sorry, Brett. I just—”

“Get the fuck out!”

I start to move toward the bedroom for my clothes, but he whips out of the couch and charges me, pushing me hard into the door.

“I said, get the fuck out! Now!”

I scoop my jacket off the floor and pull the door open. When I turn back from the hall, it slams in my face.

“Shit,” I say to the peephole. I turn for the elevator and stumble onto the sidewalk without a clue where I’m going. When I somehow end up on Broadway, I dig for my MetroCard and jump on at Seventy-ninth. I just need to be somewhere else. Jupiter sounds good. I drop into an open seat and fold myself in half, so my forehead is on my knees, lacing my fingers behind my head.

Breathe.

Slowly, my heart rate drops into the non-coronary-inducing range and my head clears a little. When I can finally think, I sit up and look around. Prettily dressed couples are getting on at Lincoln Center. Not every show is dark on Christmas Eve. The ones that are running tonight are just getting out.

Shit.

There goes Broadway.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? All my stuff is at Brett’s apartment, so I’ll have to go back to get it, but then what? I can’t afford a place of my own. Maybe I could bunk with Mallory for a week or two, until I figure out what I’m going to do.

I drop my head into my hands again and try to shut off my mind.

When the whirring stops and I look up, we’re just pulling into Sheridan Square, and all of a sudden, I know where I’m going. I know why I got on this train. I collect my bag and climb the stairs out of the subway onto the street before I lose my nerve. I bump into at least five people as I weave my way quickly up Bleecker Street toward Perry. When I get where I’m going, I punch the button on the intercom at the door and wait. All my nerves feel short-circuited, making me twitchy. After a minute, I hit the button again, holding it an extra few seconds.

No answer.

Story of my freaking life.

I turn and sink onto the stoop, resting my aching head in my hands, trying to pull my shit together and figure out what to do.

“Hilary?”

I look up and find myself staring into Alessandro’s charcoal eyes. All I can do is sit here staring. But the next second, he’s pulled me up by the hand and I’m pressed against his black wool jacket.

“What happened?” he asks low in my ear. “Did someone hurt you?” His accent is soft and soothing, like silk, but there’s an edge of panic to his voice that’s barely concealed.

I shake my head as I try to think. “It’s just . . . nothing.” I push away from him, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know why I came here. It was stupid.” I step off the stoop, but he grasps my arm gently before I can get away.

“Come. I’ll find us something warm to drink.” He unlocks the door and ushers me through, then tows me into the elevator and up to his apartment.

His apartment. I’m at Alessandro’s apartment. With Alessandro.

We step into the hallway and my stomach tightens. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore for a reason. I can’t be here. I spin back toward the elevator. “I really should—”

“Hilary,” he warns, and I turn and look at him. “You are obviously upset. Please. Come into my apartment where we can talk.”

His locks me in his sure gaze as he takes my still gloved hand, and I find my feet moving up the hall without my permission. He slides his key in the lock and draws me through the door, closing it behind us. He turns back to face me . . . and I have no freaking clue what to say. What the hell was I thinking, coming here?

We stand here, like, three feet apart, staring at each other for what feels like the rest of my life.

“Can I take your coat?” he finally asks, shrugging out of his.

“Yeah . . . sure.” I peel off my gloves and shove them in my jacket pocket, then slip off my jacket and untwist my scarf from my neck. “Where were you so late?” I ask, handing everything to him.

“I got the director of Teen Services job at the youth center. We worked serving Christmas dinner at the local shelter. Cleanup took a while,” he answers, hanging both our coats on the hall tree just inside the door. He starts toward the kitchen. “I’ve got Coke or—”

“Any rum to go with it?” I ask, following him toward the kitchen.

“Sorry, no.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a half empty bottle of white wine, cocking an eyebrow at me. “This is the best I can do in that department.”

“Sold,” I say, leaning against the counter on the other side of the fridge. I watch as he pulls two glasses down and drains what’s left of the bottle into them. He scoops them off the counter and hands one to me on his way to the couch, where he turns and waits for me.

I follow and lower myself onto the cushions. Alessandro sits at the other end, setting his glass on his coffee table . . . which, I now notice, is modern: glass in a heavy metal frame.

“That’s great about your job,” I say. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says, swirling his wine. His eyes drop away from mine. “It gives me an outlet.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I coordinate programs to keep kids off the street.”

“What sort of programs?”

He settles deeper into the cushions. “Anything I can think of that a kid would need or want, from tutoring to boxing to computer programming. We have dozens of people from the community who volunteer their time to help the kids.”

My heart pounds as I open my mouth to ask, “So, does this mean you’re staying for a while?”

His holds me in his dark gaze. “That all depends.”

