Page 28 of At First Dance
“Listen,” she says, softer—her version of a lullaby. “The label wants to squash the flight rumors. The crew is in town for training. A cordial lunch will calm the waters.”
“You mean a photograph someone ‘accidentally’ leaks?”
She doesn’t blink. “If you don’t feed the wolves, they eat your calves.”
“Butterscotch,” I say, because the name slides out before I can stop it. “Her name is Butterscotch.”
Celeste misreads. She thinks I’m talking about a hairstyle trend. “Adorable,” she says. “Wear the hair down for lunch. People need to believe in softness right now.”
“I’ll do coffee, not lunch,” I say. “Thirty minutes. Public place. No statements.”
She tilts her head like she’s hearing dissonance and deciding whether to fix it or call it jazz. “Thirty minutes. And a smile.”
“I always have one of those,” I say, and taste blood.
We let the assistant book it. We let the driver turn circles to waste an hour. We let the city flex its summer shoulders. I ask him to stop three blocks away and walk the rest of the way to the café so I can decide who I am when I get there.
Crew’s already at a table near the windows, baseball cap on backward, a T-shirt that says it’s a team shirt without saying it’s a team shirt. He stands when he sees me, and for a second, I remember what it felt like to be relieved when someone else was the show and I could hide in his light.
“Hey, Vee,” he says, like we’re still us. He opens his arms like the cameras are already outside and closes them when I don’t move into them. “Right,” he says, and the word sits between us like a folded napkin we both pretend we didn’t drop.
We sit. A server materializes with iced coffee for both of us because PR plans travel faster than traffic. Crew taps the table with his index finger in a rhythm that’s probably a drill I don’t know.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I got sleep,” I say.
He smiles. It’s easy, familiar, the kind of smile that makes men be forgiven for things they shouldn’t be.
I know the script he expects. We do the first lines anyway, as if we hadn’t just seen each other recently. He asks about the album. I say it’s becoming itself. I ask about his shoulder. He says it’s gold under a trainer’s hands. We both laugh when we hit the timing right. And then we don’t pretend.
“I’m not doing this again,” I say, wrapping both hands around the wet glass. “Whatever this is. Whatever it was.”
His jaw shifts. “We were good at it.”
“We were good at behaving,” I say, fingers tracing the sweat ring on my cup. “That’s not the same thing.”
Crew’s mouth tips like he’s trying not to grin. “You mean you and Rowan.”
I roll my eyes. “I mean your brother and me.”
“He’s careful,” Crew says, all teasing gone. “If he’s letting you within ten feet of fence pliers, it’s not nothing.”
“Nothing happened,” I answer, but my face betrays me because it wants to smile. “There’s the farm. And a man who doesn’t talk to fill space.”
“That sounds exactly like him.” Crew studies me for a beat, the way only someone who grew up reading the same storms can. “You look lighter.”
“I think I’m… okay,” I say, surprised at how true it feels. “That counts.”
“It does.” He lifts his coffee. “Look, I’ll tell the vultures we caught up over caffeine and moved on. No spice.”
“Use your own words,” I say. “Make us sound like people.”
“Already on it.” A flash pops against the window—one, then two, like a reminder. Crew doesn’t flinch. He just clinks his cup lightly against mine. “To being people,” he says, “and to my brother finally meeting someone who likes quiet, too.”
I clink mine against his. “To being people,” I echo, and the sound is so small it could be anything.
We part on the sidewalk. He bends for a half hug that lands like gratitude and not a headline because he lets it. I walk away, cap low, windbreaker higher, and nobody gets a shot of my face looking sad or caught or in love with someone I’m not in love with.
