Authors: Winter Renshaw
“Mr. Amato, it’s time.” Blake peeks his head in the door to my dressing room, followed by his watch. “I’ll take you to the set, and we’ll go over everything there.”
Aidy rubs her lips together, fighting a smile, and turns away.
“I’ll be out in a sec,” I say to him.
Aidy’s back is to me, and Blake is tapping his pointed black loafers on the tile floor, and the sound of Michelle yelling at someone about craft services wafts from down the hall.
Questions linger on my tongue as I stare at Aidy from across the room.
“Mr. Amato, I’m sorry, but we need to go.” Blake says, words rushed and urgent. He steps inside the dressing room, and I half-wonder if he thinks he’s going to have to physically peel me out of here. “We’re live in ten.”
Aidy finally turns to face me, her sapphire blue gaze holding mine. I refuse to believe this is the same girl trying to leave her notebook on my steps yesterday like some crazy person. This woman, the one standing before me with short shorts and bare shoulders and red lips and hair that says she’s too cool to care, seems completely normal.
“What’s the hold up?” Michelle appears from behind Blake, her face twisted and jaw hanging. “We just standing around chit-chatting or what? Come on, people. Head to the set. Now. We’ve got a show to shoot.”
Blake gives me a pleading look, and I’m not in the mood to be responsible for getting an intern canned, so I gather myself and peel my gaze from Aidy. Following Blake out to the hall, he leads me to the set and points me toward a chair marked “guest.”
Michelle comes up to me, handing me what looks like a script. Upon closer examination, it appears to be the schedule for the show. The host, Michael Bradbury, will lead in, introduce me, and then dive right into the Smack Talk Five – the list of headlines we’ll be discussing today.
“I wasn’t given these ahead of time,” I say to Michelle. “I didn’t know Ramirez was signed to the Cards. Nobody told me Coach Jenkins was fired from the Royals.”
Michelle’s jaw hangs. “Don’t you watch ASPN?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Not anymore.”
“Well, fuck me.” Her arms fall to her sides, landing on her khakis with an exasperated thud. “Here, let me give you the gist of it . . .”
Michelle rattles on, giving me the Cliff’s Notes version of today’s topics, and in the distance, I see that the set’s beginning to fill in. People with lighting and clipboards and headphones and cameras are all lined up, standing in the dark. From the corner of my eye, I see Aidy and Stacia waiting on standby along a back wall.
My gaze catches Aidy’s for a fraction of a moment, but she looks away first.
“Mr. Amato, right this way, please.” Blake escorts me to the guest seat on the set, and Michael Bradbury takes his spot next to me.
We’re seated behind a kidney bean-shaped desk the color of polished onyx with the ASPN logo across the front in glossy blue letters.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?” Bradbury reaches out, giving me a slick handshake. “Good to see you, good to see you.”
“Likewise.” I adjust my tie and quietly clear my throat, and a woman in a tight skirt brings me a mug of still water. Her pink lips spread into a shy smile when our hands graze, and she clicks off in sky-high stilettos.
“You doing good, Ace?” Bradbury scrolls through a few screens’ worth of notes on the tablet in front of him. I remember when he was a smalltime sports reporter working for some small news outfit out of Canton, Ohio. He’s come a long way since then, and so have I, but at least his career has the potential to span a couple more decades.
“Yeah.” I give him a tight-lipped nod and stare ahead, scanning the small studio for Camera 1, Camera 2, the director, and my teleprompter.
“Ace.” Michelle is at my side, crouching on her knees. “I need to go over a few things really quick.”
She talks a mile a minute, telling me about the cameras and hand signals, tells me the guest co-hosting gig is really a joke and all I need to do is “look pretty and let Michael do most of the work.” We’re going to have callers, which they’ll announce in my ear, and that all I need to do is interject a few comments where I can.
“We’re live in . . .” a man in the distance counts back from five, going silent when he gets to the three, two, and one, and Michelle scurries off set just in time.
“Hey, hey everyone, welcome to Smack Talk, I’m your host Michael Bradbury,” Michael says, inserting a hearty chuckle in his voice and flashing his million-dollar veneers. “We’re here today with the man, the legend, the guy who needs just one name: Ace. Alessio ‘Ace’ Amato is sitting in today for my co-host, Antoine Williams. Ace, good to see you, man. Welcome, welcome.”