I swallow hard and force air into my lungs. “On what?”

Finally, he lowers his intense charcoal eyes, releasing me. “What happened tonight? Why are you here?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just . . .” I feel unexpected tears spring up. I shake my head at the words I feel forming in my throat, but I can’t stop them. “All my life, all I’ve ever wanted was to act, you know? Ever since my grandpa took me to see Annie before he died, that’s all I’ve wanted . . . to stand up on the stage where I had everyone’s attention and just belt something out.”

The depth of the blade slicing through my insides as I say this surprises me and I suddenly realize that, even after everything, I really thought I could make it happen. I really thought I could have this. The death of my dream kills my soul a little too.

Alessandro leans in and wipes the tears off my face with his fingertips. “Then you should.”

With his touch, a sizzling electric current sweeps over me, raising goose bumps everywhere, and I realize that, other than slapping him outside Argo Tea, and dirty dancing at Club 69, which hardly count, this is the first time in eight years he’s touched me, skin on skin, no clothes or gloves between us. The feeling scares me. Without Brett as an obstacle, it’s dangerous for me to be here. I brush his hand away more brusquely than I mean to. I take a long swallow of wine, feeling the coolness and tartness of it roll over my tongue and slip down my throat, grounding me.

“When every third person in Manhattan is auditioning for the same three spots, it’s not that easy. You gotta know someone . . . have an in.” I feel my insides collapse at the knowledge that I just left my “in” standing naked in my apartment.

He tips his head toward me. “Surely it can’t be that simple. Talent has to count for something.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m not as talented as I thought I was.”

I feel that zing again as he picks my hand up off my knee and holds it in both of his. “But you are.”

My reflex is to pull my hand away, but I don’t. “How would you know?”

“Google and YouTube are all kinds of useful,” he says with an impish little smile that stirs something deep inside my belly.

Shit. He’s been cyberstalking me again. “You did not . . .”

He nods and the smile spreads. “I did. Some of your American Idol clips are really quite impressive.”

I shake my head. “Not impressive enough. I didn’t make it far enough to matter.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Did it matter to you?”

“Well . . .” I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s gotten me into auditions I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise.”

“So, use it to its fullest advantage,” he says, his thumb tracing circles over the back of my hand. “Will it continue to get you auditions?”

“I guess . . . for a while. But it doesn’t matter. I never get the callback.”

“So, what needs to happen for you to get the callback?”

“A lot of things, but mostly, I need to learn to dance.”

His thumb stops, mid-stroke. “What kind of dance?”

I breathe deeply. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford lessons.”

“What kind of dance?” he repeats with all the patience of a saint.

“Classical . . . modern . . . anything really. I just need to learn to move my body in a way that’s not totally spastic.”

“Are you free Thursday?” he asks, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes me squint a question at him.

“Why?”

He smirks a little, and it’s a totally hot look on that perfect face. “You are bound and determined to make me ask everything twice, aren’t you?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Can you be at the youth center by ten?”

“In the morning?” I ask, hoping I’ve misunderstood.

His smirk is back. “In the morning.”

“Yeah . . . sure, I guess.” I’m not even sure where I’m sleeping tonight. It sure as hell isn’t going to be at home. Who knows where I’ll be in two days.

He settles deeper into the cushions. “So, what happened tonight?”

It’s like he read my mind. I take a breath, setting my resolve. I can’t tell him. As long as he thinks Brett is still an obstacle between us, I’m safe.

He leans closer. “Talk to me, Hilary.”

“I broke up with my boyfriend.” Damn. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut around him?

He stiffens and something in his gaze shifts . . . becomes more hooded. He lowers my hand and reaches for his glass, taking a sip of wine.

I stand and move to the window, looking out over Perry Street. It’s got to be almost one, but there are still people milling about. A group of guys passes two girls on the sidewalk across the street and both groups slow down and check each other out—the traditional NYC mating dance. Alessandro comes up behind me. I can feel the heat of his body, but he’s not touching me. I turn to face him, and he’s so close.

I feel tears rise and pinch my face against them. “It’s just so stupid. I mean, it’s not like I loved him or anything. I didn’t really even like him most of the time. But it was comfortable . . . easy.”

He hesitates before reaching for me and pulling me to his shoulder. I try to find the strength to push him away. But I can’t. I’ve wanted to be right here, in Alessandro’s arms, for so long. I dreamed of these arms after he left. I dreamed he’d come back and hold me and everything would be okay.

And now he’s here.

As the tears start, I suddenly know this is about more than just Brett. It’s about everything. It’s about Mom and Mallory. It’s about butterflies in the park. And it’s about Lorenzo and Alessandro and everything that came after. It’s about all the pain and loneliness that I’ve stuffed down and denied all my life because it made me weak.

