Page 41 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“I dunno,” Rafe says. “You just said one word. You almost shouted it. You said ‘Mom!’”
I want to duck under the water and stay there.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be embarrassed. Massages release all kinds of crazy, pent-up emotions,” Rafe chides me. “It’s only natural to miss our parents … and to worry that we might be like them. It’s actually worse for me now that I’m a dad.” He swigs from his second glass and floats in the water beside me. “God, this feels good. Orly wanted to ride on my shoulders all day yesterday, and my back was killing me. I needed that massage.”
So he wasn’t lying when he said he needed a massage.
“She’s lucky to have you,” I say.
“It goes both ways,” he says. “I didn’t expect to be a dad in my early thirties. When Orly’s mom asked me to be her daughter’s godfather, it didn’t even occur to me that something like this might happen. And while I hate how it happened, I can’t imagine not having her in my life now.”
I can’tnotask.
“How did it happen?” I flip onto my stomach and place my hands on the bench, stretching my shoulders and back as I float.
“Her mom died in a freak accident when Orly was a little under a year old. Allergic reaction to a medication.”
“Were you in love with her?” I stare down into the pool when I ask this question.
“She was a great girl, but no,” Rafe says. “Really beautiful soul, inside and out. She emigrated to Israel from Ethiopia as a teenager, and somehow she landed a regular role on the same TV show I was on. We were good friends, sometimes with benefits. And before you ask, no, Orly isn’t mine.”
“No judgment,” I say, flipping onto my back to float. I study the patterns made by the dappled sun coming through the vines.
“I wish she was,” he sighs.
“Well, she really is,” I say, speaking with authority. “She’s your daughter and you’re her father. Even though it took something tragic to make that happen, you’re still family.” I turn to look at him now. His face is impassive.
“I just hope I can live up to the challenge.”
“What do you mean?” I finish my Pinot and reach for a dark cab. “You’re rich, you’re famous, you’re successful …”
“I’m an actor,” Rafe says, picking up glass number three. “It’s hardly rocket science. Which, by the way, is what my brother-in-law does for a living. My sister, whom he’s married to, is a neurosurgeon. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In my family, I am not the success story. Trust me. You’re looking at the black sheep loser of the Barzilay clan.”
“Except, I’m not admiring you for your sparkling personality, right?” I splash him.
“Right.” Rafe laughs. “So youwerelooking.”
“Well of course I was looking, you idiot. I have a pulse.”
“Me, too,” Rafe says, scooting back toward me, just close enough that I can feel the tension of the water between us moving every time he shifts. Much to my surprise, he reaches out and takes my hand. “For the record, I really liked it when you looked.”
When he squeezes my hand, I don’t want him to let go. But he does. He stands and kisses me on the forehead before reaching for his towel.
“It’s time for my next treatment,” he says. “So long troll toes, hello fairy feet.”
“Thank goodness.” I stand and reach for my own towel. “The next time I see you, you really will be perfect.”
* * *
Rafe knocks on the changing room door. “Meet me in the lobby in five? I’ll just go settle the bill.”
I have to sit down on the bench. I don’t recognize myself.
With my hair blown out, makeup done, and new, fierce brows, I don’t look like me. I’m too shiny. Too smooth. It’s like every rough edge has been buffed away. Every stray hair plucked and every part perfected. My skin is glowing and my toes are shooting glitter sparks as the polish catches the light.
I drop my robe in the hamper and toss my tote over my shoulder as I head out to reception. I can’t help but stand a little taller and walk a little swishier. My hair is swishing. I feel like a million bucks.
Heather glances up from the desk and does a double take. “It’s been an honor having you here today,” she says. “And I love the blonde hair.”