“Thanks,” I force lightness in my tone and flip a switch to light the smile on my face. It feels unnatural and uncomfortable, but I’m here, and I’m doing this. “Good to see you, Michael. Been a long time.”
“That it has. So, Ace,” Michael turns to the camera, then to me. “What’s going on? You retired last year and moved to the city, I hear. What’ve you been up to?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, though with the live cameras rolling I’m sure it’s forever in TV-time.
The truth is, I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing worth bragging about.
“Traveling,” I lie. “Been all over. Amalfi Coast. Bermuda. Belfast. When I’m not globetrotting, I’m spending time at my lake house, fishing. Just living the dream, Michael.”
God, I sound like the world’s biggest fucking schmuck, but I can almost hear Lou’s voice in my ear, telling me the fans will be relieved to see I haven’t withered on the vine.
“Awesome, glad to hear it,” he says. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Good, it’s good,” I lie once more for the fans at home.
“All right, well, we’re going to change gears a little bit . . .” Michael rattles off the day’s headlines and talking point, and I do my best to hold the pleasant expression on my face, even making sure to laugh at his jokes, even when they’re horribly unfunny.
The red light above the cameras turns off after a while and the set is flooded with staff. The director runs to Michael’s side, talking in his ear, Michael nodding all the while. The sensation of something soft against my face pulls my attention to my left, where Aidy is dabbing some kind of sponge over my forehead and down my nose. I smell a light powdery scent and lift my gaze to hers, but she’s focused on her work and refusing to make eye contact.
Before I get a chance to say anything, she moves to Michael.
“Places,” someone yells a minute later. And within seconds, another person is leading the countdown. The lights on the cameras blink to red and we start up again.
Everything happens so fast, Michael doing his thing and me inserting my comments and pretending I know what the hell I’m doing. I tell myself I’m just hanging out with a friend, talking shit about a whole lot of nothing. It’s easy to pretend like the cameras aren’t there. Hell, it’s easy to pretend a lot of things these days.
We go to another commercial break after seven minutes of live show, and this time Aidy works on Michael first.
“Just a little more, not too much, darlin’,” he says, injecting an Atlanta-esque accent into his voice despite the fact that he hails from Ohio. Michael’s eyes follow her every move. There’s an entitled little smirk hidden beneath his stoic expression, and I watch as his gaze lands shamelessly on her generous rack. “You’re really good at this, you know that? My makeup’s never looked better. The other girl, she cakes it on. But you, you have a light touch. I like that.”
She ignores his come-ons, focusing on his shiny t-zone and the bags under his eyes. Michael’s been around a long time, and he’s definitely seen better days.
I stifle a laugh behind a closed fist.
His game is fucking pathetic.
Aidy moves to me, grabbing a fresh sponge and powdering my nose. When she’s done, she hops down from the stage, and I catch Michael checking out her ass. He doesn’t even try to hide it. She does have a sway in her hips as she walks, but it doesn’t mean it’s an open fucking invitation from pigs like him.
“What’s her name again?” Michael leans into me, tongue practically wagging.
“And we’re live in five, four . . .” a voice announces from the set.
Michael adjusts his red silk tie and clears his throat, and the second the cameras are rolling, he’s ‘on.’
The next seven minutes whir by once again, and I pretty much black them out. I couldn’t repeat what I said or how many times I nodded or smiled at the camera, but it happened.
I co-hosted Smack Talk.
It wasn’t so bad.
And now it’s over.
Job done.
The cameras are wheeled away, staff floods the sound stage, and the director takes Michael aside.
“Hey, good job up there.” Michelle is all smiles, her fist bumping my arm. “You were great.”
“Thanks.” My eyes scan the dark room, searching for Aidy.
I have questions.
And I demand answers.
“Where’s hair and makeup?” I ask Michelle.
“Ha,” she walks along beside me, “they’re gone. Did you need another touch up or something?”
“No.” My jaw sets, and I exhale. I guess it makes sense that hair and makeup wouldn’t stick around for the rest of the show.
“You need something from her?”
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” We begin to walk off set together.
“Hey,” she says as we push through a set of double doors that lead to the main hallway. “We want to know if you can come back. You’re a natural, Ace. We think you’re great, and we know the viewers love seeing you and Michael together. It’d just be for the rest of the week until Antoine’s back. And maybe you can fill in from time to time?”