Alessandro’s breath in my hair is warm and soothing. He doesn’t say a word, but he hugs me close and kisses the top of my head, stroking my hair and rocking me gently. When I’ve cried myself out, I peel myself off his chest and look up at him.

“Better?” he asks, brushing the tears off my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

His thumb slows in its movement across my cheek, then traces my lips as his warm gaze locks on mine. He’s so close. My heart pounds at the image of closing the short distance between us and pressing my lips against his. There’s a long second where neither of us moves, and I’m sure I see the same thought flare in his eyes.

“You should stay here tonight,” he finally says, releasing me from both his grasp and his gaze. “It’s too late for you to be wandering around the city, and I doubt you’re planning on returning to your apartment tonight?”

I blow out the breath I was holding. “Try never again.”

“I can sleep here,” he says, motioning to the couch. “You can have the bed.”

“What a gentleman,” I say with a sniffle and a smirk.

He smiles. “Anything for a damsel in distress.”

I follow him to the bathroom. He pulls a spare toothbrush, still in its package, out of his drawer and lays it on the counter. “If you want to shower, be my guest. There are fresh towels here,” he says, opening the cabinet. He leads me to the alcove where his double bed is and I feel an ache in my belly thinking about sleeping in it, surrounded by his spicy scent. He opens the top drawer of his dresser. “Would you like a fresh T-shirt to sleep in?”

And that’s when I realize I’m still in my smelly Filthy’s T-shirt. “Yeah, thanks. That would be great.”

He pulls out a black T-shirt and lays it on the corner of the bed.

“I think I will shower,” I say, because I feel disgusting in more ways than one.

He nods. “If I can steal a minute in the bathroom first . . . ?”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

He hesitates for a second, then grasps my elbow and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be right out.”

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, but then he’s gone behind the bathroom door.

A few minutes later, he’s back. “All yours,” he says with a wave of his hand.

“Thanks.” I take the T-shirt and close the door behind me.

His tub is an old claw-foot with a showerhead mounted on the wall and a curtain all the way around. I pull the curtain closed and turn on the water. While it warms, I quickly peel off my Filthy’s T-shirt and jeans, then climb in. The water feels so good, tiny fingers washing all the shit away. I stand in it for a long time, then reach for Alessandro’s soap and hold it to my nose. It smells tangy—tangerine, maybe—and I recognize it as the scent under his spicy cologne. I lather up and shampoo, then rinse and turn off the water. As I stand in the tub and drip, I listen for Alessandro, but the apartment is quiet. Maybe he’s asleep.

I step out and dry off, then tug Alessandro’s T-shirt over my head. It’s soft and comfortable and smells like fresh laundry, and somehow just that makes me feel calmer. I turn out the light and slip out the door, and find the apartment dark except for the sidelight on the nightstand next to the bed. Alessandro is lying on the couch in a slant of moonlight, bare-chested with a sheet over his lower half, where I see a Calvin Klein waistband poking out. The sight stalls my feet . . . and my heart.

I wasn’t imagining the body. He’s lean and sculpted, but not bulky. Those pecs are truly spectacular . . . and the cut abs. But it’s the arm tucked behind his head that draws my attention and makes my heart thump back into rhythm: the thick vein snaking along his forearm and up his bulging biceps, the lean triceps, the long fingers curled into wavy black hair that’s a little mussed. My groin tightens and, damn if I don’t want to crawl onto that couch with him.

But I can’t want him like that. This can’t happen.

I shouldn’t have come here.

He presses those lean arms into the cushions and pulls himself to a sitting position, and, in the dim light, I can see the fire in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but I know from that look that he wouldn’t turn me away if I went to him.

I stand here for a few more beats of my racing heart, torn between what I know is right and the pull of that gaze. Finally, I give in to the pull. Despite the hot shower, I’m a little numb as I move toward him. He slides over and makes room for me and I lie next to him. He folds me into those arms, and at the feel of them around me my breath catches on a sigh. I burrow into his side and lay my head on his arm. His lips are soft against my forehead, and I feel his hot breath, a little ragged, as he strokes my hair. But his hands don’t touch any other part of me.

I lay my palm lightly on his chest, and my heart constricts as I feel him tense, his breathing stopping for a beat. But when I don’t move it lower, he relaxes a little. We lie here for a long time, his breath on my face and the feel of his hard body against mine doing things to the deepest parts of me.

“Good night, Hilary,” he finally whispers.

“ ’Night,” I whisper back. I work to keep my breathing even as I lie here in Alessandro’s arms, pressed against his perfect, half-naked body, wanting more of him, but knowing I can never have it.

And it’s a really long time before I can sleep.