Page 67 of Love Scenes

I stare at her. “Are you sure you didn’t want to head back to the house and run the garbage disposal really quick? Check that all the smoke detectors are working? Rearrange your closet by date of purchase? Then we’d really destroy Dad by missing the event altogether.”

“Oh, honey. You have lipstick on your teeth.” Mom stretches out a finger and rubs my left incisor.

On the near side of the red carpet, there are a few attendees waiting in small groups, held back by members of the foundation team. Our step and repeat is so small that people have to go down one or two at a time. Mom glides past all of them, deciding to impede upon Dad’s moment as only she can. For all her acknowledgment of their unhealthy professional pettiness, she refuses to let it die.

I give a rushed hello and sympathetic look to our carpet attendant as Guy and I follow Mom, knowing instinctively that even though I’m the reason we’re here, she’s the one we put in the middle. That way I can break off for solo shots and they can do pictures together.

We start with the typical, delivering yard-long smolders. Guy and Kitty move down, and I’m left to pivot and twirl alone. My least favorite part. The gauzy red dress I’m wearing has a neckline so plunging that I have to turn with precision or my boob tape will come loose.

It’s always better to have another person to play off of, to wrap your arm around when the nerves reach their peak and you can’t for the life of you remember how it is you normally stand.

As I’m midpose, my eye snags on a familiar sight, a tall Irishman rushing toward me with a guitar slung over his shoulder. There’s a little flutter inside my chest that makes me reach up and press my hand to my heart. Not that I doubted he would come. He has proven to be more than reliable. But the reality of his physical presence swells underneath my skin.

My involuntary chest clutch reads like a coy photo op. One photographer calls out, “Love it, Sloane! Turn this way!” My attention stays placed on Joe until his face says,There you are, andit’s enough to make me beam, losing all sense of the smirk I’ve manufactured for moments such as this one.

He passes his guitar to our attendant—she’s truly great at her job, because she accepts it like she’s been waiting all night to hold an instrument—and he joins me on the red carpet.

All of it happens so quickly I have no way to stop it. Rationally I know that pictures like these are great press for both the movie and the foundation. That4TH ANNUAL SLOANE FORD FOUNDATION GALAwatermark is in every single shot. More than that, I want this chance to have his arm wrapped around me in public and have not a single person wonder why.

He’s wearing a deep blue tuxedo with a black velvet collar and black velvet piping down the side seam of the pants. The blue fabric must be threaded with something metallic, because when it catches the light, it’s wonderfully vibrant, striking against his sharp white undershirt and classic black bow tie.

He leans down to me and whispers, “You look unbelievable.”

A dozen flashes go off at once, capturing my measured thank-you and his easy pullback. He places a light hand on my midback, leaving a good three inches between our bodies.

The entire extended moment doesn’t read as too intimate. Everyone greets one another with close whispers while in front of cameras. It’s like how baseball players always talk to each other through their gloves. But my ear tingles where he touched it, and my skin sparks against the feel of his hand on the exposed part of my back.

“How are you?” I ask through my teeth as we grin for the cameras.

“Nervous.” He moves us down a bit farther on the carpet. “I have something to tell you.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.” We angle ourselves toward the right. “My dad isn’t coming.”

My plastered smile flattens. “What?”

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” he says, still gritting his teeth and posing. “He never showed at the airport. I called and called him. He finally rang back on my way over here to say he missed his flight.”

My limbs start to float away from my center. My mouth tastes like vinegar. I rush us through the rest of the photo ops, grateful I chose not to have any interview element on the carpet this year. Usually I’d want all the attendees to give nice sound bites about why they support the foundation. This year my personal life has so fully eclipsed all my community contributions that even though I’m running the event, I know the line of questioning could slip away and push me toward any of the handful of loaded topics surrounding me: Kearns’s album, his benefit concert, Haven’s firing, my departure fromThe Seeker, Dad’s heart attack. It’s a real Choose Your Own Adventure of awkwardness, and it would only take away from the night’s true focus.

At least that’s what I tell myself to help me sleep at night.

The second Joseph and I step out of the lights, I state the obvious. “We need a drummer.”

“I know. I was calling people. Turns out I don’t know any drummers. Other than my buddy Cian back in Ireland. Don’t think he can get to the states in the next few hours.” The way he talks—hand insistent on my back, mouth tight and careful—tells me how upset he really is. I know him so well now. I can see the tension etched into the space between his brows. Feel the way his jokes are as much to calm him as they are me. “Christ, Sloane. I really fucked it all up.”

“No you didn’t,” I assure him. “Youhelpedme. We will figure it out.” I guide us toward the ballroom doors. “Here goes nothing.”

The lights inside are mostly purple and blue. It always feels a little like a wedding in here, which is something donors tend to respond to in a positive manner. Weddings are events that bring a lot of giving. A lot of celebrating. Our event designer leans into that, while doing away with the more obvious matrimonial touches. No floral centerpieces or romantic candles. Instead, each circular table features a school that has been helped by the money we’ve raised in years past. On the projector screens that flank the stage, photos play on a loop, reminding people exactly where their donations go. A silent auction wall takes place along the left side of the space, filled with nearly a hundred donated baskets and items from local businesses, perfectly catered to the interests of an audience full of actors, directors, producers, musicians, and other entertainment-centered people. And an open bar sits along the right side, along with mountains of appetizers and small desserts.

The stage is dead center with two screens on either side of it that will eventually livestream what’s happening up there, ensuring the people near the back can see the action up close.

Joe looks utterly zombified, staring forward. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Fuck,” I repeat. It cuts through the tension enough to make us both laugh.

We’re screwed.