After I Was His Page 3

  All four of us in the bridal party are facing the bride and groom.

  I feel his eyes on me.

  I keep my gaze focused on Summer’s veil and do my best to listen to what they’re promising.

  “—support you always in following your dreams,” says the officiant.

  “I promise to support you always in following your dreams,” says Summer, a waver in her voice. “Even if I think they’re dumb.”

  Everyone laughs, including Dayton, and he raises a hand to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

  My eyes slide off his face—it’s so intimate, being this close to them, and I don’t want to see him cry, for God’s sake. What if he breaks down right now? It’s one thing for a man to mist at his wedding, but ugly sobs? No. I’m nervous at the thought of it.

  Looking away from Dayton means I’m looking right at Wes.

  Has he been staring at me the whole time?

  He has.

  His eyes are intense, as if he’s trying to figure out who the hell I am, exactly. As if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m going to jump him again. I’m not, but he liked it before, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

  I liked it before, even if I’ll never admit it.

  The officiant announces the new Mr. and Mrs. Dayton Nash and the cheers from the guests crash in around me. It’s time. A jubilant Summer takes her bouquet back and they head down the aisle, Dayton’s hand wrapped around hers.

  Wes and I approach one another, meeting in the center of the dais, and he offers his elbow. I take it. Zing. My hand on his tuxedo jacket heats up. I hold my head up high and we walk down the stairs, down the aisle.

  We get to the doors of the reception hall and step out into the hallway.

  I turn my head to comment on a job well done.

  He cuts me off.

  “Whoa,” he says, stepping back. “I’m going to the reception. I don’t need more convincing.”

  My cheeks go hot. Again. Damn it, why did I enjoy that kiss so much? He’s an asshole.

  “Aww, that’s cute,” I say with a sharp snap in my voice. “But I wouldn’t waste my time.”

  Then I lead the way into the cocktail hour.

  4

  Wes

  This reception is my idea of a nightmare.

  Relatives and friends—Jesus, the friends—are crowded into the reception hall, shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. I don’t know who’s worse—Summer’s old friends, or mine. Dayton, somehow, has kept in touch with a group from high school. The married ones look like they’d rather be anywhere else, and the single ones can’t stop checking out Summer’s friends.

  Speaking of…

  If Summer’s friends screech one more time, I’ll lose my mind. The high-pitched sound burrows into a part of my mind that makes me want to slip quietly out the side door and never return. What the hell could possibly be so exciting? It’s a wedding, for God’s sake. All of this runs on a script.

  A script that I almost singlehandedly fucked up.

  I take another swig of beer and swallow the shame along with it.

  Summer’s maid of honor had to come haul me out of a hotel room.

  Christ almighty.

  I saw the hurt flash though her eyes when I made that comment after the ceremony. After I made it about her lack of control over herself. I know it cut her.

  You’d never know it, looking at her now.

  Whitney flits from table to table, the fake candle centerpieces casting a gentle glow over the curves of her dress. It fits her like a glove, and so does the smile she’s wearing. A girl from high school—I don’t remember her name—says something and Whitney tips her head back and laughs. I see Summer’s name on her lips, and, So gorgeous.

  My sister does look gorgeous. She is radiant, sitting next to Day at the head table, her hand on his. I was kind of a prick to both of them. It’s almost disgusting, what good people they both turned out to be. Summer always was. Day had his moments. But you’d never know I punched him in the face by how he greets me when I come to see them, and little January. That girl—it’s embarrassing how much my niece makes me laugh. I’d rather be hanging out with her, but my mom’s the lucky one in the quiet hotel room, letting her sleep.

  I tighten my grip on my beer and drain the rest of it.

  The worst is yet to come.

  There’s a crackle over the DJ system, and my gut clenches.

  I know what’s coming, and I don’t want to do this.

  “I’m pleased to announce,” says the DJ, who reminds me of Peter Hollis, a guy I knew in high school, who thought he’d be a great sports commentator, but had the most obnoxious voice known to mankind, “that the bride and groom will be sharing their first dance, followed by the father-daughter dance.”

  We all watch Summer and Dayton sway around the dance floor, glowing in the lights from the DJ station. I tap my foot against the floor, faster and faster, until I become aware of it. I am surrounded by friends of my parents, the women sniffling into tissues at the sight.

  That’s never going to be me.

  I rearrange my face into something closer to a pleasant, blank expression and less like a scowl as my dad cuts in, beaming at Summer. All of this is a bit much.

  Unlike Summer and Day’s song, which dragged on for approximately an hour, this one sounds like it’s playing double-time.

  There’s a round of applause, as if they’ve done something spectacular, and then that damn DJ is on his mic again. “The bride and groom now invite the bridal party to join them on the dance floor. Let the party begin!”

  Summer’s other bridesmaid, Alex, and Whitney rush onto the floor and hug Summer, probably murmuring congratulations. Curtis is right behind them. For a guy who apparently had some serious issues going on earlier in the year, he looks totally at ease, one hand on Alex’s waist, the other holding her hand lightly. It’s so fucking appropriate.

