Wait for me, p.1
Wait for Me, page 1
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Union Square & Co., LLC, is a subsidiary of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Text © 2022 Sara Shepard
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4549-4579-6 (e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022015109
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Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
Interior design by Marcie Lawrence
Cover image by Terry Bidgood / Trevillion Images
Cover and interior image (waves) by Karl Lundholm Images/Shutterstock.com
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
To Kevin and Julie
It’s a killer day for a wedding.
The temperature is warm but not too warm. The sky, a brilliant, cloudless blue, sparkles off the waves. The seagulls’ cries are musical, and the air is fragrant with salt and the sweet flowers that grow wild on the dunes. A helicopter, heading in from the city, glides over the water, bringing in guests who are too important to wait on the clogged highways. Maybe these are guests for this event. Your event.
You stand in the grand room that overlooks the beach. This room alone is bigger than any house you’ve ever lived in. It’s the length of a bowling alley, with a marble fireplace and leather furniture so soft you question how it could have come from cowhide. You are sitting in a club chair like a queen. A makeup artist leans over you, putting the final touches on your lips and cheeks. When she’s finished, she spins you around, and you look at yourself in the large antique mirror against the wall. What you see doesn’t look like you anymore but like a pretty, perky princess about to be feted. You’re going to be the toast of this seaside hamlet.
“Perfect,” the makeup artist says, adding a final puff to your cheeks. She hums a few bars from a familiar song. In seconds, you realize why you know it: it’s Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” Not what you need today. That song makes you think of the not-so-distant past. When things were so . . . different.
The makeup artist comes into your field of view again. Her eyes dance up and down your figure, which is swathed in a lacy white dress. You think it makes you look like a doily, but it was your soon-to-be husband’s grandmother’s dress, and he likes to honor tradition.
Your soon-to-be husband. You feel a groundswell beneath you.
“Hun?”
The makeup artist’s face is close to yours now, her perfectly shaped brows knit with concern. “You’ve lost all that beautiful color I just brushed on you,” she says. “You all right?”
“I bet it’s nerves!”
Someone new has burst into the room, and you turn. A woman walks in wearing a tight tweed suit that likely cost a fortune—and who wears tweed at this time of year? She smells like she’s dumped the whole bottle of floral perfume on her pulse points. This is for sure one of your fiancé’s aunts. You’ve met so many of them so far; all of them pluck and preen you like you’re a prized animal in a fair. This one—Katherine? Matilda?—stands with her arms crossed and a know-it-all look on her face.
“I’d be nervous, too,” she says. “You’ve got a lot to live up to, dear.”
“Yeah, but she’s ready.” The makeup artist gives you a nudge. “Right?”
You feel their expectant stares. They’re waiting for you to say something. So you muster a smile. You need to be ready. To say your betrothed is a good catch is an understatement. But you’ve got this.
You hope.
The aunt comes closer, looking at you worriedly. “You do look like you need a stiff drink, dear.”
“She even old enough?” Another woman chuckles.
“I’ll get you some wine,” the makeup artist says, turning. “Don’t worry. Every bride is nervous before the big moment.”
The big moment. Your gaze slides to the patio door. “Maybe I’ll just step outside? Feeling a little stuffy.” You’re out before they can even reply.
The sliding door leads into a small, open area that overlooks the water and provides a direct walkway down to the sand. Your heels click on the patio stones. You stare out at the waves, trying to find a rhythm to your breathing.
The tide is far out. A few towels still dot the beach; on them lie diehard sun worshippers reluctant to bid goodbye to the day. Down the shore are a battalion of pink cabanas; they belong to the exclusive beach club you’ve passed by your whole life but never had the privilege of stepping inside. Your fiancé is a member; soon enough, if you wish, you can be, too. It should be an exciting prospect.
But you know why it isn’t.
To your right is the shiny new pier built just last year; it replaced the old, crumbling one that had been there for decades. You’d heard those on this side of town—the side with money—complained about the old pier, calling it an eyesore, so down it went. But you miss the old structure. So many of your memories are tied to it: standing far out on its planks, licking a perfect strawberry ice cream cone. Playing handheld video games on its steps with your friends from school. Sitting on one of its benches, as close as you could to him, that other boy, your heart throwing off sparks, your mind somersaulting with glee. If you stare hard enough at this new pier, you can almost see the old one superimposed on top of it like a ghost. You can almost see that beautiful boy coming toward you, too, smiling, stretching out his arms.
“There’s my girl,” you can almost hear him say. “You waited for me.”
Stop thinking about him, you scold. It’s going to ruin you.
You look over your shoulder. Your thoughts feel too naked, your desires too exposed. It’s wrong to be thinking of the other boy now, and you know it. There’s a reason he isn’t here right now. Promises were broken. He forgot about you.
