“Aw, congrats, man! Your maximum standard deduction just jumped to $31,500.”
“Thanks, Jackson Hewitt.”
Jonah couldn’t see Asher, but he could picture the bartender’s lopsided smile.
This was a good thing. Talia deserved a guy who would treat her like gold. And all her good cooking never seemed to put excess pounds on the guy. A match made in heaven.
“Mazel tov, brother. Chhhhhheck…check one-two.”
As Jay and Asher began to run down the logistics of Operation Pop the Question between Avi’s sound-checking and vocal warm-ups, Jonah wandered back out onto the deck.
There were always a few VIP-adjacent early-birds that liked to be seen on board; standing around importantly with their credentials hanging. Jonah half-recognized one of them: a talk show regular, or maybe from some teen reality TV? Older now, but clearly hanging on to his best twenty-tens look for the ladies he was currently sharing a laugh with. Jonah nodded out of habit as he strolled to the railing.
Limos were inching down the west side highway and turning toward the pier, one after another, like shiny black ants. Mesmerizing to watch, as they’d each briefly stop and spill out their colorful cargo onto the pier before gliding away. Women in glittering packs, or hanging on the arms of their dates in their formalwear. Heat lamps lined the walkway, allowing people to shed outer layers at a coat-check kiosk prior to boarding.
Every now and again, the paparazzi would fizz and pop like fireworks over someone before settling back down. Nora and Talia would arrive soon, with Libby hopefully not far behind. And then the Baller would, in Jonah’s mind, officially kick off. When his crew and all their plus ones were present and accounted for.
One limo broke off from the pack and, like a slow motion movie scene, Kara Koff emerged from it. Dressed to the nines. Alone.
Jonah had to grip the railing, as he didn’t trust the Jell-O wobble of his normally-sturdy sea legs. Even from afar, he recognized the shape and size of her. Not a stalker at all, he half-reasoned with, half-chastised himself. Just a fan of her body. Of work.
He had, like every other red-blooded comic book superhero fan, seen all the movies. It wasn’t difficult to detach her character from the child-star of his – and her – formative years. Vanta Blackmore held barely a shadow of Rosie in her smirk, her lip-bite, her wide eyes. Hence, why he had barely remembered Rosie until the other day, in his sister’s classroom.
Vanta Blackmore demanded to be noticed.
Kind of the opposite of what Kara was doing now. Jonah watched as the actress skirted the crowd…one shoulder hunched against the cold and perhaps the attention of the paparazzi as she turned her gaze up at the boat.
Where was her doctor guy? Or, for that matter, a bodyguard? So far she had gone unnoticed, but he could only imagine her swarmed; all it would take would be one person sounding the alarm. There were always gawkers — people who hadn’t scored tickets but considered standing behind barricades in the freezing cold their idea of a fun Friday night. Ever-present and on the lookout.
Static crackled in his ear. “Hey, Jay?” A new voice cut through. “Jay Katz, what’s your 10-20? We’ve got a greenroom situation, starboard side.” Jonah recognized the Louisiana drawl of Katz Events’ head of security. He sounded like Hank Hill on Red Bull. “Almost at max capacity.”
“Wes, you’re picking up the wrong frequency,” Jay said. “But I’ll be right there. Guys, I gotta run. Sounds like my new assistant may have gotten a little creative with the guest list.”
“10-4, good buddy.” Jonah replied.
The numbers geek in him loved the lingo. He’d memorized just about every numeric code the Baller staff used, plus a few from bad 70s trucker movies.
Jonah scanned the pier’s red carpet once more. On cue, there was clapping and cheering. Hands lifting mobile phones. Like a consummate professional, Kara Koff gracefully rolled her shoulders back and tilted her head confidently, winningly. Smiling, waving, hair swinging. She began to walk through the gauntlet, but not without one last glance up. For a millisecond, it looked like she was staring right at him.
And like a total dork, he lifted a hand and waved.
Here goes nothing.
I can do this, Tzipi thought, hand on her hip as she turned slowly to the flashes popping. I’ve done it a hundred times before.
Not since she was twelve, but still. It was like riding a bike.
Like when you were twelve and your bike hit the curb in front of Shane Feldman, and you landed on the bar and it felt like you broke your crotch?
Leave it to her brain to re-live that particular humiliation.
Her smile was too wide and she had held it for too long. The corners of her mouth began to shake. She overcorrected, pursing her newly bee-stung lips, and a fervor of murmuring ensued. The late afternoon sky brightened with camera lights swiveling to capture her pout’s uncanny likeness to her twin’s signature on-screen look. Oops.
“Kara! Tell us about your dress. And the new movie!”
“It’s an Ana Agosto. And no spoilers, guys.”
Her sister had briefed her on all her favorite brands, and about the makeshift red carpet that would be the only promo she’d have to contend with before the no-press-allowed event. Kara had even drawn Tzipi a map of the boat on the bottom of her Louboutin with a sharpie. Nearest ladies’ room, the most private bar onboard, the photo-free zones, and – the Hail Mary if needed – a private greenroom reserved for the A-list.