  I put down the beer bottle on the table and go to Whitney.

  She doesn’t hesitate. Not for an instant. Her left hand settles on the curve of my shoulder, her right hand slips into mine, and that smile on her face doesn’t waver.

  “Smile,” she says through her teeth. “We’re being photographed. Chin slightly out...”

  “What?”

  She flicks her eyes up toward the ceiling and back. Her waist feels hot to the touch, but it must be my hand. There’s too little fabric between us for this to be fine and too much for what I want, even if I need to keep her at arm’s length. “You’d know if you’d come to the rehearsal.”

  I have to.

  She’s too volatile.

  “I didn’t.”

  Whitney tips her head back and laughs, and it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. The camera flashes. “So, what’s wrong with you? Did you have a bad day? We can talk about it now, if you want. My duties are significantly less pressing now that dinner is over. This way.” She sways her weight, trying to take us to the center of the crowd, but I overpower her. Subtly. It doesn’t take as much as I’d thought.

  Her words land.

  “You want to talk about whether I had a bad day?” This is a bewildering development.

  “Well, you’ve acted like a complete prick since the moment I knocked on the door.” She’s still smiling, radiant, and it strikes me how good she’s going to look in the pictures. “Nobody acts like such a douchebag unless something’s going on.”

  “I reject the stereotype.” The beat of the song picks up, and I spin us both toward the edge of the dance floor. “I’ve met a ton of people who are pricks with no motivation.”

  “Oh? Which one are you, then?”

  There’s approximately a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to tell her the truth. Not here. Not now. Not ever. She’s never going to know about the taxi, the sound, the way that fucking Humvee haunts my waking dreams.

  “These days, I’m just a regular, grade-A prick.”

  Whitney laughs again, more subdued t
his time. “That’s surprising. I’d have thought you’d have balls the size of Texas, trying to skip out on your sister’s wedding.”

  It’s my turn to laugh, and I don’t see it coming. “You’re something else.”

  The song changes, to some loud-ass crowd pleaser, and Whitney pulls away. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Two Weeks Later

  I’m mid-squat, two-twenty-five on the bar, when my phone rings on the mat.

  I cut one glance down at it. It’s a number from the city.

  I get in one more rep, the phone still ringing, put the bar into the rack, and snatch the phone up.

  “Wes Sullivan.”

  “Mr. Sullivan, my name is Sheila, and I’m calling on behalf of Gregory Miller in the surveillance unit here at Visionary Response.”

  “Okay.” Very fucking smooth. “I’m—” I’m at the gym, still breathing hard, and the name Visionary Response blends in with twenty other company names. I’ve been applying for a lot of jobs. There are never any surprises on the application forms. Name, date, experience. I have plenty of that, and with military acronyms, it sounds a thousand times more impressive. “I’m listening.”

  God.

  “Mr. Miller would like to extend you an offer for the project manager position you applied for. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.” Sheila must’ve seen my resume. Better to fall back on a clipped military demeanor than come off like a total jackass in this moment.

  “Would you mind holding for a brief moment?”

  “Yes, I can—” Before I finish my sentence, there’s a click and hold music plays, a jazzy rendition of some Top Forty bullshit. “Okay.”

  “Mr. Sullivan,” the voice booms from the other end of the line, and I jerk the phone away from my ear. Christ, he’s loud. “This is Greg Miller, head of surveillance at Visionary. Seven years in the armed forces, yes?”

  He’s seen my resume, right? “Yes, that’s...accurate.”

  “Thank you for your service. Let me just start by saying that. Thank you for your service to our country.”

  I never know what the fuck to say when people say this to me. If it’s in person, which it usually is, I nod. It’s not like I can shout, “You’re welcome” at them. It’s not like I’m a hero. I did a job. It was a dangerous one. Maybe I was a hero then, but not anymore.

  Conveniently, Greg Miller barrels on, not waiting for me to acknowledge his gift of thanks. “I was impressed by your resume, Wes, and I’m happy to offer you a spot on our team as project manager.”

  “That sounds great.”

  He laughs, a great big belly laugh, and I turn back toward the gym mirror. I’m not looking my best right now, what with the furrowed brow, but why the hell is he laughing.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve never had anyone accept a position that fast.”

  I chuckle. It seems like the right thing to do. “I wouldn’t have applied if I didn’t want the job.”

  Never mind that this application has long since blended in with all the others. Never mind that the real reason I applied to so many places is that I have to get out of Newark.

  “We’re offering a starting salary of ninety-eight.”

  I blink at myself in the mirror. “Ninety-eight?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Wes, this isn’t like the Army. You’re welcome to negotiate on the salary.” No shit, it’s not like the Army. The Army is all that’s keeping the nightmares at bay, which is a fun fucking thing to find out when you’ve already made the transition back to civilian life.

  “A hundred and ten,” I say. I’m in the gym. I’m not prepared to negotiate, and I don’t really care what the salary is. My breathing has settled but my heart pounds in my chest; a strange mix of excitement and irritation.

  “One-oh-five,” says Greg.

  “That sounds great.”

