Susan Phillips - What I Did for Love

She’d seen the poll and couldn’t bring herself to care. “I hate Scooter Brown.”

“You’re the only one who does. She’s an icon. It’s anti-American not to love her.”

“The series has been off the air for eight years. Why can’t everybody let it go?”

“Maybe those perpetual reruns blasting out all over the globe have something to do with it?”

She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “I was a kid when the show started, only fifteen. And barely twenty-three when it ended.”

He took in her red eyes but didn’t comment on them. “Scooter Brown is ageless. Every woman’s best friend. Every man’s favorite virgin.”

“But I’m not Scooter Brown. I’m Georgie York. My life belongs to me, not to the world.”

“Good luck with that.”

She couldn’t let herself do this any longer. Perpetually reacting to external forces. Unable to set her own counterforces in motion. Always acted upon. Never acting. She drew her knees closer and studied the rainbows she’d asked her manicurist to paint on her toenails in the vain hope of cheering herself up. If she didn’t do this now, she never would. “Trev, what would you think about you and me having a little-a big romance?”

“Romance?”

“The two of us.” She couldn’t look at him, and she kept her eyes on the rainbows. “Falling very publicly in love. And…maybe-” She pushed out the words. “Trev, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time…I know you’re going to think it’s crazy. It is crazy. But…If you don’t hate the idea, I was thinking…we should at least consider the possibility of…getting married.”

“Married?” Trevor’s feet hit the deck.

He was one of her dearest friends, but her cheeks burned. Still, what was one more monumentally humiliating moment in a year filled with them? She unlocked her arms from her knees. “I know I shouldn’t be dumping this on you out of nowhere. And I know it’s weird. Really weird. I felt that way when I first started thinking about it, but when I considered it objectively, I couldn’t see a big downside.”

“Georgie, I’m gay.”

“You’re rumored to be gay.”

“I’m also really gay.”

“But you’re so deep in the closet hardly anybody knows.” The fresh scrape on her ankle stung as she eased her legs over the side of the chaise. “This would finally put an end to the rumors. Face it, Trev. If the frat-boy crowd ever finds out you’re playing for their team, your career is gone.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” He rubbed his hand over his shaved head. “Georgie, your life is a circus, and as much as I adore you, I don’t want to be dragged into the center ring.”

“That’s the point. If you and I were together, the circus would stop.” As he sat back down, she went to his side and knelt there. “Trev, just think about it. We’ve always gotten along. We’d be able to live our lives the way we want-without any interference from each other. Think about how much more freedom you’d have-we’d both have.” She rested her cheek against his knee, just for a moment, then sat back on her heels. “You and I aren’t an odd couple like Lance and I were. Trevor and Georgie are a boring match, and after the first couple of months, the press will leave us alone. We could live under the radar. You wouldn’t need to keep going out with all those women you have to pretend to be interested in. You could see who you wanted. Our marriage would be the perfect cover for you.” And for her, it would be a way to make the world stop its pity party. She’d have both her public dignity back and a kind of insurance policy to keep her from ever again throwing herself off an emotional cliff for a man.

“Think about it, Trev. Please.” She needed to let him get used to the idea before she mentioned children. “Think how liberating it would be.”

“I’m not marrying you.”

“Me either.” A horrifyingly familiar voice drifted across the deck. “I’d rather stop drinking.”

Georgie shot to her feet and watched Bramwell Shepard saunter up the stairs from the beach. He stopped at the top, his mouth quirking with calculated amusement.

She sucked in her breath.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” He leaned against the rail. “This is the most interesting conversation I’ve eavesdropped on since Scooter and her friends debated dyeing their pubic hair. Trev, why didn’t you tell me you’re a fairy? Now we can’t ever be seen in public together again.”

Unlike Georgie, Trevor seemed relieved by the interruption, and he pointed his margarita glass in the general direction of Bram’s sun-drenched head. “You fixed me up with my last boyfriend.”

“I must have been wasted.” Her former costar took her in. “Speaking of wasted…You look like crap.”

She had to get out of here. She glanced toward the doors that led back into the house, but a frail ember of dignity still lingered in the ashes of her self-respect, and she couldn’t let him see her run. “What are you doing here?” she said. “This isn’t an accident.”

He nodded toward the pitcher. “You two aren’t really drinking that shit, are you?”

“I’m sure you remember where I keep the real liquor.” Trev eyed her with concern.

“Later.” Bram folded his long frame onto the chaise across from the one where Georgie had been sitting. The sand clinging to his calves sparkled like tiny diamonds. The breeze frolicked in his crisp golden-bronze hair. Her stomach twisted. A beautiful debauched angel.

The image had come from an essay written by a well-known television critic not long after the debacle that had ended one of the most successful television shows in history. She still remembered.

We can imagine Bram Shepard in heaven, his face so perfect the other angels can’t bring themselves to cast him out even though he’s drunk up all the sacred wine, seduced the pretty virgin angels, and stolen a harp to replace the one he gambled away in a celestial poker game. We watch him endanger the entire flock by flying too close to the sun, then plunging too recklessly toward the sea. But the angel community is mesmerized by the fields of lavender in his eyes, the rays of sun weaving through his hair, so they forgive him his transgressions…until his last dangerous plunge drives them all into the muck.

Bram rested his head on the back of the chaise, a position that outlined his still-flawless profile against the sky. At thirty-three, the softer edges of his pleasure-seeking youth had hardened, making his lazy, glittering beauty even more destructive. Bronze threaded his blond hair, cynicism tainted his choirboy’s lavender eyes, and mockery lurked at the corners of his perfectly symmetrical mouth.

The fact that someone so utterly without scruples had overheard her conversation with Trevor made her ill. She couldn’t flee, not yet, but her legs were giving out. “Why are you here?” She sank into one of the tulip chairs.

“I started to tell you,” Trev said. “Bram sometimes uses my other house down the beach, the one I’m trying to sell. Since he’s made himself unemployable, he doesn’t have anything better to do than laze around and bother me.”

“I’m not exactly unemployable.” Bram crossed his sandy ankles. Even the arches of his feet were as gracefully curved as the blade of a scimitar. “Just last week I got an offer to humiliate myself on a new reality TV show. If I hadn’t been stoned when the call came in, I’d probably have accepted. Just as well.” He waved an elegant hand. “Too much work.”

“Point made,” Trev said.

She frantically scanned the sand for photographers. This was a private beach, but the press would do anything to get a photo of her with Bram again. Skip and Scooter publicly reunited after all this time. Her stomach churned at the thought of someone as predictably evil as Bram Shepard becoming part of her public nightmare.