The powerful melody of Michael Nyman’s The Promise dominated the studio. The one thing within it the notes couldn’t control was the lithe body moving fluidly around the room. It was that body that seemed to control the melody. Each raise of the the arm, each extension of the leg, each subtle facial expression, each turn of the head, even each breath inhaled and exhaled was as powerful as it was graceful. The music seemed to flow from her rather than the expensive stereo built into the wall.

She embodied the music so completely and it was like nothing Justin Timberlake had ever seen before. The jumps, the spins, the way she moved on the tips of her satin-clad toes all seemed to transform the once frail little girl into this divine creature. Her sheer movement cast a spell over the whole room. The music eventually faded and Justin shook himself out of his haze. He grinned and began a slow, singular din of applause.

Her head snapped up, as if torn from her own haze and she gave him a curious smile. “Timberlake? What are you doing here?”

“We were having dinner at Mike’s restaurant and he got held up by some crisis in the kitchen. Bridget solicited volunteers to come get you.”

“Let me guess,” she smirked, “you lost.”

“Oh, hell no. We got into a brawl on the floor over who’d have the pleasure,” he winked.

“Aw, you’re sweet,” she winked back. “But a terrible liar.”

He grimaced and bowed his head in mock shame before the two exchanged soft laughs.

“I could have taken a cab, you know,” she continued, crossing the studio to turn off the stereo.

“Well, I don’t think Mike and Bridget are as sold on you being recovered as you are.”

“I don’t think I’m recovered,” she corrected. “But I can walk and I’m getting better and I can get myself home and back.”

“Well, you’re not going home,” Justin stated simply, walking over to where Regan was now knelt next to her bag, pulling out her sweats and sneakers. “I’m under direct orders to escort you back to the restaurant.”

She let out a frustrated groan as she stood up to slip on her sweatpants. Justin could tell she was frustrated in general. She couldn’t understand why no one else could understand what she was doing and how far she’d come in those few days. Where she saw it as a medical miracle, Mike eyed it with suspicion. Justin decided not to get into the topic either way with Regan. He felt the same as Mike, if not more so, about this “new” therapy. After all, he’d seen how far along her injury was the night in the diner and the fact that a scant seven days later, she was dancing like she’d never taken a wrong step in her life made him just a bit nervous.

But he also didn’t want to alienate her. She was the first person to enter his life in the past few years who looked at him and just saw Justin, not JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. She knew very well who he was— his celebrity— but she still treated him like any other 19-year-old guy she’d meet. He hadn’t been able to make a genuine friend in years.

She tied the draw strings on her sweats as he glanced down, noticing she was standing en pointe.

“God, doesn’t that hurt?” he grimaced.

“Not anymore,” she replied with a small smile.

“No I mean—”

“I know what you mean. It’s not that bad. It’s real easy to get blisters and soars, though, so you really have to take care of your feet,” she explained sitting on the floor and unwrapping the ribbons around her ankles.

“So you’re going on that tour next week?” Justin said, crouching down next to her.

“Yeah, I can’t believe it. We leave on Monday,” she beamed as she tied the laces of her sneakers. “Can you believe this time a week ago I could barely stand?”

No. “It’s true, I guess I believe it,” he dodged.

She picked up on the hesitancy in his voice but shook it off. Even if he shared Mike’s opinion on the matter, he was trying to be supportive and that meant the world to her at that moment. He was the only one even trying.

“Well, we’re flying out in the morning,” Justin continued. “Are you going to be in LA in the next five days?”

“Yeah, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I think,” she replied, her face falling a bit. She’d forgotten they were leaving the next day. Sure she’d see them, probably, while she was in Los Angeles but it wasn’t that they were leaving that had just struck her. It was a reminder of their lifestyle. Soon they’d be going on tour. The friendship she’d built-up with Justin was one she’d never had. She was always too busy. Her priorities always made her shut down on anyone who tried to get close to her. Boyfriends, forget it. She bailed on those kind of relationships within a couple of weeks. There was Bridget, sure, but the sister-in-law thing made it different. With Justin, there was no bond but friendship and she couldn’t remember how or when it formed. She’d been momentarily taken out of the game and while she was on the sidelines she got a real good look at what she’d been like. And somehow he snuck in.

And now she’d have to settle for rare phone calls and even rarer meetings. Why did he have to come into her life at the moment and be who he was? She laughed to herself at the irony.

