Worse luck for her. Poor Dr.Eastwick. I searched online for her obituary. There it was, a few column inches in the campus paper. The administrative officer’s voice came back to me. “Not that she’ll be missed, God rest her soul.”
When my mother died, her friends back East didn’t come to her funeral service in Kansas. But her obituary was inARTnewsand theNew York Times. “Fearless.” “A force of nature,” they said, quoting various gallery owners. I kept the clippings in the box under my bed along with Toni’s first tooth and my first stories.
I wondered what my obituary would say. Would it talk about my writing? Or would it read like Gray’s reviews?Dorothy Gale, the inspiration for Grayson Kettering’s corn-fed seductress Destiny Gayle, has died.
I shuddered.
“You need to stop imagining things,” Gray had said when I’d asked him once if he ever wrote emails to other female students.
Forget about Gray.
Except... There was his name, at the top of my search history. I clicked. His face filled the screen, that familiar smile exposing his teeth, curling one corner of his mouth.
My chest ached. I clicked again, compulsively.Destiny Gayle—the paperback edition—had dropped to #9 on the Amazon charts. Another click. Dakota Fanning was reported to be in talks to star inDestiny Gayle, the movie. A photo of the actress accompanied the announcement. She was perfect, small and blond withblue eyes. It was like finding out Tinker Bell had been cast to play the part of the blue fairy inSleeping Beauty, the bouncy one, what was her name? Merryweather, that was it.
The pretzels congealed in my throat. I needed some real food. Or a cup of tea and my sister. But I was not calling Toni in—my mind fumbled with the time change—the middle of the school day. She might be in class. She was just starting her freshman year. Growing up. Moving on. We were both moving on. I needed to set a good example.
Although if this were Toni’s first night in Ireland, she wouldn’t be alone in her hotel room eating leftover snacks from the plane. My gaze fell on the minibar. A tiny green bottle of Jameson whiskey winked at me. What had Hot Poet said? “You’re in Ireland. You can always have tea. Or Guinness or whiskey.”
Somehow drinking alone in my hotel room was even worse than eating alone. I was trying to become a stronger, wiser, and more confident Dee. To take control of my own destiny. (Even the word—destiny—made me flinch). Shutting my laptop on Gray, I grabbed my purse and room key.
My new courage took me as far as the hotel bar.
“Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?” the black-clad server inquired.
“Yes, please.”
“Table for one?”
I gripped my bag tighter. I wasn’t really alone. I had a book with me,Anne of Green Gables, my emergency read for the plane. For most of my life, actually. Plucky, passionate, imaginative orphan Anne Shirley had been my best friend growing up.
The server cleared his throat. Waiting for me to answer.
“Um. One. Yeah. Thanks.”
“Right this way.”
This wayled to a table in the corner. I ordered a whiskey—when in Ireland, right?—while I read the menu. But even the lovely descriptions (braised Wicklow lamb slow-cooked in a rich lamb broth with Chantenay carrots and pearl barley; homemade scones and parsley butter;tarte aux pommeswith crème anglaise,yum) couldn’t hold my attention for long.
Two tables over, an older couple sampled six different appetizers, the woman occasionally breaking off their conversation to take a picture of their food or speak into her phone. She was a restaurant critic, I decided, and he was... I squinted at his left hand. Her husband. Somebody’s husband, anyway. Every now and then she would put something on his plate, and he’d chew stolidly before commenting.
Under the tall windows, a table of business types leaned forward over their plates, talking in low voices like they were plotting a hostile takeover. Or an assassination.
I took a sip of whiskey and choked. I grabbed my napkin, dabbing at my eyes, looking around at my fellow diners to see if anyone noticed.
A pair of honeymooners sat at the long oak bar. Okay, probably not honeymooners, not unless they’d just come from their wedding. He was in a slim, dark, conservative suit and tie. Nice-looking in a stuffed shirt sort of way, his square jaw clean-shaven, his eyes half-hidden behind steely spectacles. His... bride? Fiancée? I peeked. No ring. His girlfriend, then, perched on the green leather barstool beside him, her pose and her dress showing off her long, smooth, bare legs, a fall of sleek, shining hair tucked casually behind her ears. She looked like a sexy Kate Middleton. Pippa, maybe.
As I watched, she slipped off one skyscraper heel, stroking her toes up his ankle. He stiffened. Well. A lot of guys weren’tcomfortable showing affection in public. Gray... No.Stop thinking about Gray.
Maybe she wasn’t the Suit’s girlfriend yet. Maybe in ten or twenty years, they would tell the story of how they met to their children, adorable twins who had a dog and rabbits in a hutch at the bottom of the garden and maybe a pony. I smiled.
While I was naming their kids, her foot got stuck halfway up his calf, trapped by his pants leg. Abandoning the attempt, she put her hand on his knee. I admired her confidence. Although... He shifted his leg. Away. She laughed, undeterred, and said something that made a muscle bunch in his jaw.
None of my business, really. He was a grown man, right? She touched his arm, smiling. Flirting. Not rapey at all.
Now if he’d been the one touching her... I frowned.
His shoulders tensed under his suit jacket. If his spine got any more rigid, he’d turn to stone. She gestured, making a point. This time, her fingers landed high on his thigh. Wow. Okay. Or maybe not okay?
