I let it lie.
I’m satisfied by noise of him: the shifting whisper of his pants against the chair, the sound of Dash’s steps about the room. Nothing more pathetic—but I relish it. The story moves along. We make decisions. I agree that we should call her Dove. Meredith, Bryan, Carrie and I plot a course for her through New York City in the spring. She has a puppy friend, I suggest. Meredith thinks that they should settle near a library and draw attention from a kindly old man librarian.
Dash sets Adam and Ashley to work on the computer side of animation, gets Mallorie and Amber going on the props, and then he sits there and he draws…and draws, and draws. Wednesday and Thursday pass like nights before a funeral. And then it’s Friday—and I know why I have this churning feeling in my stomach.
Friday is the dinner. The dinner for Imagine and its interns at the home of Sara Blaise, the company’s chief.
The ghost of Amelia toils away alongside the rest of our team that day, barely breathing. Then I’m home and all too soon I’m getting ready, dressing for a cocktail party, dinner, or a meet and greet; I’m not sure which, so I wear a shortish, sleeveless A-line dress by Alice + Olivia. It’s a vaguely tropical print, with green leaves and some kind of pink bird on a white background. Paired with sparse black high-heel sandals, I think the ensemble looks clean and modern, like I’m not too dolled up and also not casual. I can’t think of many things worse than dressing casually. It’s just not me.
I finish dressing early, call an Uber, and stop by the bar at the bottom of my building for a quick lemon martini. Anything to fortify myself against Dash in a suit.
And then, as if by magic, there is Dash—wearing a suit. I’m at the entryway of the bar/restaurant, perched on a red leather couch, sipping my drink while waiting for my ride, so I’ve got a good view of the elevators.
Dash strides into the lobby, and I almost choke. I stand up, but I can’t move as he walks toward the revolving doors that line the front of the apartment building.
I set my drink down on the bar with a ten dollar bill and try to pretend I’m not rushing to get outside.
Dash is standing near the curb when I reach him.
I watch him see me in his periphery before turning slowly toward me.
“Am. Amelia. Hi.” He smiles, but it seems strained. His face looks weighted. Scratch that: disappointed, I think, as a white Jeep Patriot rolls up beside the curb.
He gives the Jeep a nod—at which point, I notice: his hair’s shorter!—then casts a sidelong look at me. “You need a ride?”
“I could use one, actually.”
Internally, I’ve just slapped my hand over my mouth. That’s not only untrue; my Uber—a gray van—has just pulled up behind us.
“Hop on in.” He opens the door, and I climb up gracefully, without exposing anything to him.
I can feel him move behind me, feel the faint heat of his body through his clothes and mine. He tells our driver the address and settles in beside me to strap on his seatbelt. Which is when I remember to buckle my own.
By the time I get the guts to look at him again, the weird look on his face is gone. I’m dumbstruck by how hot he looks with short hair. How much like he used to look when I knew him. But older. Handsomer.
“That’s a nice suit,” I blurt out. Shocked by my uncharacteristic outburst, I wave in his direction. “The cut, you know. The tie. It’s…modern. Stylish.”
Dash laughs, a hearty sound that warms me right down to the bone. “Is it?” He grins. “I’m a stylish guy, Amelia.”
“Are those bird eggs on the tie?”
He winks.
I’m pretty sure my face is red-headed-for-purple. This is not good.
“What’s the color of the suit?” I ask him fumblingly.
He looks down at it, lips twisting thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I don’t think they come with colors like car paint. I think of it as Yale blue.”
“You look beautiful,” he says after a moment, and it’s so matter-of-fact, my heart aches just a little. It’s the kind of thing a friend would say.
I spend the rest of the ride playing on my phone—more specifically, texting Lucy lies about how great everything is at Imagine. Next time I look up, I find Dash is on his phone as well. I wonder who he’s texting, then I hate myself for caring.
Ten
Amelia
The Uber turns into a neighborhood that looks a lot like Chatham Hills, where Dash and I grew up. The lawns around the homes are huge—two or three acres, easily; the houses are super-sized and flashy. We pass a few homes while I avoid Dash’s eyes, and then our Uber turns into a long driveway lined with mid-sized willow trees.
Sara Blaise’s house has a stone fa?ade and a slate roof, plus two towers on each end that make it look a bit like a chalet. In front of the house, there’s a big, copper statue of a stallion on its hind hooves. Our driver follows the line of traffic to a spot beside the statue, where a valet with a light wand waves us forward, toward parking on the left side of the house.
“Here is fine,” Dash interjects.
I reach into my purse, then feel his hand on my wrist. He reaches between the two seats, handing the driver some cash. His left knee presses against the outside of my thigh. I feel like I can’t breathe. It takes forever for the driver to pocket the money and Dash to move.
I hurry out of the car, and am headed around the rear when I meet Dash at the right tail light. His eyes travel partway down my body as he gives me a little nod.
Awkward.
But what are we going to do? Not walk in together? We have no choice, at this point, but to take the stairs up side-by-side. I make a banal comment about the pretty house as we climb. As we near the doors, I say, “Thanks for the ride. Have a good night.”
Dash goes one way, I go the other, and that’s the way it should be. I don’t feel sad. That’s insanity.
I know of Sara Blaise in name only. She ran the studio before Disney bought it, and I think she still does—mostly. I’m not sure her age, and it’s impossible to tell because this place is not the kind with family snapshots on display.
The Blaise house is a showpiece, spit-shined and incredibly appointed—a work of art in its own right. I spend my first half hour sipping champagne and wandering through rooms with Meredith and Carrie, trying to pretend my heart’s not dangling outside me, sensing Dash in every room.
I tell myself that this is normal. Of course I still have feelings for him. Anybody would in my shoes. I’ve been in therapy enough to know you can’t just snap your fingers and change your feelings. I need to change the way I think before I can change the way I feel.
I need to think of Dash as someone who abandoned me, not as an old friend.