24. Renee

The dress is too tight and I’m almost certain the society pages interviewer, Leslie something, must know that I’ve either put on weight or I’m pregnant. I don’t care that she knows, but Deacon does. It isn’t a good time for him to have my pregnancy come out.

“I heard through the grapevine that you’ve known Deacon since you were young,” Leslie remarks.

I laugh prettily like I didn’t know this question was coming. They’re painting us as the Romeo and Juliet of Beverly Hills. Soulmates, the young lovers from pop songs who end up together because nothing else felt right. It’s so saccharine my teeth ache.

“We grew up running around his family’s estate,” I explain. We went to elementary, middle, and high school together, too.”

“And you were away for a while, I understand?” There isn’t much eloquence to her questions, and I’m not a snob, but I expect better from a publication with a readership whose net worths mostly involve three or more commas.

“Yes.” That’s all she’s getting out of me. Some things are off-limits.

Leslie pauses and chews on the tip of her pen as she regards me carefully. “Tell me about Weston Scott.”

I freeze. “I?—”

“Apparently, Weston dedicated last night’s game to you. Said your name specifically in the post-game interview.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” My mouth is dry and my head is spinning. “I don’t watch hockey.”

But Leslie isn’t satisfied. Her eyebrow cocks and her nostrils flare.

I sigh. “Weston and I were neighbors during my… time away. We became friends. It’s nothing more. Right now, I appreciate the thought, but it’s probably just a wedding present kind of thing from Weston. That’s how he is.”

“Wedding present? Is there a ceremony in your future?”

“Time will tell.” I flash the ring. “Deacon and I are working on setting a date.” I make a big show of checking my watch to encourage the reporter to wrap up, but she isn’t taking the bait.

“Mm. I see.” She recrosses her legs and leans toward me. “We’ll come back to that. I understand that The Riker Gallery has put out a statement this week saying that they have a very new and exciting exhibition from an up-and-coming young photographer named Renee DuBois. Is that right?”

Um… what? I do a stunned double-take. “Pardon me?” I squeak stupidly.

Looking smug, Leslie hands me a card. It’s a PR sheet from the Riker Gallery with my name, my picture, and some photos of my work. I have no fucking idea how they got this or who set it up.

“I… um… if you’ll excuse me, I just remember I have an appointment to get to.” She protests, but I just hum noncommittally until I can snatch up my purse and breeze out of the cafe where we were meeting.

Outside, I don’t waste one minute dialing the gallery.

“Riker Gallery, Amanda speaking.”

“Hello,” I say as calmly as I can manage, which isn’t all that calm. “This is Renee DuBois and I was hoping I could speak to someone about my, er… upcoming showing.” It’s bizarre to say out loud.

Bizarre in a bizarre way, mostly.

But also bizarre in an exciting way.

“Of course, Miss DuBois! Right away.” The line clicks over to some string quartet Bach while I wait. I’m itchy and impatient from head to toe as the song surges and mellows and?—

“Miss DuBois! Susan Lloyd here. I have been waiting for your call since Mr. Scott said you were ready to schedule.”

Mr. Scott. Fucking of course.

“Right. Yes. Hello. I was calling because—I wanted to—Can I ask—oh, goddammit, can I call you back?”

I hang up before she can even respond. I flick through my contacts and I’m one tap of the thumb away from calling Weston to ream him a new asshole.

But then, there it is again—that flicker of excitement.

God help me, I want this.

I swipe out of Weston’s contact and dial Sutton instead. I tap my hand against my thigh until she picks up. “He booked a gallery show for me,” I blurt without pausing between words.

“To see a gallery show?” She sounds as if she only just woke up.

“No, he booked a show so that the world gets to see my pictures, my work.” I shake my head. Saying it out loud for the second time is as weird as it was the first.

“Oh. Uh. Hm. Weird. I, uh… Hold on. I’m still balls-deep in a REM cycle.” I hear the noises of her shuffling and yawning as she moves around. Then: “Okay. Start from the top. What’d the asshat do now?”

I repeat the headline and wait a minute for her to digest. “He did it without me knowing anything. What do you think that says?”

“I don’t know, Nay. What do you think it says?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. I think it says that he’s trying to control another part of my life, which is infuriating. And that he’s using trying to win my good graces as a motive for interfering to remind me he’s never going to go away, which is annoying.”

As I say it, that old familiar bitterness gives my excitement a toilet swirly. I’m excited? Why? For what? Taking his bait is exactly what he wants. How dare he dangle my dreams over my head like a donkey with a carrot? How fucking dare he?

Sutton sighs mournfully on my behalf. “I hate this. Want me to talk to him?”

“No,” I snarl angrily. “You know what? I will.”