Public Secrets

Marianne came in at dawn, shadow-eyed and bubbling with stones. Worse were the nights Blackpool stayed in the apartment, in Marianne’s studio. In Marianne’s bed.
With all her heart she wanted to wish for Marianne’s happiness. Marianne was happy. She was wildly in love for the first time with a man who by all appearances adored her. She was living the exciting, glittery, and decadent life they had both pined for while trapped within Saint Catherine’s prim walls.

It annoyed Emma to find herself jealous and critical. She resented not having Marianne to talk to, and called herself petty. It irritated her to see the glow of lovemaking on Marianne’s face. And she called herself spiteful.
But with all that aside, Emma couldn’t make herself comfortable with Marianne’s romance. He was a gorgeous, exciting, and talented man. There was no denying that, especially as she studied the drying prints. She had agreed, with Marianne’s urging, to photograph Blackpool. He had been a perfect gentleman, Emma remembered. At ease, amusing, flattering—in the platonic manner suited to her roommate’s lover.
Lover. With a wistful little sigh, Emma frowned at the prints. Perhaps that was the crux of it. She and Marianne had shared everything—every thought, every deed, every dream, for over ten years. This was something they couldn’t share, and Marianne’s bubbling happiness was a rub—a constant reminder of something Emma had never experienced.
That was something to be ashamed of, she thought. She could justify her feelings day in and day out. Blackpool was too smooth, he was too experienced, he was too fond of clubs and women. His eyes were too dark when they rested on her—and too cocky when they rested on Marianne. But the truth was, she was desperately envious of Marianne.
It didn’t matter that she didn’t like him, Emma told herself. It didn’t matter that Johnno didn’t like him and continually made snide comments about Blackpool’s penchant for leather pants and silver chains. What mattered was that Marianne was in love.
She switched on the light, arching her back. Spending the best part of the day developing had given her a ravenous appetite. She hoped Runyun and the contact she’d made at Rolling Stone would approve of the shots she’d taken of Devastation in the recording studio.
She was scrounging in the refrigerator for something more interesting than molding bologna when she heard the elevator open. “I hope you bought supplies,” she called out. “We’re getting down to science projects in here.”
“Sorry.”
Emma whipped around at Blackpool’s voice. “I thought you were Marianne.”

“No. She gave me a key.” He smiled easily, holding it up before tucking it into his jeans. “I’d have stopped by the deli if I’d known I’d find a hungry woman.”
“Marianne’s at class.” Emma checked her watch. “She should be back soon.”
“I’ve got time.” He swung into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder. Emma shifted away automatically. “Pathetic,” he decided, but helped himself to the imported beer Marianne kept stocked for him. There was a brass opener screwed into the wall. He popped the top, then studied her.
She’d scooped her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way while she worked. At his scrutiny, she became aware that her jeans were too tight and her T-shirt too big. She dragged at it as it slipped off one shoulder.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything else.”
He merely lifted a brow, smiled, then drank. “Don’t worry about it. Just think of me as one of the family.”
She didn’t care to be backed into the tiny kitchen with him. When she started through the doorway he shifted just enough to have their bodies brush. It was deliberately suggestive, and shocking because he’d been nothing but the polite friend of a friend to that point. When she jerked away, he laughed.
“Do I make you nervous, Emma?”
“No.” It was a lie, and not a very good one. She had tried not to think of him as a man, not the way a woman thought of a man. But his thighs had been long and hard when hers had knocked against them. “Are you and Marianne going out?”
“That’s the plan.” He had a habit of running his tongue over the top of his teeth before he smiled, like a man about to enjoy a long, succulent meal. “Want to join us?”
“I don’t think so.” On the one occasion Marianne had talked her into going with them, Emma had found herself dragged from