Chapter 22
It’s late afternoon, and Central Park is full of people: bicyclists, joggers, walkers, walkers with dogs, and tourists. The day is bright and sunny. The trees green and lush. Using the camera hanging around my neck, I randomly take pictures of sculptures, plants, and bridges, but I have a particular destination in mind. “Come on, Bryce!” I call over my shoulder.
Hungover, he has parked his butt on a bench yet again. Wearing shorts that hang low, untied high-tops, and a rumpled T-shirt, he looks like a slob. With a look of irritation at me, he pushes off the bench and slowly follows.
I had a long list of places I wanted to visit today. However, Bryce didn’t get out of bed until after eleven. Trying to be a good girlfriend—instead of the bad one I was last night, who sucked face with Sam—I’ve kept the pace easy for him all day. We went to lunch, then to the top deck of the Empire State Building. Now we’re in the park, and I have a little more than an hour before I have to report to the booth. The concert is in the park, so to save time I’m already dressed in a Luminescent T-shirt, my cowboy boots, and a jean skirt—the shorts are getting a bit too raggedy, even for concerts.
I round a bend and the sign STRAWBERRY FIELDS comes into view. I pause and take several pictures of it. Bryce is behind me, moving at a turtle’s pace. I keep strolling along the walkway and taking photographs. Eventually, I come to the famous mosaic, a stone flower of geometric shapes that contain just one word in the middle: IMAGINE. Giddy to finally be seeing it, I move around it slowly, taking picture after picture. Other tourists are gathered around it too, snapping shots.
Bryce catches up and stands with his hands on his hips next to me. “This is it? This is what we had to trek across the damn park for?”
“It’s a tribute to John Lennon.” I snap another picture. “You know, the Beatles?”
His lip curls as he looks down at the mosaic. “It’s stupid.”
I lower the camera. “He was shot over there.” I point to what I think is the location of his apartment building, The Dakota. “He used to walk through this park right along here.”
Bryce shrugs.
“His music has inspired millions of people. He sang about peace.”
Bryce grunts and pushes sweaty blond hair from his forehead. He has been sweating out alcohol all day. Very lovely. “Who cares?”
Okay, I’m fuming. Big time. Yesterday at dinner, Bryce had stated he wanted to go to Yankee Stadium. Though I have zero interest in baseball, I had agreed. Of course, hungover and dragging ass today, he’d changed his mind, yet I wouldn’t have been bitchy if we had gone.
“Go sit down and wait,” I snap, pointing to the benches at the edge of the walkway.
He looks like he might snap back but instead sighs, stretches in the middle of the walkway, and finally moves to a bench. I take more pictures, even swap cameras with another tourist so we can take pictures of each other sitting at the top of the circle that says IMAGINE.
Done, I pull a map of Central Park from my bag and search for SummerStage, where the concert will take place. With my index finger, I’m tracing possible paths to take when someone steps close to me and says, “Hello, Peyton.”
Glancing up, I almost drop the map.
“Guess great minds think alike,” Sam says.
I’ve tried, somewhat successfully, to keep him out of my mind all day. But now that he’s standing in front of me—with his sky-blue eyes looking slightly mischievous, his dark curls a mess on his head—flashes of our kiss zing through me. Then I recall the words he said right before the kiss, about wanting to “fuck” me, and a sharp pang of lust hits me. I’ve been keeping that locked up tight, especially since I’ve spent the day with my boyfriend, who is edging on the line of losing that title.
I concentrate on slowly folding up the map. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you,” he says, nodding toward the mosaic. “Came to see Lennon’s memorial.” He lifts his phone. “Thought I’d get a picture with it.” Then he gestures to my camera. “But maybe you could, with your awesome photo skills?” He smiles at me, his teeth so even and white that he looks like a model for toothpaste or something.
I’ve always known Sam is good-looking. Right now he’s coming off as can’t-resist hot. It’s like he’s my crack. But crack is whack. And I’m not whacked.
“Sure,” I say, and point to the line of people on the other side. “Get in line.”
He lifts a brow. “Wait with me?”
“No,” I say, then glance over to the bench where Bryce is dozing. “I’ll wait here.”
His gaze follows mine. His eyes narrow on Bryce. “He’s sleeping?” he asks incredulously.
My eyes narrow on Sam. “He’s a bit tired.”
Sam shakes his head sadly. “You’d think he could pull through a hangover for his girl.”
“Go get in line,” I say through clenched teeth, irritated. “I have to get to the booth in thirty minutes.”
He looks to Bryce one last time, shaking his head—which irritates me more, because though Bryce should have known better, his condition is partly Sam’s fault—then he goes around the mosaic to the end of the line.
Four people are ahead of him, so I click through pictures on my camera and ignore him staring at me. But I can feel his stare and it’s doing weird things to my insides. Things that should not be happening, especially given our proximity to passed-out Bryce. At last, Sam steps up to the mosaic. He stands above the IMAGINE looking down, and I catch the shot. Him pensive, eyelids lowered. He looks up and I quickly catch the shot of him gazing at the camera, his expression a mix of openness and yearning. The sight jerks at my heart.
“What’s he doing here?” Bryce asks from my side. Apparently, he woke up. Just in time, I suppose.