“What?” he questioned.

“Huh?”

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” she dismissed, searching for a quick way to change the subject. “Oh, hey, do you remember that orderly from the hospital?”

“Yeah…” Where is she going with this?

“He called me,” she smiled devilishly. “We’re going out later when he gets off of work.”

“I see,” Justin commented tersely, standing up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just— never mind.”

“No, what?”

“I dunno, I mean, what do you even know about this guy?”

“Timber-fro, I already have an overbearing big brother. I don’t need a back-up.”

“C’mon, seriously,” Justin pushed.

“Well, he’s from Long Island. His father, George, is a pediatric surgeon, and his mother, Gale, is an obstetrician. He has four big brothers, Dan, Steve, Bobby, and Ryan who are all police officers in the metropolitan area. He’s had one serious girlfriend, Katie, whom he dated through high school until about six months ago when she moved to Mississippi to go to Law School at Ol’ Miss. His favorite color is red, he has a dog named Jake, and he likes to play soccer in his spare time. He’s graduating from NYU in May with a double BA in Biology and Psychology and will attend Columbia Medical School in the fall, making him the first and only of George and Gale’s five sons to follow in their footsteps. He hopes to spend some time traveling around Africa with the Peace Corps after he graduates and eventually wants to open his own family practice in Brooklyn where he plans to live while attending Columbia, moving from his Village studio which happens to be only five blocks from mine. He like Bruce Springsteen and still hopes against hope for a Clash reunion. He’s allergic to penicillin and his middle name is Benjamin after a grandfather he never knew. Would you like me to continue?”

Justin was stunned silent… for all of 30 seconds. “How the hell did you know all that already? You met him like five minutes ago!”

“First, of all you were the one who asked him to keep an eye on me. Second of all, we had an awful long time to get to know each other with how long they kept me waiting that night. And third of all, we had a nice long talk on the phone when he called last night. Anything, else you’d like to know?”

“Does he have a record?”

“Timberlake!”

“Just asking!”

“Well, don’t ask stupid questions!”

“I’m sure it won’t sound like a stupid question when he’s eating your liver with some beans and a bottle of Chianti!”

“That’s the last time I watch Silence of the Lambs with you!”

“Why are we yelling?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, let’s get out of here!”

“Ok!”

Five minutes later, they were on the West Side Highway in Mike’s black Civic. Regan chuckled inwardly as she watched Justin drive. He did not look like he should be driving a Honda Civic. Everything from the way he put the car in drive to the way he clenched the steering wheel, to the way he regarded to other cars in his rear-view mirror made it plain that this was not the steering column he belonged behind. What’s more, he looked like he knew it. It was highly amusing to his companion and it wasn’t long before her inward chuckles began to grow until she was fighting off full-blown giggles.

“Ok, what?” Justin demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Not gonna work this time, little girl.”

“Its nothing, really.”

“I’m going to pull this car over in 30 seconds if you don’t tell me.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Ok, how about I’m going to lock the window controls, roll yours down, and pull over next to that pedestrian-harassing wino over there.”

“Ok, ok,” she conceded with a laugh. “I keep forgetting you play dirty.”

“Well, I like to win,” he smirked, giving her a sideways glance.

“Believe me, that’s becoming abundantly clear.”

“So?”

“Oh, yeah. I was just wondering if you knew how you looked right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You look like your slummin’, driving a Civic,” she laughed.

“I do not,” he protested, ready to become full-blown defensive.

“Let, me guess, you drive some kind of sports car and five’ll get ya ten that it’s a Mercedes or an Audie.”

“See, I’d give you some perceptive points if it wasn’t common knowledge that I drive a Mercedes.”

“Ah, but I’m not one of your obsessed, lunatic, ‘must-know-everything’, teenie bopper—“

“Fans! They’re called fans! And watch what you say about ‘em cus not only are they unforgiving, but we happen to like them. I wouldn’t bust on your friends.”

“Whatever. The point is that I was right and you’re not about to take that satisfaction away from me even if it was something as insignificant as what kind of car you drive because I’ve been waiting since that night in the diner to have the last word with you, so just zip it!”

