“I know, I just…Jesus, if they only knew—” he started to say.

“If they only knew what? If they only knew you were an amazing musician? If they only knew you’re the funniest motherfucker this side of London? If they only knew how much you love your Fatburger?”

“Grace, please. No one cares that I like Fatburger.” He chuckled.

“Oh, really? I know teen girls, and I know how their minds operate. New Kids fan, remember? I guarantee if you mention your favorite fast food, at some point it will be mentioned again. Us girls? We love that stuff. I still remember who Joey McIntyre’s favorite singer was, and I haven’t read anything about him since 1991.” I laughed, thinking of the issues of BOP and Teen Beat I used to read cover to cover.

“Girls are weird,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” I warned.

“Good, I ruddy well meant you to. You’re all mental, and somehow I ended up with the craziest one of all,” he said, teasing me now.

“Tread carefully there, or I’ll make you watch my Hangin’ Tough Live tape.”

“Tape? Like an actual videotape? Wow, like, from the eighties?”

“You’re on thin ice, fucko,” I said, lowering my voice to let him know I was serious. I tried to stifle a yawn, but he caught it.

“You need to get some sleep, love. You sound exhausted. How are the rehearsals going?”

“Good. They’re good. Everything is pretty well set. No more rewrites so it’s getting easier.” I snuggled under the covers. This was the time of night I missed him most.

“You’ll be ready to open?” he asked, covering his own yawn.

“Yes, I think so. Sweet Nuts, you sound tired too. Why don’t we go to sleep?”

“That sounds good. If I were there, what do you think we’d be doing now?” he asked. I could hear his covers rustling. Somehow, knowing we were both doing the same thing made me feel better.

“Hmm, right about now you’d be turning me on my side.”

“Yes?”

“And sneaking your hands under my shirt.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And now you’d probably be surrounding my boobies with your hands.”

“Definitely.”

“And now you’d be groaning.”

“Because your boobies feel so fantastic?”

“No, because I just turned on Golden Girls, and it’s the episode where Rose tells Dorothy and Blanche about the Great Herring War.”

“And on that note, I will say goodnight. Say goodnight, Gracie.”

“Good night, Gracie.”

He paused, and I could hear him turn out the light.

“I love you, Jack.”

“I love you too, Grace.”

***

The next week was hell for both of us. I was in rehearsal all day, every day, and usually well into the night. He was on his monster promo tour, all over the country. I checked in on him each day via the internet, and my Sweet Nuts just looked exhausted. But he was having fun too. As a great tie-in to the time-traveling aspect of the film, the studio had booked personal appearances for Jack in the science centers and museums across the country. These places had never seen such giddy crowds! This was truly the most exciting thing he’d ever gone through, and when he told me how nervous he was, or how much it freaked him out when everyone screamed at him, I simply reminded him this was awesome.

He was experiencing something hardly anyone in the world could appreciate, and the more he gave to his fans, the more they loved him. They loved that he said whatever he wanted, that he was self-deprecating, that he was funny and silly—and, boy, did they love that he was British.

“I’m just about to get in the shower. What’s your schedule like today?” I asked one day when he called to check in. He was somewhere in the Midwest, although he wasn’t sure exactly where. Different city, different hotel every day.

“Mmm, taking a shower are you?”

“Yes, George, settle down. Although I do miss showering with you,” I said, knowing the reaction I’d get.

“Stop it. Killing me!”

“You know how much I love to wash your hair. It makes me a little crazy,” I purred into the phone, grinning like a cat. “That’s something only I get to do.”

“Maybe I should include that in the interview I have this afternoon. I can tell them all about this nuts girl that gets off washing my hair while I hold on to her boobies—for balancing purposes only,” he said.

“You wouldn’t dare. That hair and those coconuts are mine and mine alone,” I laughed.

“Mmm, don’t remind me, Grace. Not right now. I have a meet-and-greet in twenty minutes, and I don’t think I could explain away my current state of excitement.”

“Easy there, trigger. Only two more days and you can channel your excitement my way.”

He was going to be in town for literally twenty-four hours, at least sixteen of which were taken up by promotional and press obligations. I would be in rehearsals. The only time we’d have together would be night. Which was fine by me. I’d take what I could get.

I’d watched daily as his confidence grew, and the mobs increased. He’d had to start traveling with security, and each night his hotel was crawling with Joshua-lovers. He used aliases at each hotel, never checking in under Jack Hamilton. Once he used my name—a dangerous little game. A few times he used a combination of Holly’s name and my name, and then? Then he really starting having fun with it.

In the same week, in different cities across the country, if you were looking for Jack Hamilton, you could have found him under the names:

George McHair

Johnny Nuts

Sheridan McGeorge

And, my personal favorite:

Sophia Patrillo

Finally, he was in New York. I was on pins and needles all day, not only because he was here, but because I didn’t know when exactly I was going to get to see him. Rebecca was in town as well, having joined him for part of the movie tour, and we’d tentatively planned to meet at an Italian restaurant for dinner. He was once again in a hotel, this time the Plaza.

Nice.

We texted most of the day. He was all over town—on The Today Show, at Seventeen magazine, MTV Studios, radio stations—you name it and he was there, ending the day with a Super Sexy Scientist Guy event at the Museum of Natural History. One of his last texts made me blush…a lot.

Grace

I’m going to f**k you until you can’t see straight tonight.

Are you ready for that, Crazy?

Sweet mother of pearl…

George

Get. Over. Here. As. Soon. As. You. Can.

Make me see God!

Last one:

Grace

Will pick you up at the theater at 9 for dinner.

Will be in a black town car.

Panties are unnecessary.

That motherfucker. I still had four hours of rehearsal. How the hell was I going to get through this?