I chuff. “There are thousands of people out there who’d kill to have this job, and they’d do it a hell of a lot better than I ever could.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s true,” she says, her Brooklyn voice crawling to a high pitch. “But you have something they don’t.”
“What’s that?” I stop in the middle of the hall, turning to face her, hands resting on my hips. Michelle’s got to be no more than 5’3’’, and I’m an entire foot taller than her.
“You’re Ace Amato.” Michelle shrugs, her mouth bunched in one corner, and then she turns to walk away. “Think about it and let me know. You should have my cell. I need an answer by three o’clock this afternoon.”
A
idy
“
H
ey
, you’re back early,” my sister shouts over the noise of the vacuum as she lifts the corner of the coffee table and gets the dust underneath. She taps the appliance with her toe until it comes to a soft purr and shuts off, and then she wraps the cord around the back. “Enzo’s been eating crackers on the couch again.”
She peers up at me, eyes squinting, and I lift my hand.
“Don’t look at me,” I protest. I place my cosmetics case by the door and kick off my shoes.
“How was the job? I’ve never been to ASPN’s studio. Is it nice?” Wren collapses in one of the armchairs, kicking her feet straight out and resting her hands on her stomach. Her hair is tied back and there’s a slight shine across her forehead. Judging by the looks of her, she’s been cleaning since she dropped Enzo off at school this morning.
Glancing around the room, I note the lemony scent lingering in the air and the shiny surface of the coffee table. Vacuum tracks start from down the hall and lead to my feet.
“It’s very nice,” I say, glancing to the side.
“Why are you just standing there all quiet?” Her brows meet. “You’re acting weird. Why are you acting weird?”
Shrugging, I head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, only once I get to the fridge I completely forget what I’m doing.
“Aidy.” Wren is standing on the other side of the island now, resting on her elbows and studying me. “Did something happen today?”
“You know that baseball player?” I ask. “From last night?”
My sister nods. “What about him?”
“He was the guest co-host on Smack Talk.” I suddenly remember the water. With my back toward Wren, I add. “Isn’t that strange?”
“Strange? That a big-time retired baseball player is co-hosting a sports talk show? No. Not at all.”
“But like, I saw him twice yesterday and then again today,” I say. “And up until this week, I’d never heard of him.”
“Life is full of strange little coincidences. But that’s all it is. Pure coincidence. You’ll drive yourself nuts trying to connect dots that aren’t even there.” Wren exhales.
Uncapping my water, I take a swig. “I wanted to tell him off, Wren. I wanted to tell him off so badly. But I couldn’t. I had to stay professional or Topaz would’ve killed me.”
“Wise choice.”
I take another drink. “God help him if I ever run into him on the street though.”
Wren smacks her hand across her forehead then drags it down her face, groaning. “Let it go. Enzo already has.”
“He doesn’t get to be a jerk,” I say. “I don’t care if he was having a bad day.”
“Why are you fixating on this?” Wren’s jaw hangs open and she slides into a bar stool. “You’re obsessing over something truly trivial. Do you know how many famous people live in this city? Do you know how many times they get photographed or bugged about autographs? They’re not required to do anything we ask them to do. In fact, I think it’s kind of rude to interrupt their day, make a demand, and then expect them to be happy about it.”
I place my water on the counter and meet her sympathetic gaze. “Yeah. You’re right. I don’t know what my deal is.”
“You’re PMSing, that’s what your deal is.”
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “Nope.”
“I have to jump in the shower.” Wren pushes herself into a standing position. “Got a job at one. A bunch of little old ladies going out for a late lunch on Madison Avenue. They’re the cutest. I’m adopting them all because you can never have enough rich Mimis and Nanas.”
Wren winks and stops at the edge of the kitchen counter, collecting the mile-high stack of bridal magazines that have been sitting there, untouched, for two weeks. I’m not sure if she’s nervous about marrying Chauncey or just unenthused, but she hasn’t been half the bridezilla I thought she’d be.
“When are we going to shop for dresses?” I ask. “You know, some of those places need months to make a wedding gown.”
I still think she’s crazy for wanting to get married the first weekend in December because it typically snows by then, but she’s always wanted a winter-y wedding.
“Soon.” She gives me a tired smile.
“That’s what you said two months ago.”
“We’re thinking of maybe just doing the courthouse thing,” she says, leaning against the hallway wall. Her arms are folded across her chest, clutching the magazines. An image of a chocolate-haired bride carrying a bouquet of blue hydrangeas peeks through. She looks like Wren.