He conceded with a good-natured grin and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the Irish Gondola Restaurant and were greeted by Jim, the seventeen-year-old valet who, as usual, gave Regan a wink and a smirk and with her usual rueful shake of the head, they made their way inside. The music of the wandering serenaders and the din of dishes and conversation gave the atmosphere a festive quality without becoming oppressive. Regan was of the belief that the atmosphere as much as the food kept Mike’s clientele coming back.

“Hey, what took you so long!” a voice bellowed from a table in the back.

Regan searched the scene before her for about a second before she saw Mike standing and waving at a table full of people. She noted Joey, JC, Lance, and Chris immediately and it even seemed that Dave and Mark had cast off their normally stoic visages and were having a good time. As her eyes moved over the table she noticed some more familiar faces; Liz McMahon, the restaurant manager (who Bridget hated and therefore Regan hated), Carmen Rosario, a middle-aged exchange student who headed up the wait staff, and Dominic Lofaro, who Mike had either graced with a night off from the bar or was on break and about to be sent back to the bar.

“Reghan! La mia cara!” Carmen greeted as Regan and Justin approached the table.

“Buona sera, Carmen,” Regan smiled brightly as the stocky woman stood up to give her a hug and pair of kisses. “Como stai?”

“I’m very well, Regan, thank you.”

“You’ve been working on your English, no?”

“Its progressive,” Carmen smiled through her thick rounded r’s and accented vowels.

“So?” Mike asked.

“So, what?” Regan replied as Justin slinked around her to get back to his seat beside Chris.

“What took you two so long?”

“Oh, I heard the strip club down the block was hiring so we stopped in on the way back.”

“Oh, you’re a riot,” Mike replied, the sarcasm rolling off his tongue like Carmen’s r’s.

“Well, I heard it’s a great living if this ballet thing doesn’t work out and you always said I should have something to fall back on,” she continued innocently. “Justin thinks I nailed my audition so, all we can do now is cross our fingers.”

“Ok, ok, enough,” Mike said covering his hands with his ears, displaying that his right one was bandaged.

“What the hell happened to you?” Regan asked, concerned.

“There was a minor incident involving a Ginsu knife and an open flame, but not to worry,” he said rapidly while guiding her over to an empty chair. “Sit, I’ll getcha something to eat. What do you feel like tonight?”

“Actually,” she began, turning out of the arm Mike had draped around her shoulder, “I have a date tonight so I’m just going to mosey on back to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich.”

“Hold your horses, young lady,” Mike said grabbing onto one of her pigtails as she walked away.

“Ouch! What?”

“Date? Date with who?”

“Jack. You met him at the hospital.”

“The orderly?”

“Yup.”

“Where is all this coming from?”

“Mike, you have a wife and child. Do you really need me to explain why a boy asks out a girl?”

“I know exactly why, and that’s my problem, here.”

“Mike, I’m nineteen. Deal.”

“Maybe, I don’t wanna.”

“Tough!”

“Regan—”

“Please!” Bridget exclaimed. “This was cute for a while. But it stopped being cute about four years ago, children. I have a four-year-old at home who’s more mature than you two.”

“Sorry,” they both shrugged in reply.

“Regan, go make your sandwich and Mike, with Regan’s relationship track record, I think this kid is the only one in danger, here, so give the display over-protectiveness a rest, for Christ’s sake.”

“So our, little Regan is a vixen?” Chris snickered, straighten in his seat.

“Heatbreaker,” Bridget confirmed with a wink.

“Yeah, I can see that about you,” JC grinned.

“That’s sweet, thanks,” Regan replied wryly. “I’m going to go to the kitchen now. Try not to talk about me too much,” she continued, eyeing each person at the table. “Juju-bean, wanna keep me company?”

“Sure,” Justin said, rising from his seat, trying to ignore the glances most everyone at the table was giving one another. “Grow up,” he muttered under his breath.

“There she was just a walking down the street singing doo-wah-dity-dity-dum-dity-doo! Snapping her fingers and shuffling her feet singing doo-wah-dity-dity-dum-dity-doo!” Chris Kirkpatrick was a little more obnoxious than usual this morning.

“Chris, I need for you to take it down a notch,” JC instructed from underneath sleepy, hooded eyes.

“Aww, are we going through a little Chicks withdrawal this morning?” Chris crooned, batting his eyelashes.

“Tread lightly, Chris. I’m not in the mood,” he responded, his subsequent yawn undermining the warning.

