For now, anyway.
We pose for pictures on the way into the museum, and I am surprised to hear photographers shouting John’s name, even though by now I shouldn’t be surprised by this. I am his date because he’s an important celebrity entrepreneur among socialites and the wealthy elite of New York. He smiles when he tells a PR person my name and that I’m a dancer with the Bay Area Ballet. He seems proud. It’s sweet.
Once we’re at the end of the red carpet, I hear photographers yell out, “Montana! Montana!” and see a thousand flashing camera bulbs out of the corner of my eye. Something tells me they aren’t all excited about the state.
I can sense John’s body tensing. He doesn’t look over, but I do, and all I can see is the frenzy around a very tall woman who’s with a well-groomed man that I recognize from magazines as a fashion designer, but I don’t know who he is exactly. John leads me away, shaking hands with people, but he doesn’t stop until we’re at our dining table under a giant fiberglass blue whale that hangs from the ceiling of the Hall of Ocean Life.
The whole enormous room is bathed in blue light and flickering candles. Fortunately, there are about a hundred round tables in this great space, and from what I can see, Montana is not seated anywhere near us. Aside from the tense body and hasty retreat to the table, John shows no signs of nerves about encountering Montana. But I’m kind of dying to see her. I don’t want drama, but I do want to get a sense of where things stand between them. I really want to tell Callie that she’s here, but the rich old lady seated next to me seems like the kind of person who’d frown upon texting at a gala dinner.
As I scan the room while speeches are being given on the stage, I spot her. Montana Reed. She is seated at a table across the room and to the right, but she’s facing us and staring. Directly. At me. Glaring is more like it. She doesn’t flinch when I make eye contact with her. She may have been staring at us like this for a full hour, and I had no idea.
I glance over at John, who has politely given the speaker on stage his full attention, though he squeezes my hand to acknowledge me. I look back at Montana. She is truly stunning in a red dress, and I see her fashion designer date leaning in while she speaks into his ear, still glaring at me.
Once we get to the dessert course, people start getting up to mingle, and there is a parade of them coming over to chat with John. He always introduces me, but no one wants to include me in the conversation, and I’m fine with that. They have an agenda, and it doesn’t involve me. I let John know that I’m going to theladies’ room. My plan is to stay away from the table for a while, to give Montana a chance to go over to talk to him. It’s very considerate of me.
I make sure she clocks me as I make my way out between the tables, dodging servers and dealmakers and, I think, one of the Hiltons.
When I open the door of the bathroom stall and go over to the sink to wash my hands, I look up and see Montana Reed staring at my reflection in the mirror. Total jump scare. She is leaning back against the wall, her head cocked to one side, studying me. She looks like Uma Thurman’s hotter, younger, crazier sister.
I dry my hands and turn to face her.Here we go.
“Whoareyou?” she asks.
“Hi. I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you.” I reach out to shake her hand, but she jerks away from me.
“How did you meet John?”
“Oh, I’ve known him my whole life. He’s my brother’s best friend.”
My words don’t seem to register as she shakes her head. “You aren’t right for him. At all.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s Tony Stark.”
“Who?”
“Iron Man. He needs a Pepper Potts.”
“Andyou’rePepper Potts?”
“I have the same personal trainer as Gwyneth Paltrow.”
I wait for more of an explanation, but that’s it.
I cannot believe Johnny dated this person. She’s stunningly gorgeous and mildly insane. I am seething with jealousy because I can’t stop imagining him doing those amazing things that he’s done to my body to hers.
That is when Montana and I lock eyes and begin a very dramatic wordless conversation:
Her: He did that crazy tongue stuff to you, didn’t he?
Me: Yes, and I want to pull my hair out because I can tell he’s done it to you too.But you’re a stunning supermodel! Surely you’ll meet someone great soon. You’ll get over John.
Her: No, I fucking won’t! Just wait—you’ll see. Sex with anyone else is boring, and I want to die. Also, I’m not a supermodel—I’m just a stunningly gorgeous, very successful model.
Me: I’m sorry.
Her: No, you aren’t. Fuck you.