But you can’t stop thinking of him. Against your better judgment, you reach into your clutch and pull out his picture. Your heart squeezes. You think of the clandestine phone call you made to his parents’ house this morning. There you were, scrunched into that tiny back hall, your ears perked for intruders. You were using the cell phone your soon-to-be husband purchased for you—you’d never had one before. It felt wrong, using this new device to call him.
But you had to. You just wanted to know.
You’re glad no one answered, though, and after you hung up, you figured out how to erase the number from the call log. You shouldn’t toy with this new life. You definitely shouldn’t go back on your word to your almost-husband.
You shrug your shoulders, tuck the photo back in your purse, and turn to go inside. It’s time. Time to grow up. Time to let go. Time to forget your past and your winsome, blue-flame-hot first love. True, pure, timeless love, like what you had—it isn’t realistic. This new path? It’s a good one. A safe one. It will set you up for life.
But as you reach for the knob, you sense footsteps on the wooden walkway. You freeze just as a hand slithers around your waist. You’re pulled backward, your feet lifting off the ground, your lungs suddenly crushed flat. You try to scream, but a hand presses over your mouth.
“Shh,” a voice hisses in your ear. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
And then you see nothing at all.
I wear many disguises. Minimalist ones, street-cool graffitied ones, and ones you’d find in a steamer trunk, carefully preserved. People might see my disguises as near copies of one another, just a tiny detail demarcating one from the next, but for me, each costume is a different Casey Rhodes for a different situation.
I’m studious, should-still-be-in-high-school Casey as I attend my fourth upperclassmen-level course of the day at New York University. I’m savvy, born-and-bred Brooklyner Casey who has no qualms about calling out the ogling pervert on the N train. And, since the most eligible nineteen-year-old guy in New York City has become my boyfriend, I’ve had to bust out a few new disguises. Cultured Casey, who’s perfectly comfortable letting my boyfriend’s doorman snag her a cab. Smug(ish) Uptown Casey who’s trying not to wince in the slightly-too-small Prada heels she bought on consignment but look almost new.
I wear disguises because, for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt it easier to be a character than my true, vulnerable self. May be everyone feels this way . . . at least a little. For me, the only way I can tamp down my anxiety of living in the world is to put myself behind a mask. It’s gotten me through seventeen years. I must be doing something right.
Today, there’s a new disguise I’m wearing as I’m heading toward the Metropolitan Opera where I’m meeting Marcus. This version of me is the most valuable in my costume collection—and the trickiest to pull off. This Casey disguise is the most confident and refined, one that screams, I’m the Casey Who Deserves Things. I’m the Casey Who Belongs. In this case, the disguise isn’t just metaphorical, it’s a literal one, too. I’ve got on a beautiful, silk, silver-colored gown with a halter neck and tall velvet heels, and I’m holding a small, beaded clutch purse. My dark hair is curled down my back. I spent hours on my makeup. What I am wearing on my body, at present, is probably worth more than the amount in my bank account. All of it is my armor.
“Gimme your location,” my friend and roommate, Pippa, says breathlessly through the phone. She’s called me for the play-by-play. “How close are you?”
“Columbus Circle.” I sniff the air. “Ugh, that deli smells like sauerkraut. Hope the stink doesn’t seep into my dress.”
“Are you walking? On the actual street?” Pippa sounds like her head might explode. “Why didn’t you get Marcus to send his driver?”
“I took the subway,” I confess. “Just got off at Lincoln Center. I can see the fountain.”
“Please tell me you’re joking and didn’t walk up actual subway stairs in that gown.”
“It’s not that big of a deal. I even scored a seat!” I try to laugh, but maybe this isn’t funny—Pippa’s the one who footed the bill for my gown. I left the tags on, though. Our hope is that once this night is over, she can return it to Saks for a full refund. I’m praying that the hem doesn’t drag on the ground—I’m only five foot one, and technically I should have had the thing altered, but then I definitely wouldn’t have been able to take it back.
Fine. I should have taken a cab at the very least. Except I don’t ride in cars if I don’t have to. Ever. It’s kind of one of those things that’s too hard to explain.
“So what’s going on at the shop? What am I missing?” I ask Pippa as I wait at a light. (Admittedly, I do look a little unusual, clad in my fancy dress, amid all these people in their office wear.) Pippa and I became NYU college roommates this September. The second week of school, we both took a job at Pet Planet, an organic pet supply store not far from our dorm. We even wrangled it so that we work the same shifts most of the time. “Did that old lady who always wears Chanel suits come in with her Shiba Inu? Did we get a new shipment of snails? Someone was asking the other day . . .”
“Casey, we are not talking about the pet store,” Pippa snaps. “Not with you heading to the biggest party of the season.”
“No pressure!” I say lightly—though it comes off sounding kind of crazed. “Especially since I should be cramming for the Shakespeare exam. And art history. And advanced calculus.” I think of my textbooks piled on my desk. It’s kind of an overwhelming thought, though, so I push it out of my brain. “Actually, I have to go. I’m basically here.”
