“I’m sorry I yelled at you before.”
“It’s okay. I deserved it.”
“Glad you were nearby when Nora went down. That was some scary shit, right?”
“She’s going to be okay.”
Jay clapped Jonah’s shoulder. “We’re all going to be okay, buddy.”
Jonah watched him go. Then slowly stood, sliding his hands into the pockets of his tux pants.
His fingers brushed against the photo strip he’d pocketed. She’d claimed the first one out of the machine, but he’d grabbed the second one on their way out of the booth.
Her real laugh – the one she didn’t give the cameras – was in the first frame. Her shoulder against his in the second, trying to look glam, while he accidently looked gentle.
And in the third, she wasn’t trying to look like Kara Koff at all.
Not the actress.
Not the persona.
Just…her. Tzipora. And her smile.
There was the smile she gave strangers.
Then the smile she gave him.
Chapter Sixteen
Tzipi had lost her bearings, and not even the shoe map was of use to her now.
She hit the promenade too fast, breath short, heartbeat pinched and ugly. She should’ve slowed down and looked where she was going. Instead, she walked straight into the knot of influencers who’d been orbiting that deck all night.
Phones went up like a flurry of wings.
“Kara! Kara!” The fans he had managed to keep at bay earlier had found her, alone now. And she was too frazzled to push back.
A dozen hands reached for her. She shrank on instinct – old training, old reflex, from a childhood spent being tugged and posed and propped like a living doll.
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Please sign my scarf!”
“I saw her first…”
She felt a Sharpie press into her hand, a damp cocktail napkin.
“Can you make it to Rita? She’s a huge fan.” The requester was jostled from behind, but seemed unfazed, thrilled to just be in the orbit of a celebrity.
“Sure, sure…” Tzipi mumbled. She readied her right hand. See? More than convincing, she fumed. For every item she autographed and thrust back, two more appeared. A Mahjong card. The Hanukkah-themed playbill for the late night drag show. She signed them all.
Kara Koff. Kara Koff. Kara Koff.
She signed furiously. Her handwriting automatic, the way grief sometimes was automatic – an old script resurfacing without permission. Continuing until her arm ached and her head pounded. Everything blurred together — napkins, programs, someone’s fancy invitation card.
“A minute for one more?” It was Hannon’s ghostwriter, smiling. “My mother is a big fan.”
Seeing him rattled her to the point where she dropped all the items she was holding before the fans waiting could take them back.
