As for what happened at the park the other day, when I ran off instead of listening to him? It doesn’t matter what he would have said. Nothing would excuse what he did. Nothing could make me trust him.
I run into Weiss—“Things are going great!”—and then Meredith, Carrie, and I bump into Ashley. We pal around together for a while, rubbing elbows with Nashville big shots and marveling a two-story wall of tissue-paper flowers, a round foyer table showcasing a tree carved out of ivory, and a hairless cat perched on a bannister (we think he’s fake before he stretches, then hops down).
Elaborate buffets are set up in three separate dining rooms, but none of us are hungry, so we mostly stick to champagne. I’m on my second glass, and laughing at a joke Meredith told, when we move into a billiards room and come across a group of guys at a card table.
My eyes shoot to Dash like magnets. Dash—and the tall blonde behind him. She’s got her hand on his head, sifting through his hair like she owns it.
“Sara Blaise,” Carrie whispers.
“Where?”
“She’s the one with the blonde updo, over there by Dash!”
“I’ve heard they’re friendly,” Ashley marvels.
I try to keep my face blank. “That’s her? Isn’t she young?”
“She is so young,” Carrie whispers conspiratorially. “She’s only thirty-two.”
“Really? Wow.”
The next half hour has to be one of the longest of my life. Evil Sara Blaise is stuck to Dash like white on rice: like she’s his date. Servers swarm their table, where Dash is playing a card game with Adam, plus a few people I don’t know. Finally the evil witch releases him, but while half of their table gets up, Dash, Adam, and one woman stay, talking intensely about something I can’t hear for the crush of bodies in between us.
I try to feign interest in Ashley’s story about her boyfriend’s internship at “a covert government agency” and keep my shoulders squared, even as I stalk Dash with my eyes.
He seems happy, at ease. I notice him drinking something, but I’m not close enough to gauge the color of the liquid in his glass. Whiskey? At some point, he removes his tie and loosens his shirt. Sara Blaise comes back, squeezing his shoulder, so I’m shocked when one of the men near Dash strolls over and pats her lightly on the backside.
“That’s Dirk Jackson,” Carrie tells me. “He’s a big country music producer. He’s her husband.”
Color me confused—until I realize: Dash’s parents. He must know Mrs. Blaise via her husband and his parents, since Mr. and Mrs. Frasier also work in the music industry.
Dash gets up and works the nearby crowd, chatting with two men and a woman for a while as I start on my third glass of champagne.
I’m how far from him? Fifteen yards?
I feel a little queasy.
I finish my glass as a new woman descends, touching Dash’s elbow. He pushes his sleeve back, revealing a watch, and for whatever reason, the woman hugs him.
My work friends are contemplating going behind the house to the dance floor when I decide it’s time for me to go outside. I’ve made the requisite contacts and connections. I can take a breather, maybe even go home early.
Luckily, we’re on the second floor, and almost every room has a balcony.
I make excuses to my crew and, as I head toward a nearby door, I hear Dash’s laughter. I encounter a waitress near the balcony door; when she offers another flute of champagne, I happily accept.
Once through the doors, I realize I’m on the side of the house, on a spacious, cement balcony that seems to be tacked onto one of the home’s big, round towers. It’s the size of a small bedroom and littered with high-end lounge chairs.
I walk over to one in the far corner, partially hidden behind some sort of potted plant, and sink down, nursing my drink as I watch the starry sky. Country-rock music floats through the humid air, and I realize it’s the Gin Rangers playing out back, behind the house.
What are the odds?
I hear a squeak, followed by a cacophony of chatter, as the balcony door is pushed open and two figures emerge. Wouldn’t you know, it’s Dash—and our studio’s assistant, Mallorie. Her frizzy, red hair is smooth and clearly styled tonight. She’s got on a green pantsuit that makes her ass look really nice—and from my angle, she looks younger than I think she really is.
As they approach the balcony railing and start talking six or seven feet away from me, I panic; I can’t go inside without walking right past them.
Mallorie laughs. Dash lights something, which I think will be a cigarette, but which turns out to be a cigar. Adam comes out, clad in khakis and a button-up, and Dash gives him a cigar, too. Adam talks to Dash and Mallorie for a few minutes before putting his cigar out and disappearing back inside. Another woman comes out—this one short and curvy, maybe forty or forty-five, with green hair, talking to Mallorie and Dash for a minute before she wanders closer to the doors and starts a conversation with two men who just stepped out.
I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep, because I do feel kind of sleepy. Maybe four glasses was too many…
The air is warm and soft. I feel surprisingly comfortable here in my reclining lounge chair, even as my drunk brain tries to follow Dash and Mallorie’s conversation.
But…I can’t.
Whatever.
Several times I peek my eyes open, noting more people coming and going. Once, Mallorie’s squeaky voice cuts into my bubble—I think I hear her saying something about her dog peeing—and I glance over to see Dash run his hand back through his shorter hair.
Then more people come out, a whole gaggle of them. I sit up, and a cute guy, who turns out to be the animator intern from another summer team, steps over to flirt. He sits at the bottom of my chair, and we talk about motorized scooters and skateboarding, of all things. He invites me to the dance floor behind the house. When I tell him I’m about to go home, he leaves.
I stand up by the rail, hoping to casually drift inside. Then a handsome older man offers to get me a drink.
I tell him “no thank you” and notice Dash’s eyes on me from the other side of the now-crowded balcony.
The black-haired man is an engineer for Imagine. He asks about my summer plans and tells me I should take a job here if I’m offered one. He asks me who I’m partnered with, and I say just “Dash,” because I’m drunk.
“Dash Frazier?”
I nod, feeling woozy.
“Stellar guy.”
I almost take issue with that comment, and that’s how I know I must be drunker than I realized.
Oops.
A few minutes later, I slink back over to my chair to grab my purse. I think I’ll go now. Get an Uber before I say or do something I’ll regret. I lean my head back, tipped up toward the sky, and am aware of movement beside me right as a familiar voice says, “See anything good up there?”
I jump. Dash has just sat in the chair beside mine. He smells like cologne—and the dry cleaners. He gives me a lazy smile. “Having a good night?”