“I’d shake myself out of that mood before this woman gets here, if I were you, JC,” Lance said, plopping down on the couch between the two men.

Justin sat across the room finishing what was left of his toast. He looked around the suite noting how much more extravagant it was than the last one they’d stayed in… and missing Regan. The two thoughts had nothing to do with each other and the fact they came in simultaneously made him worry about what she was starting to mean to him.

Regan Costelloe, a name that meant nothing to him two weeks before, was fast becoming a name that never failed to produce a physical reaction. And everyone who’d been in New York with him knew it. The flight out to LA had been a particularly fun exercise in making the youngest of the group squirm.

Subtly they’d work her name into conversation at first, chuckling at how Justin would give a small smile at her name or start to worry his lip between his teeth or fidget his fingers or bounce his knee up and down.

He didn’t notice that they were doing it on purpose until the conversation began to lull and Chris, getting that familiar gleam in his eye, leaned into the young man beside him and shouted, “Regan, Regan, Regan!” into the poor kid’s ears. Causing him to jump a foot above his chair. “That’s what I call a reaction,” Chris had concluded smugly, leaning back with his hands behind his head, while the rest dissolved into laughter.

“Hey, curly!” Joey called from one of the other rooms, snapping Justin back into the present.

“What?”

“I forgot to tell you that Regan called last night,” he informed the young man as he entered the room. He tossed Justin his cell phone before making his way to the opposite side where the others were sitting.

“Joe, why do you have my cell?” he asked trying to come off as more annoyed that Joey had his phone than that Joey forgot to tell him Regan called him on it.

“Mine died last night before we went out and you were asleep.”

“You stole my phone while I was sleeping?” Mentally, he reminded himself to tone it down. Taking the cover-up too far would only serve to confirm what he was trying to cover-up. No one would believe that he was pissed Joey borrowed his phone for the night.

“You were unavailable for consultation,” Joey shrugged, taking a seat in an empty chair near the other three.

Justin was relieved Joey hadn’t picked up on what was really bothering him, but then again Joey had a tendency to be oblivious to those kind of subtleties. However, there were three other men in the room who were very good on picking up in those kind of subtleties. One blond-haired boy had since attached his own cell to his ear, one was still half-asleep, and one, unfortunately for Justin, was feeling particularly obnoxious that morning.

“So, Regan called you, huh?” Chris called across the room.

“That’s what Joey said,” Justin replied irritably still trying to play it off.

“I don’t know why you don’t just smooch on the girl and get it over with.”

“Maybe because it’s not like that with us,” Justin countered, climbing to his feet.

“Yeah, besides what would she want with your pretty-boy ass?” Chris smirked. “I kinda got the impression she was hot for JC, anyway.”

“Huh?” JC grunted coming out of his catatonic state at the mention of his name.

Nothing,” Justin spat. “Chris is just being a prick.”

“Prick?”

“Did I stutter?”

“That’s not nice,” Chris pouted.

“You have serious emotional problems,” Justin shook his head.

“But I’m so darned cute.”

“No, that’s me,” Lance laughed, joining the conversation and tucking his cell in his pocket.

“You’re both wrong,” Joey grinned. “I’m the cute one and everyone knows it.”

“I thought I was the cute one,” JC smirked, opening one eye. He was met with a pillow to the face compliments of Chris. “Oh, its on now!”

Within seconds there was a jumble of arms and legs rolling around on the floor growing until only Justin was standing. He regarded the mess of flailing limbs with a bored look on his face. “You’re all wrong,” he commented matter-of-factly amidst the grunts and vague laughter of the wrestling boys who all paused and looked up at his words.

“Lance is the shy Southern Gentleman, Joey is the happy-go-lucky good-time boy, JC is the stoic heartthrob, Chris is the zany big brother, and I, my friends, am most certainly, the cute one.”

The four still tangled on the floor, looked at each other silently for a moment before turning back to Justin. “NAH!” they laughed in unison grabbing the, now grinning young man, and pulling him into the fray.

The door to the suite opened a moment later, a fact lost on the tussling brothers.

“Ahem…” one of the unnoticed guests cleared his throat as he took in the scene before him.

The boys froze and looked up to see their manager Johnny Wright, giving their expected guest a ‘boys-will-be-boys’ look of apology. Next to him stood a young, dark-haired woman wearing a warm smile and a pair of laughing eyes. The boys quickly untangled themselves and stood, brushing themselves off.