“You are the luckiest girl alive, and I hate you. Tell me every detail when it’s over, okay?” Pippa breaks into a high-pitched ee sound. “This is going to be amazing!”
“You just punctured my eardrum.”
I hang up. My heart bangs against the dress’s bodice as I catch sight of elegant people heading through the opera house’s doors. And when I see Marcus—my boyfriend—waiting for me in front of the Met’s famous fountain, my stomach starts to churn. I hold the hem of my gown. I pray I don’t trip in my heels.
Marcus watches me coming toward him. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says as I get close. “Wow.”
“Wow yourself,” I murmur, my voice a little off-pitch.
His body is backlit by the fountain’s colorful lights. He’s dressed in a black tuxedo with a matching cummerbund. Most guys at Marcus’s age look like they’re playing dress-up in a tux—all coat-hanger shoulders or pudgy frat-boy bodies in crooked bowties. But Marcus’s white teeth gleam as brightly as the expensive Rolex watch he inherited from his grandfather. His black loafers are understated, but I was with him when he bought them. I had to control my reaction when I glanced at the discreet price tag, mentally compiling all the things that money could have paid for. A used but decent late-model laptop. Two credit hours. Several doctor’s appointment fees, paid for in cash because my father and Fran have decided to no longer include me on their health insurance plan.
“Anyway,” I say after Marcus looks me up and down. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Marcus laughs. “You really think I would’ve asked someone else?” He touches my cheek. “You look amazing, Casey. You’ll be amazing. You ready?”
I nod, but I can’t speak. Am I ready? I’ve never been to anything like this before.
I feel guests’ double takes as they pass. Likely, they’re looking at Marcus because they recognize him. See, Marcus’s family owns one of the largest entertainment conglomerates in the world, Coleman Media. Marcus’s great-grandfather, Maurice Coleman, started it as a small publishing house at the turn of the twentieth century. After nurturing writers who went on to write classics and win Pulitzers and Nobels, Coleman Press grew and grew.
From there, Maurice Coleman bought up newspapers, magazines, television stations. He then passed the empire to Marcus’s grandfather, who passed it Roland in the early 2000s. Apparently, there was a little hiccup with the business when his dad took it over—Marcus said the company nearly went under, but a business associate bailed him out with a generous loan. But now, more than two decades later, Roland has turned it into an enormous dynasty, not only with massive offices all over the world but a fleet of private planes, a town named after the family in Georgia, several movie studios under their control, and a prestigious literary award presented every year in some Scottish castle.
Pippa wasn’t kidding about this being the coveted event of the holiday season: the Coleman Media holiday party invite list is basically a Who’s Who of everyone interesting in New York City.
And Marcus. Despite not even working in the family business yet, Marcus has nearly a million followers on social media. The guy posts a brand of sneakers he’s into, and suddenly those shoes are sold out everywhere. If he posts a picture of himself tanning shirtless near the Reservoir in Central Park? It breaks Instagram. He’s friends with young filmmakers, fellow heirs to Fortune 500 companies, TikTokers and hip-hop artists alike. And now I’m tied to him, thanks to a chance meeting two months ago. It’s no wonder the online gossips call me Cinderella. Everyone has posed the question: Why would Marcus Coleman go for a seventeen-year-old NYU scholarship student from an untrendy neighborhood in deep Brooklyn?
You don’t think I’m asking myself that same thing?
Everyone’s gaze slides from Marcus to me, and my spine straightens. I pray that my lipstick hasn’t smudged, my nails haven’t chipped, and that I don’t smell like the sauerkraut that was wafting from that deli. But no eyes widen as I pass. There are no furrowed brows of confusion over why I am at such an important event on this It Guy’s arm. Instead, I receive pleasant smiles and complacent nods. I might actually be meshing with this crowd, which feels like a small miracle. I almost want to text Pippa and tell her the good news.
But then my stomach clenches. This isn’t even the first hurdle. This is nothing.
“You must be Casey!” a woman with ash-blond hair swept into a French twist croons as Marcus and I walk into the grand lobby. It’s a splendor of red carpeting, crystal chandeliers, and sparkling Christmas ornaments on so many trees, banisters, tables, and columns that I feel that I’ve fallen into a snow globe.
The woman’s cold fingers clasp mine. But her voice isn’t cold at all. Neither are her eyes, which are welcoming and kind. “I’m so excited to meet you!” she says, looking me up and down.
“Casey, this is Miranda, my father’s longtime assistant.” Marcus leans down a bit to speak closer to my ear—I’m a good eight inches shorter than he is. He smells like the deep woods—like mossy, smoky secrets. “She basically runs Dad’s life.”
“Oh, well, I’m not sure that’s true.” Miranda ducks her head bashfully, though if Marcus’s stories about Miranda are correct, she’s like a pit bull with Roland Coleman’s schedule and has a memory like a steel trap. But maybe she, too, wears a disguise—one of a quietly powerful woman who needs to file down her sharp edges to seem more feminine and nonthreatening.