“What? No.” I pout, moving toward her, placing my hand on hers. “This is your first wedding. His too. You have to make it special.”
“Weddings are expensive,” she says. “You spend all that money and then what if it doesn’t work out? And you just blew a year’s salary on cake and champagne and flowers.”
“Is that what this is about?” My voice is quiet and my eyes are locked in hers.
“Maybe?” She bites her lip and shrugs her left shoulder. “You don’t know what it’s like being a single mom. I have to make every dollar count, and I can’t be spending Enzo’s school tuition on Moet and Chandon.”
“This is your wedding, we’re talking about,” I say. “Your first and last and only.”
“We have no way of knowing that.”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“More than anything in the world?”
“Slightly less than Enzo, but yes.”
I roll my eyes. “Then marry him and don’t worry about the rest.”
Wren is quiet, stuck inside her own thoughts as she tends to do sometimes.
“Glam2Go is doing well,” I remind her. “We’ve made three times more money this year than we did last, and it’s only June. You can afford a nice wedding. And you know Mom will cry if you tell her you’re doing the courthouse thing. You don’t want to make Mom cry, do you?”
“Mom cries at the drop of a hat.” Wren breaks into a bitter smile. “Must be where Enzo gets it from.”
“That’s absolutely where Enzo gets it from.”
Wren stands, her shoulders tight and expression stoic. “Are you sure I’m doing the right thing, marrying him?”
My brows angle. I’ve never heard Wren doubt her relationship with Chauncey yet, and they’ve been together almost three years now. Sure, he’s arguably boring compared to the other men she’s dated, but in my opinion, that’s the best thing about him. He’s safe and boring and kind and sweet and most importantly, the antidote to Lorenzo, who really did a number on her heart several years ago.
“Chauncey’s a great guy,” I say, slipping my arms around her and lingering in the scent of her expensive shampoo. The woman will clip coupons left and right to buy groceries, but heaven help her if she doesn’t have her favorite salon shampoo. “He’s going to be an awesome husband, and he loves Enzo so much. Everything else is secondary.”
I let her go, and she thanks me with a quick nod, disappearing into her room. A minute later, I hear the spray of her shower. Heading into my suite, I strip out of my work clothes and pull on some stretchy black leggings, a hot pink sports bra, and a gray runner’s tank top. Pulling my hair back, I wrap it into a small bun and head to the bathroom to scrub the makeup off my face.
When I return, I spot a text from Topaz on my phone, asking me to call her.
“Everything went well,” I say when she answers.
“Oh, thank God,” she says. “We just landed at JFK and it’s a madhouse. Now we’re trying to get home. I’ll be back at work tomorrow for sure. Thanks so much for covering for me. I owe you.”
“Of course,” I say. “Glad you made it home.”
“Me too. Lunch soon? Friday?”
“Sure.”
I hang up with Topaz and collapse onto my bed. I’m not used to getting up this early these days, and I’ve got a client booking tonight at six. Some woman on the Upper East Side has a date with some man she met on a dating app, and she wants to look her best.
Rolling to my side, I spot the journal resting on the lower shelf of my nightstand. I reach for it and drag it closer, flipping it open to a page in the middle.
Maybe I’m not easy to love. Maybe I’m not worthy of her love. But it doesn’t change the fact that I love her. I can’t help if I love her more than I should. I’ve tried to stop. But trying to fall out of the woman who puts the fire into your soul is for cowards. I’ll never stop loving her. I’d rather die.
I page ahead to a section I’d read many times before.
The night of their engagement party, there was something off about her. She clung to his arm the whole night, smiling and nodding and flashing her ring to anyone who asked to see it. And I stayed back, watching her from the bar and realizing I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life, wondering if this was going to be the end of us once and for all. Her eyes, like two wild violets, sparked to life the second they found mine from across the room, and my God, I couldn’t breathe. She offered a fleeting, bittersweet smile as her jet-black hair curtained her face, hiding the heart-shaped mouth I live to kiss, and when she glanced up a second time, she wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was looking at him. I lived a thousand lives, all of them with her, in the seconds our eyes caught. And my heart broke a thousand times over the moment she turned to him and smiled. But all was not lost, because I realized, in the seconds that passed, that her smile was for me.
Closing the book, I push it aside and pull in a deep breath, letting the heaviness of this man’s words sink into me with their languid, bitter sweetness.