Someone opens the door. I look up to see Alexis stumble into the bathroom, her crystal blue eyes steely and cold. “You.” She points a finger at me, and I want to smack her, and I want to smack Davis too for telling her she was the only one. “Whatever your name is. This isn’t going to be some All About Eve situation here.” I can smell the beer on her breath.
“I never implied it would be.”
She snorts. “Oh right. Oh sure. I know your type. You want my part. I’ll be watching you, and I won’t be the only one. If I even think for one second that you’re trying to pull something on me, your career will be over like that.”
She snaps a finger. The gesture is so over-the-top. Oh, that’s it. That does it. The gloves are off. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Alexis. I’m not sure if you got the memo, but take a look around. There aren’t any hidden cameras and we’re not actually on a reality show where you need to say and do annoying things like that.” I lean in a bit closer so she knows I’m serious. “So why don’t you stop focusing on me, and focus on the job you were hired to do instead?”
I give her a wink, turn on my heel and leave her standing there with her mouth open while I enjoy a small victory from getting the last word in. A victory that feels entirely Pyrrhic when I have to say goodbye to Patrick and Shelby since my clothes are wet.
Chapter 10
Davis
My sister takes a sip of the white wine she’s ordered. She nods approvingly at the waiter holding the bottle. He pours more into her glass and then tips the bottle towards me. I decline with a curt wave. I’m not in the mood tonight.
He bows and walks off.
Michele stares hard then imitates me, adopting a frown and then a standoffish little shrug that mirrors mine.
“Are we going there again?”
“Well, you’ve barely said a word.”
“We just got here five minutes ago.”
“Well, that’s five minutes of talking we could have done.”
“You talk all day long for your job. Don’t you ever want to not talk?”
“Surprisingly, I actually like talking. And I thought you talked too? Oh wait, you tell people what to do,” she says, then flashes me the biggest just kidding smile in the world, that makes it nearly impossible for me to stay annoyed with her. Because, honestly, how can I stay annoyed with my little sister?
“But isn’t that what you do, too, with all the little pills you prescribe?” I joke, giving it right back to her since this is what Michele and I do. We needle each other, poke, prod and get under the other’s skin.
“Touché.”
I take a drink of my water as Michele savors another swallow of her wine. She rolls her eyes in that appreciative way TV chefs have when they taste something delicious. “This is divine,” she says as she holds up the glass. “So what’s with the whole enigmatic, broody thing you have going on today? Crap day at rehearsal?”
I shrug, but I don’t want to get into the details of what happened in the stairwell this morning. Details I can’t get out of my mind. “It was fine.”
We’re at a too-cool-for-words restaurant on Canal Street, not far from my loft. This place is called The Cutlery Drawer and there’s not a matching utensil in the place. The tables are all black lacquer, the floor is charcoal gray tile and the utensils are a strange mixed-up mess. My sister picked it. I think it’s more fitting for a nightclub, but this is her hobby. She spends her days prescribing pharmaceuticals for all sorts of mental health issues and her nights researching the newest eateries in Manhattan for us to check out.
She narrows her dark brown eyes and leans across the table. “I don’t believe you, Davis.”
“You don’t believe that I had a fine day at rehearsal?”
“I know you. When you say fine it means shitty. Something’s bothering you.”
“I swear, some days I wish you weren’t a genius shrink at such a young age.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I was right then.”
I say nothing.
She softens her tone. “C’mon, Davis. What is it? I hate to see you all wound up.”
“It’s nothing,” I huff out, but we’re past the point of her believing me. “I don’t want to talk about me. Is Robert still giving you trouble?”
She waves a hand in the air dismissively at the mention of the jerk she went out with last year that cheated on her and then tried to grovel his way back into her heart. He kept showing up on the stoop of her building night after night, bearing gifts of apology: boxes of chocolate and red roses that all lined the trash can the next day. When she finally told me what he’d been doing, I was there the next night on the stoop to greet him, and make it clear he was never to come around again. “It’s over. It’s totally over. I told you. I haven’t even heard from him in ages.”
“He’d better not be calling, either.”
“He’s not.”
“I don’t even want you to respond to any texts from him.”
“He doesn’t text me anymore,” she says, raising her voice.
“Good. If he tries to get in touch with you, you need to let me know.”
“What, so you can hit him?”
“If I have to, I will.”
“I know,” she says, with a sigh. “I’m fine. You have to stop worrying about me.”
“What else would I do, then? I just want you to be happy.”