“Same as me, he’s a fan of Lennon.”
“You’re both musical nuts, so interested in stones in a sidewalk.”
Ignoring Bryce, I ask Sam, “Were you going to smile?”
He lifts a brow and I take a picture of that. I lower my camera. “Other people are waiting, and I need to get going.”
Sam walks over to us. “Hey,” he says to Bryce before turning to me. “Time to sell the T-shirts?”
“Yup,” I say, twisting the strap on my camera so it hangs at my side, then grabbing Bryce’s hand. “Guess we’ll catch you later.”
Sam stares at the clasp of our hands. “Yeah, later.”
Dragging Bryce down the path, I can feel Sam’s gaze burning into me. I don’t look back. I’m not playing his games. Even if I’m starting to question our connection, Bryce is my boyfriend. Sam is the friend/enemy/sexy rocker I can’t seem to refuse.
An outdoor concert has a different kind of energy, a different sound. Uncontainable, the music blasts and floats out into the night. The stage looks different. There are no seats or sections. The lights reach through the darkness and never end. Here in Central Park, the backdrop behind the stage is a stand of lush, towering trees. Even the fans are different—their vibe feels more gleeful and carefree. Or maybe that’s just New York.
On the side of the stage, Bryce and I watch Griff. Mike offered to close up the booth for me tonight since my boyfriend is in town. I stayed at the booth halfway through Luminescent Juliet’s performance, though, because it was so busy. Of course, Bryce wasn’t any help. He sat in a folded chair off to the side in the shade, looking annoyed and bored.
He also stayed backstage during most of the band’s performance while I took pictures. Because they were the first onstage, their set started in the setting sun and ended at dusk, which created an unusual lighting situation and the chance to get some unique pictures. I refused to consider Sam in any other way except as a member of a band I work for, even when he winked directly at me.
Now that we’re together watching Griff, Bryce is whining in my ear about being tired and wanting to go back to the hotel. He’s irritating the crap out of me. Our spot on the side of the stage is like being in the first seat directly behind the catcher at a Yankees game. Even hungover, he wouldn’t consider leaving that game. Griff is one of the hottest rock bands in the country right now, but Bryce wants to go back to the room instead of watching the amazing show that’s happening ten feet away from us.
His disregard for music is beyond annoying. His indifference for what I love feels like disrespect to me. But since I can’t take the whining much longer, I tell him that once Griff is done we’ll go.
Our walk back to the hotel is quiet. I’m sure Bryce senses my crankiness. It’s kind of hard to keep it off my face and out of my voice. Once we’re inside our room, as soon as I set my camera and purse down on the dresser, he pulls me into his arms.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick all day. I seriously felt like shit.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “I want to make it up to you,” he says in my ear before his lips slide down my neck.
I’m guessing he’s thinking we should have make-up sex, but the whole situation feels foreign. Bryce and I never fight. We get along. But we usually go out for a few hours and then back to my place—since he lives with three other guys. We’ve never been together for an entire day. And I’ve never been mad at him enough to consider withholding sex.
He presses a kiss to my chin. “Let me make it up to you, baby?”
Standing stiff, I tell myself this is my boyfriend. He came all the way from Michigan to visit me. He’s been hungover all day. He was excited to surprise me. He got us this room. Took me out to dinner.
Fingers digging into my back, he tugs me closer. His body molds to mine and his mouth covers my lips.
And it feels wrong. My insides scream that I don’t want his mouth on mine. He deepens the kiss but I can’t make myself re-spond. It feels wrong, wrong, wrong.
After a minute of my nonresponsive reaction, he breaks away. “What’s going on?”
I shrug. Never having been so turned off by him, I’m not entirely sure. I’m thinking my body’s rejection has something to do with being pissed off. Or maybe that’s what I’m hoping.
“I said I was sorry,” he says, his mouth twisting with anger.
I gape at him. Unfortunately, his apology doesn’t wipe away my irritation—and it doesn’t feel very authentic either. Suddenly fuming, I jerk out of his arms. “So you say you’re sorry and that’s it? We step into the room and start fucking like bunnies?”
“What the hell, Peyton?” He falls onto the end of the bed. “I came here to see you, got us this room, took you out to a fancy dinner, and followed you around all day doing stupid shit.”
I step back as the implication of this confession hits me. “So, like some prostitute I owe you a screw now?”
“I didn’t say that,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.
“No? You sure as hell insinuated it.”
His blond head pops up and he glares at me. “Now you’re just being a bitch.”
My eyebrows arch to my hairline. Fury erupts within in me. “A bitch? A bitch!” I grab my purse off the dresser. “Say good-bye to this bitch, bitch!” I slam the door behind me and march down the hall. I’m so pissed, I can’t see straight.
“Peyton!” Bryce yells from the doorway.
Without looking back, I flip him off. I use the same finger to punch the down button for an elevator, then climb in. No one is in the elevator. I pace back and forth, my hands fisted at my sides. When the doors open, I rush across the lobby, then past the fancy entrance to the spa center to a back hallway. The seating alcove near an exit door is empty. I fall onto a small couch and start to cry like an idiot, my tears a mix of anger and confusion.