“Sorry about that,” Lance said, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, someone lost their contact lense,” Chris chuckled.

“None of you wear contacts,” Johnny pointed out with a crooked smile.

“Oh yeah…” JC said thoughtfully. “Well, that all just seems plain silly now, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, we’re just knuckle-heads that way,” Joey laughed, jabbing JC in the side.

“Well, knuckle-heads,” Johnny began, “this is Grace Roberts, you’re new media consultant.”

“Hi guys,” she greeted, extending her hand, which each of them took with a welcoming smile.

“I’ve got some calls to make,” Johnny announced. “I’ll let you all get acquainted.”

Grace’s eyes followed as Johnny exited the room before she turned to the guys with a bright smile. “Shall we sit?”

Once they were all seated, Grace took a pad from her briefcase and sat a pair of reading glasses on her nose. “Ok, guys, “ she started, her tone suggesting she was all business, “I’m here because the boys at Jive thought you might take to me a little better than you did to Mr. LaRusso.”

“Seriously, that guy an super-sized stick up his—”

“He was a little rigid,” JC finished Chris’s tirade after clamping a hand over the older man’s mouth.

“I see,” Grace laughed softly with a shake of her head. “Well the other reason they thought I’d work out better is that I’m a kind of independent contractor. I’m not employed by Jive’s PR department. I have my own little firm, based in New York. I’m not trying to impress anyone or get ahead. My business only survives by results. Basically, Jive had hired me for you. You don’t like the job I do, fire me,” she explained, attempting to stay professional despite their hilariously shocked faces. “In other words, Nsync is my collective boss and Jive is just along for the ride.”

“What’s the catch?” Joey said breaking the silence that followed her last statement.

“The catch, my boy, lies in the fact that I’m your fourth media consultant since you made the move to Jive. You have to start taking this end of the business as seriously as you do the music and the performing because it can break you just as easily if not more so as a mediocre album.”

“Miss Roberts—”

“Grace, please.”

“Grace, we do take it seriously. What we’re sick of is being sent people who only seem to want to tell us what to do and how to run our lives when they don’t know the first thing about our lives,” JC explained calmly but firmly.

“I can certainly respect that. But if you have been told how to run your lives, it’s because you’ve allowed people to. There are no boys in this boyband. You’re adults. A media consultant is just that— a consultant. I’m going to give advice on what I think will keep you and the people who depend on you in jobs. Take that advice or leave it. Its your lives.”

“So you’re main tactic will consist of ever-popular yet seldom mastered guilt-trip, I assume,” Justin smirked.

“Guilt trip?” Grace replied, cocking her head to one side. “Only if reminding you of your responsibility to hundreds of people and the role your image plays in that can be called a guilt trip.”

“I see how it’s gonna be with this one,” Joey laughed.

“And as for not knowing anything about your lives, Mr. Chasez, let’s begin fixing that problem,” she said uncapping her pen and preparing to get down to work— all the while keeping her eyes locked on JC.

“Have you heard back from Justin, yet?” Bridget asked as she watched Regan move back and forth between her dresser and the suitcase on her bed.

“No, not yet,” Regan answered, exhaling a deep breath. “Have you seen my long black cardigan?”

“Yeah, in my closet,” Bridget replied sheepishly. “I’ll bring it when I pick you up in the morning.”

“That’s fine,” Regan agreed, scratching her head, wondering what she was forgetting.

“So you haven’t talked to him at all since… a… you know,” Bridget said, bringing the conversation back to where she wanted it.

“No! Jesus, why do you care if I talked to Timberlake or not?”

“Its just that after what happened—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Nothing happened! Mike thinks he saw something that wasn’t what he thinks and you can tell him I don’t appreciate him spreading gossip.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, kiddo. Deep breaths. I believe you.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Ok, fine. While we’re discussing topics people would rather not discuss, why don’t you tell me about you and JC?”

“What about me and JC?”

“There is something you have not told me about you two and the pre-Mike years, isn’t there?

“Oh, hey, I’ve got one. Why don’t you tell me about how things are going with Jack? Getting bored, yet? This is around the time they get the boot isn’t it? Oh wait, it’s been two days since the first date, he’s way over due for the big brush off.”

“I have things to do,” Regan pouted, turning back to her dresser.