  He laughs again. “I like you. We’ll see you in the office at nine on Monday.”

  Hold on.

  “Nine on Monday?” I repeat back, on the off chance that he’s shitting me.

  “That’s correct. We need to hit the ground running. Sheila will email you a welcome packet with instructions on how to get to the office. You can sign all the paperwork first thing. Welcome to the team, Wes.”

  “Thanks, I—” Another click. This time, there’s no hold music.

  Okay, then.

  I pace back and forth in front of the squat racks, swiping through my phone.

  It’s Friday.

  The job starts Monday.

  There is no way I’m calling Greg Miller back and asking him for more time. I need a job more than I’ve ever needed anything. I need a schedule. Maybe that will shove the nightmares into that lockbox where they should be fucking living.

  I dial Summer’s number.

  She picks up on the first ring.

  “Wes?”

  She’s whispering.

  “Hey. Did I call at a bad time?”

  “It’s ten in the morning. I’m at work.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  There’s a silence.

  “Did you need something?”

  “I got a job.”

  “Oh, my God!” She forgets that she’s whispering. “Congratulations, Wes! Where is it?”

  “At Visionary Response, in the city. I start on Monday.”

  “That’s so great,” she says, the warmth in her voice palpable through the phone. “Do you have a place lined up yet? Are you already here?” Excitement rises in her tone.

  “I still need a place. I was hoping I could crash with you for a while.”

  “You know you’re always welcome…”

  “But?”

  “But January—” I can practically see her face scrunching under the worry. “I think she’s teething again, and it’s awful. She wakes up screaming four times a night. It’s...it’s really loud.” She talks faster, squeezing in more words with every breath. “I won’t be offended at all if that’s not the kind of place you want to spend your first… Your roommate doesn’t want to move, then?”

  My roommate has been gone for three months, vanished into thin air. Bennett Powell got out of the service, got drunk on freedom, and quit paying the rent a long time ago. I met him in Newark when he first got out. He sent me one text after he left—had to hit the road, meet up later?—and after that, I stopped looking.

  That’s not the most pressing issue.

  I know what’ll happen if a scream like that wakes me up over and over again. Summer must know that too. It makes me wonder if Day is as settled as he seems, or if she’s spending her nights rushing to the baby before the sound gets to him. “It’s not a big deal, Summer. I’ll find a place. There have to be a million subleases available.”

  “You know what?” There’s a clicking in the background. “I’ll find one for you. I’m really good at this.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I will. I will, Wes, and you’re not going to stop me.” She claps her hands, the sound echoing over the line. “I’ll find the perfect place for you. You’ll see.”

  5

  Whitney

  “But if I die, I won’t need life insurance.”

  I tilt my head and give Hollywood’s Man of the Year a welcoming grin, as if it’s him on the other end of the line and not Bill, from an educationally lacking town called Lakeview. Not the real Man of the Year, obviously, but a photo of him I tore from a magazine. It helps me visualize that I’m talking to someone sensual and attractive. Constant acting practice. Constant.

  “Mr. Jenkins—may I call you Mr. Jenkins? The life insurance policies we offer at American Blue aren’t meant to cover your personal expenses. They’re meant to assist your family, should you pass away unexpectedly.”

  “Oh, shit,” he says. “I thought it was, like, for cars.”

  “A similarly named product, but it serves a very different purpose.”

&nb
sp; “Do you sell health insurance then?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Then what do you sell?”

  Another winning smile goes to the Hollywood Man of the Year. “We can offer homeowners insurance, automobile insurance, life insurance, and rental insurance. Are you in need of any of those?”

  “I don’t have any kids.”

  “Do you have a home?”

  This is hopeless.

  “I don’t need any insurance.”

  I launch into the part of my script that comes with as much relief as a full-body massage. “Nonetheless, thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk to you about the services we offer. If there’s anything else we at American Blue can do for—”

  There’s a click. Bill Jenkins hung up on me.

  I lean back in my chair and rub at my eyes. Last night was not an ideal night for waking up rested. I’ve had callbacks for two auditions, and I’m waiting to hear from Christy, my agent, about whether I was hired for any jobs. Either one would make it a lot easier to pay the rent. I’ve got savings, but this is New York City—they’re not enough to float me for long.

  My cell phone vibrates in my purse, which is tucked into the bottom drawer of my desk. I sit upright in a hurry, but I keep it graceful. Every moment is an opportunity to practice being a movie star, so I wink at Hollywood Man of the Year and reach in a very refined manner to open the drawer and lift my phone from my purse.

  It’s Christy.

  “Christy, how are you?” I answer, like I know she’s calling with good news.

  “Whit, I’ve got some bad news.”

  Great.

  “You didn’t make final callbacks for the commercial or the pilot.”

  Double great.

  “But we’ll keep trying.” Her voice rises with enthusiasm. For an agent, she’s a damn good actress. “I’ve got a couple other possibilities in the wings.”

  Christy always has possibilities in the wings. Not many of them turn out to be real jobs.

  My heart sinks deeper into my toes but I give the Man of the Year a cheeky wink. “I’m looking forward to it!”