Who was actually withMissy Van Cleve.
How she’d gotten her own invite to one of the most exclusive, security-enmeshed weddings he’d ever attended, was beyond J. T., given that there was no way she was Franco’s plus one. She was wearing a champagne-colored lace minidress, and, if J. T. had to guess, no underwear.
“I think you know each other,” Franco said.
“Tenssesseee!” Missy was drunk. And delighted to see him.
J. T. stared at Franco for a long, incredulous time.
“What?” Franco demanded.
“For the love ofGod, man.” J. T. was genuinely pained. “Really? Come on,Edward.Even I know you’re better than this. Grow. The Fuck. Up.”
He sighed gustily and took himself off back to his table.
He might be a little drunk, too.
“’Bye, Tenseeseesee!” Missy waved after him.’
He settled in again, and looked toward the bride and groom’s table, smiling. They gave off their own light, those two. You couldn’t help but look at them, any more than you could help but look at the moon.
And he got out his phone and flipped through to that photo of him and Britt lying on beach towels on a rock, their knees touching. Yearning tightened his gut. He’d once been that happy. He hadn’t really known it. He was unconsciously seeking his own light when he looked at that photo.
Someone swiftly took the chair next to him. He looked up and he managed to get his features under control instantly.
“J. T.”
“Good to see you, Phil.”
Phil, as in Phil Zahn, the director ofLast Call in Purgatory. Vigorous, a little plump, balding, eyes like lasers. Good guy and scary smart.
J. T. produced a welcoming smile, even as the wordsLast Call in Purgatoryconjured such simultaneous shame and lust it was almost Pavlovian.
“Boy, your toast was a real hanky-soaker, J. T. My wife had to redo her mascara twice.”
“Gratifying,” J. T. said with a small smile.
“I always knew you had it in you. Listen, I know the producers shot you down in the end, J. T., but I know Al told you I want you however I can get you, J. T. Don’t tell my wife. Ha ha. But when Rebecca said she wanted you to read with her forLast Call in Purgatory,well, funny how things change. You two have never been on film together and the publicity would be a wet dream for them. So I guess we’ll see you at the studio at around one this Wednesday. And I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
“My son-in-law is head of cardiology at the Placer County Children’s Hospital. I was hoping you and Rebecca would film a PSA for them, since Hellcat Canyon is so close. That’s where you’ve been, right? Sven Markson has put his jet at your disposal, and Rebecca told him to pick the two of you up at that little airfield outside Hellcat Canyon on Tuesday.”
J. T.’s smile felt like it was going to crack. He’d love to do that PSA underanyother conditions. He didnotwant to haul Rebecca back with him to Hellcat Canyon.
He was booked solid with lunches and dinners in San Francisco tomorrow with various friends and colleagues. At least he’d have a mostly Rebecca-free day tomorrow.
“Happy to do it. Honored to be asked,” is what he told Zahn.
Phil gave him a back thump and a smile. “My wife wants to get home, so I’m outta here. Nice wedding, huh? Congrats again on that toast.”
Home sounded good to J. T., too.
Wherever the hell that was now.
As if she’d heard her name, Rebecca, who had finally strolled off the dance floor, plopped down next to him, and laid her head on his shoulder. “Hi, Johnny.”
He stiffened, and stretched for his drink on the table. Her head slid off gracelessly and she nearly toppled from her chair. She righted herself with a little uncharacteristic flailing.