“Fine, I’ll just go home. Maeve’s probably coming down from her sugar high as we speak and Mike has no idea how to handle de-tox,” Bridget sighed, regretting what she’d said. She pulled on her jacket and made her way to the door.

“Don’t’ forget my sweater,” Regan called after her, giving her a reassuring smile when she turned back.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

As the door clicked behind Bridget, Regan ran her hands through her hair, exhaustedly. She wished Bridget had never brought up Justin. He still hadn’t called back and she needed his reassurance that what Mike thought he saw that night was what she was rationalizing it as. If he couldn’t she’d have to fess up, at least to herself, that she was deluding herself.

Then there was Jack. While, Bridget was absolutely right about her relationship history, Jack was different. The time she’d spent with him that weekend had been amazing. He was amazing. They had so much in common and he seemed to be genuinely interested in her and her dreams. What’s more he lived in New York.

Another thing that made her so comfortable was his support of what she was doing with Dr. Boland. She waited for someone to understand. Mike and Bridget were less than helpful in that area and while Justin tried, she could tell he was only keeping his mouth shut for her sake. The truth was, she had her own doubts and she didn’t need people around her making her worry even more. She needed someone to assure her that she was doing the right thing, who actually believed it. There was Boland, but she couldn’t get around the doctor thing. While she was beginning to get over her issues there was still that bit of mistrust in medicine that made him less than comforting. Jack filled that spot like he was sent to her for that purpose. To help her do what she had to do. To help get her life back.

“Ok, now Regan, how does that feel?” asked Kyle Baxter, the physical therapist Boland brought in specially to work on Regan’s case.

“Jesus, it feels like all the pressure’s been lifted off. What the hell was in that injection?”

She was in awe. Fifteen minutes before, Dr. Boland had injected his mystery serum into the inner muscles directly below each of her ankles. Whatever it was, was beginning to take effect and she couldn’t get over the immediate relief she felt.

“Well, its not magic and its not permanent either,” Dr. Boland began, rising from his seat across the room. “The injection is something I’ve been working on with other orthopedists around the country. Like I said in the hospital, it’s still experimental but at this point we’re pretty sure of what kind of results to expect. Your ankles will start to feel better and better as the treatments go on but for the first few times, it’ll feel like it simply wares off after a while. But in a few days, you should be able to train at full strength which means the West Coast Tour just may be in your future yet.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Regan shook her head. “What exactly is this stuff doing?”

“Ok,” Dr. Boland said taking a knee in front of Regan. He picked up one of her feet and began to explain. “Here are where your injured tendons are,” he ran his finger over the area, giving Regan a chill down her spine. “I injected you here. It turns these muscles here into a kind of cushion so your tendons are held in place and not stretched. This way, you can continue to walk, dance, run, while the injury heals. It was designed not to help heal but to allow injured dancers and athletes to continue to train and perform while their injury heals. Once we get out of the experimental phase, this will completely revolutionize physical therapy.”

It was clear to see the pride in Boland’s eyes. This was his life’s work and was going to be his claim to fame. Regan didn’t know whether or not to find comfort in that thought. On one hand, for him everything depended on this injection being successful. On the other hand, if he was obsessive about it, he might not really care about the safety of his experiments. The kind of glazed over look he got while he explained wasn’t too inspiring. But her ankles felt great and here he was telling her that she’d be dancing again in a matter of days.

“Regan, I sensed, you’re worried. Don’t be. I’m going to make it my personal mission to get you dancing again and better than ever, if that’s even possible. Kyle, as, well, which is why ABT has retained him to work only with you for the next several months.”

“Really?” she said, surprise lacing her tone.

“Absolutely. My brother knows a good investment when he sees one.”

After locking the door behind Bridget, she crossed the room, her eyes passing over the photographs on the wall. She missed her father. He always knew the right thing to say but she couldn’t bring herself to pick up the phone. In his head, she was that perfect princess he’d told Mae about. The past weeks proved her to have the same human frailties as everyone else. She couldn’t bear to shatter that image he had of her. She knew it was selfish. She couldn’t bear for him to look at her the way he looked at her mother.

