“Text only. No more voice calls. I’m going to try the technique Dr. Jones taught me about silence and centering.”
“Oh yes. That’s always helpful. I’ll text you in a few days,” she amends her last statement.
The technique is total bullshit. Something I made up when I didn’t want to talk to my mother, which has been more often than not over the last few years.
I can never do anything right in her eyes. My relationship failures are always my fault, never the man’s.
I am the wild child who needs taming in her eyes, instead of the doting daughter of Hollywood elite.
“Got to run.”
“Bye, dear,” she says before the line goes dead and the room is filled with nothing but silence.
“Fucking bananas,” I mutter, staring up at the white ceiling. “Not one normal person in my life.”
The closest person I have to normal is my best friend, but her parents are bigger Hollywood movie stars than mine, and I haven’t seen her in three years. My father is more normal than my mother but spends more time away, chasing tail on movie sets all over the world. My parents haven’t gotten along in well over ten years, but instead of getting divorced, they’ve decided to lead separate lives to save face in front of the press.
That’s the life I grew up in.
Dysfunctional is an understatement.
I was raised by my nanny, a sweet woman who had more sense than everyone else in my life put together. She’d spend hours reading to me, opening my eyes to things outside my entitled little bubble…much to my mother’s dismay.
I push myself up, glancing around the living room. My pink suitcase sticks out like a sore thumb against the copious amounts of black and white.
“What am I doing here?” I ask no one but myself. “And who is this guy?”
The house does not match the man. When he pulled up next to my car, sitting on his motorcycle, I never suspected he’d live in a place as well put-together and impressive as this.
My phone rings next to me, and I glance down, seeing Kimberly’s name flash across the screen. “Hey,” I say, answering her call because usually, she’s somewhat normal to talk to, unlike my parents.
“Babe,” she replies and breaks out into a fit of giggles.
“Hardy har har.” I pause, waiting for her to get in her laughs at my expense.
She clears her throat. “Sorry. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“I just got off the phone with my mother.”
The sound of her sucking in a breath between her teeth is unmistakable. “And how did that go?”
“Oh, you know…a dash of insanity mixed with overdramatics.” I rise to my feet, not able to sit any longer.
If I am going to spend the next however long talking to Kimberly, I’ll at least use the time to check out the rest of the house since I’ve only seen the kitchen, living room, and bathroom.
“Your mother will never change, Jo. She lives for the drama, and her crazy comes naturally.”
“I know,” I tell her, walking down the hallway, pushing open the first door after the bathroom. My gaze sweeps around the space, not feeling guilty for invading his privacy. “She pisses me off.”
“That is your one constant in life.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, hesitantly stepping inside what I can only assume is his bedroom.
“Are you okay? Are you safe?” Kimberly asks. “When are you coming back?”
“I’m fine and, yes, of course I’m safe,” I reply, pressing my finger against the black comforter neatly laid out across his king-sized bed. “I don’t know when I’m coming back. I need a reset.”
“Did you find a new hotel?”
“No. I’m at his place.”
“Wait,” she says, papers rustling in the background. “You’re still there?”
I explain the situation, how Nick went to the hotel and then invited me to stay on the way back, and how I said yes without hesitation. I tell her all this as I crawl on top of his bed, stretching out and letting my body melt into the softness, and somehow, unlike her normal self, Kimberly stays quiet and lets me ramble.
“He sounds so, so…”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No. You don’t. Maybe I was going to say he sounds like an ax murderer.”
“Liar,” I mumble as my eyes begin to grow heavy, exhaustion from the last twenty-four hours starting to take hold. “You were going to say he sounds dreamy.”
She chuckles. “You know I don’t like these Hollywood pretty boys. I prefer my men to be more…manly. Chop me some wood or fix my flat tire kind of guys.”
This isn’t news to me. Kimberly went out of her way to find men who didn’t fall into either the bohemian way of life in California or who were part of the Hollywood establishment.
“Is he hot? His driver’s license photo was blurry because you’re a shit photographer.”
“Shut up. My hands were shaking, and he’s sure as hell not hard on the eyes.”
“Send me a photo,” she tells me as I yawn. “Shirtless preferred.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but make it happen.”
“He’s not the selfie type of guy.”
“Girl, you’re ticking my boxes.”
I place the phone next to my head and curl onto my side, flattening out one leg and curling the other toward my chest. “His house is unusually clean.”
“Maybe he has a housekeeper.”
Now it’s my turn to chuckle. “He is not the housekeeper type.”
“All kinds of people have housekeepers or maids who come to clean their house.”
“If this guy has a housekeeper, I’ll buy you a new pair of your favorite red-bottomed shoes.”
“Now you’re speaking my language. Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have a conference call in a few minutes.”
“It’s fine. I think I’m going to close my eyes for a couple minutes anyway.”
“Promise me you’re okay.”
“I promise. I’ve never felt more certain about things. I’m right where I want to be, and no one knows where I am, which couldn’t make me happier.”
“Text me later after the hottie comes home. Keep me updated and get the damn picture. Bye,” she says, lingering on the last word for a few seconds.
“Bye, Kimberly,” I say, watching the screen go black before closing my eyes.
The bed dips, and my eyes fly open.
“Comfy?” Nick asks, sitting next to me, staring down at me.
I scramble to a sitting position, my eyes blurry from sleep and my heart racing. “What time is it?”
“Six.”
“Six?” I widen my eyes, my sleepiness suddenly gone. “I slept for six hours?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know, babe. I got here and found you lying in my bed, curled in a ball.”
I look around, forgetting I’d crawled onto his bed, a bed I wasn’t invited into but made myself at home in, nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” I say, moving toward the edge.