***

As I clicked my phone off, I giggled a bit. I could feel my face flushing. He never failed to get a reaction out of me, which was exactly his intent. As I smiled to myself, I noticed Michael watching me. He nodded to my phone.

“What?” I asked, still flushed.

“Hot date?” he asked, taking the seat next to mine.

“Um, well, yes. He’s only in town for a day, so we’re going out for dinner. He’s so busy right now. You should see the schedule they have him on.” I brushed my hair back from my face and tucked it into a sloppy bun, my constant hairstyle these days. There was one piece that never quite made it in, and I was forever fussing with it.

“That’s good. I mean, good that you get to see him for a night,” Michael said, watching me futz with my hair. “Your schedule’s been pretty busy too. Is he going to make it back out for the show?”

The curl fell out again. I pushed it back. “He says yes, but who knows with the amount of press he’s doing. He’s heading to England for the London premiere, and then to France. So I don’t know. I know he’ll try.” I sighed, feeling myself slump in my chair a little.

“Well, you’re going to be amazing. I know he’ll want to see that,” Michael added, still watching me struggle with my stupid curl.

“Thanks. We’ll see. I’m starting to get really nervous,” I admitted, making my eyes huge to mask how nervous I truly was.

“You’re not going to ruin another pair of my shoes are you?” he asked.

I immediately laughed. When we were in college, I had the lead in a musical—my biggest role since junior high. Michael was running the light board for the show, so he watched us rehearse each day. He’d offer me his critique each night as we walked home. His opinion was always important because as much as he enjoyed my singing, he was never just a Yes Man. He always gave honest feedback.

Opening night I showed up at his apartment, shaking. I was so nervous that when he opened the door, I threw up on his shoe. After he removed the unfortunate Adidas, we sat on his couch and listened to Toad The Wet Sprocket. He wrapped his arms around me and told me everything would be fine. That I would kick ass and take names. That I should never second-guess my talent. To trust myself.

In the end, I did kick ass. But I still tend to get nervous on opening night.

“Well, we’ll see won’t we?” I said, smiling as I returned to the present. “It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been on any real kind of stage, so I’d steer clear of my mouth.” I laughed, and the curl fell out one more time. “Blasted hair,” I muttered. We both reached for it at the same time.

He got there first. As I stared with wide eyes, he tucked it back into my bun, his hand lingering maybe just one second too long.

In that second, things began to change for us.

He looked at me with those brown eyes I remembered from all those years ago. Those brown eyes that used to light up when we’d laugh together. Those brown eyes that would deepen when we argued.

We’d been such great friends. We spent countless hours alone together—doing laundry, watching movies, cooking dinner—but the friendship we had was never anything more. Although I had very strong feelings for him that were definitely more than friendly, he seemed not at all interested in me romantically, so I kept them to myself.

But when I was onstage it was a different matter entirely. Every so often I would catch him looking at me, when his guard was down. The way looked at me when I was singing gave me hope that someday he might come to return my more-than-friendly feelings. I was head-over-heels in love with my friend Michael, and I wanted nothing more than for him to want me in the same way.

And then, that night came. In those brown eyes I had once, just once, seen my love for him mirrored back. Those brown eyes had closed tightly in passion during our one night together.

I’d thought of those brown eyes occasionally over the years, wondering what had happened to him and where he was. And now I’d come to know those brown eyes, trust those brown eyes, all over again. This time in New York.

Those brown eyes now looked back at me with confusion and trepidation and…something else? Was I imagining it? Was I just seeing what I wanted to see?

Wait, did I want to see that?

My phone beeped, and the eyes changed.

He pulled his hand away from my face as I looked at my phone.

I smiled sheepishly. “Holly,” I said.

He nodded and stood up. He started to walk away, then seemed to pause for a split second before continuing on. I pressed ignore on my phone and settled back into my chair, stunned by the rush of emotions I felt.

What the hell was going on? Michael was looking at me in a way that, well, I would have loved to have him look at me.

Ten years ago.

Not now.

Right?

I shook it off. I had to. I threw myself into the last part of rehearsal, losing myself in the show and the work of creating Mabel. This ate up the rest of the evening, and All Things Michael were locked safely in The Drawer to be forgotten.

When we finally broke for the night, it was only a few minutes before nine, and I was anxious to see Jack. I’d brought along some clothes for dinner, and I quickly changed—abandoning my regulation yoga pants and cami for a heather-gray wool wraparound dress Leslie and I had found at Bergdorf’s a few weeks ago. I paired it with knee-high black boots, giant hoop earrings, sassy red lipstick, and a huge smile.

I waited for him in the lobby of the theater, saying goodbye to some of the other cast members as they left. Several of the guys from the crew wolf-whistled at me, and I grinned. It was nice to know I could still clean up pretty well.

Michael walked out and said goodbye quickly, stopping at the door. He looked back as if he was about to say something, but then continued through the doors.

I was still pondering this development when my phone buzzed. It was the Brit.

“Hi,” I answered.

“Hi yourself. Are you ready?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’m ready. Where are you?” I asked, smoothing my dress once more.

“I’m outside in the car. I can see you in the lobby, Grace,” he said, voice almost a whisper.

“You can see me, can you? What am I doing?” I asked, bending over to pick up my purse from the bench, making sure to stand up slowly, arching my back and pushing my chest forward.

“Mmm, I love it when you bend.” He chuckled darkly.

“Now that’s one I haven’t heard before.” I laughed as I buttoned my calf-length camel leather coat over my dress and wrapped a red cashmere scarf around my neck.

“Fucking Nuts Girl, you know what it does to me when I see you in red.” He groaned.

“Well, then, you’ll love what’s underneath this dress,” I said, loving that he could see me and I couldn’t see him.