She curled up in her window seat and pulled up the blinds, lazily. There was just way too much swimming around in her head. She let her gaze fall from the rain that was pounding on the windowsill to the lamp table beside her. The Polaroid JC had taken of her and Justin before they got on the plane Saturday morning sat there, unassuming but pulling all of her scattered thoughts to a sharp point with that night at the restaurant at the apex.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You always squish your sandwiches down before you eat them.”

“Ok, that little trick of yours is getting irritating, Cap’n Perceptive.”

“Its not a trick. I’m just observant.”

“Whatever.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Your sandwich squishing.”

“Oh right.”

“Well?”

“I dunno. To avoid undue stress on my demure little mouth?”

“You’re odd. Do you know that?”

“Yeah. And extraordinarily talented. We are few and far between but we are usually odd as well. You should know that. Didn’t you get the Extraordinarily Talented Newsletter this month?”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Take it as you will.”

Regan and Justin sat in the one small corner of the kitchen that wasn’t in the way. Carlo, Mike’s other chef was frantic trying to pick up Mike’s slack since he was going to be useless for the rest of the night due to the accident with his hand.

“God it is so hot in here,” Regan sighed. “Let’s go outside for a sec,” she suggested pointing to the kitchen door that led to the alley.

Justin followed her, noting how she threw out half of her already small turkey sandwich.

Once outside, Regan let a satisfied sigh escape her lips and they both propped themselves up next to the wall on the either side of the door.

So you really like this Jack guy?”

“Yeah, I do,” she nodded decisively.

“Then I hope he deserves that,” Justin replied, a dead-serious ring in his tone.

“Thanks, Timberlake,” she smiled, reaching across to playfully nudge his arm.

“My name is Justin, you realize.”

“I know.”

He shook his head at her defiant tone. She wasn’t going to call him Justin any time soon. She’d slipped at the hospital but she was also scared to death so he wasn’t about to bring that up.

They stood in a comfortable silence enjoying the cool air when the opening notes of One for My Baby drifted to their ears from the radio in the kitchen window.

They looked at each other with a small smile playing on each of their faces.

“Carlo is a big Francis Albert Sinatra fan,” she winked.

“May I have this dance?”

“You’re joking right?”

He answered only by grinning wickedly and holding out his hand.

She matched his grin and raised him a playful wink as she took his hand and pulled her out further into the ally.

He raised her right hand up in his to his chest and held her other down at their sides as they began to sway with a gentle bounce to the temperate beat of the classic tune.

It was nice. There they were, to friends, enjoying each others company, dancing to Frank and not feeling anything. Nope, no feelings here. Regan began to sing softly along with Sinatra’s smooth tone which brought a quite smile to Justin’s face. She really was beautiful.

“Hey guys, whatcha doing?” Mike questioned from the doorway intending the reaction he got. They pulled away quickly not noticing that the final notes of the song had dwindled and the next track took its place.

She picked up the picture and looked at it closely. He was wearing a navy bucket hat that hid his unruly curls that he hadn’t wanted to deal with that morning. His smile was infectious. That had been one of the first things she’d noticed about him. He hadn’t used it much when they first met but even then, she could tell. It wasn’t the smile that the photographers captured but the real genuine smile of a very special nineteen-year-old boy.

Her own hair was covered by a Blue Devil’s cap, she’d stolen from one of her passing relationships. She couldn’t even remember which but Justin certainly had something to say about it. She couldn’t care less about college basketball, but he took it as a personal affront that she’d worn Duke memorabilia around him. She studied her own smile. She’d spent hours in front of the mirror studying her facial expressions. It was helpful to portraying the music with her whole body.

But this was a smile she recognized only vaguely. She looked over to one of her pictures on the wall. Her dad was a free-lance photographer as a hobby, apart from the Dublin Pub he owned. He’d taken so many pictures of her but the one she looked at now was her favorite. It was a year she couldn’t remember but Mike was still in college down in Florida. Both were back home for Christmas. She hadn’t seen him since Easter but he had to go back the day after Christmas because he’d gotten a coveted internship at a restaurant in Orlando. It was a picture taken in front of their house right before he left. That was the smile. It was the smile of being next to someone you cared about that wouldn’t be there five minutes after the flash went off.

“What did I get myself in to?” she thought out loud as she climbed down off the window seat. She tucked the picture into one of the pockets of her carry-on and fell backwards onto her bed. Moments later, she crawled over to her bed stand to grab her phone. She’d forgotten she promised to call Jack before she left.

lildev3@hotmail.com