by Renee Ahdieh
“God, you’re honest,” I murmured.
“There’s no reason to lie . . . Do you think about him often?” The piercing way his eyes bored into mine showed me that this question meant a lot to him . . . a lot more than his seeming nonchalance indicated.
I shifted uncomfortably in my space. “Yes,” I whispered before taking a slow breath. “Mostly because it’s impossible not to. He was so much a part of my life, and everywhere I go there are memories. Usually when I think of him, it’s because I feel bitter . . . bitter that he got away so easily, so unscathed. I never contacted him after that night, and I just . . . I just don’t understand why he did that to me. I don’t know what I did that drove him to treat me like that. When I’m left to think about it, I can’t help but feel bitter.” I paused a moment. “Does this bother you?” I asked carefully.
Now I watched as he warred with himself. “Yes, it does.”
I waited while he searched for the right words.
“When I first met you, you were so . . . guarded. I knew it was because you’d been hurt before. I thought I would just wait for you to tell me what happened. I’m not sure why it bothers me so much, but I swear if I saw the wanker, I’d be really conflicted as to whether or not I’d thrash him or shake his hand in thanks. After all, if he hadn’t treated you so abominably, we wouldn’t be here.”
He took a deep breath, and for a moment I saw a much younger boy sitting next to me—a boy anxious about something. “Would you take him back?” He was extremely careful not to show emotion in the words he spoke, and his effort belied his objective. In that instant, I realized something that frightened me almost as much as it astounded me: Thomas Abramson cared deeply enough to be afraid of losing me.
I shuffled closer to him in my sleeping bag.
“No,” I said without hesitation. “I would never take back a man who cheated on me. I can’t love freely without trust. It might be a weakness on my part, but it’s who I am . . . so take note,” I stated with a small smile as I rested my cheek on his shoulder.
“Noted,” he replied as he kissed the top of my head affectionately.
He strummed his guitar again, then proceeded to launch into a mellow version of the song Use Somebody by Kings of Leon. He was a very talented guitarist, and I watched as he settled himself to play in earnest. His voice was raspy, and he was honestly a more gifted player than he was a vocalist, but the passion conveyed in his performance negated any discrepancy in skill. This man loved music, and it only made him even more attractive to me. As he sang the last line of the song, he immediately shifted his technique from strumming to fingerpicking. As he played the first few notes of the next song, I sat up in surprise.
“Explosions in the Sky?” I stated incredulously.
“You know this band?” He was impressed.
“Know this band? I love this band.”
He continued playing the melodic line of Your Hand in Mine, and I wrapped my arms around my knees inside of the sleeping bag. No matter how cheesy I would have judged this scenario to be as an outsider, I could not deny that there was a deep-rooted sense of peace pervading the space around us as Tom played his guitar by the fire and the stars lit the night sky above our heads. The glowing embers from the waning flames still managed to pop and fizz intermittently.
“This is nice,” I said softly.
“It is.”
One of the things that I loved about being around those closest to me was the ability to sit in complete stillness with them and not feel an irresistible urge to fill the void with conversation. There was a closeness in comfortable silence that even the most carefully chosen words failed to enhance.
When the last few notes resonated into the night air, Tom moved to the tent to put the guitar away in its case. I stood up to stretch and then began to collect the remnants of our meal so we wouldn’t attract the attention of any animals in the area. I was holding a plastic bag full of garbage when . . .
“OH BUGGER!” Tom came crashing out of the tent with a look of horrified shock on his face.
“What?” I demanded.
“There’s . . . a SNAKE in the tent! It slithered across my bloody foot!”
“AHHHHH!” I screamed as I proceeded to jump backwards in terror. “There are SNAKES here?” I yelled.
As he managed to regain control of himself, I wasn’t too surprised by his next outburst . . . of laughter.
“You’re totally going to take the mickey out of me for that one, aren’t you?”
“If you mean mock you endlessly, then yes, but first we need to figure out what we’re going to do . . . because I’m sure as hell not sleeping in that tent with a snake in it,” I managed to bite back.
“You think I’m going to sleep in there?”
“Get rid of it!” I gasped.
“You get rid of it! Prior snarky comment regarding Leicester Square ring a bell?” He was still chuckling uncontrollably.
Fifteen minutes later, we were sleeping on top of each other in the backseat of the Jeep, covered up in our sleeping bags.
“Well, this didn’t go exactly as I planned,” Tom said with mirth.
“Whatever made you think that?” I teased.
“I was hoping to get some action tonight, but seeing as how I can barely stretch out in the backseat of this car comfortably, I’m assuming that’s not going to happen.”
I shoved his shoulder. “Between that, the snake, and me smelling like old lake water, it’s a pretty safe assumption . . . but you’re welcome to give it a try. I figure once you hit your head on the roof of the car in a moment of passion, some sense will be knocked into you.”
“Promise me something,” he said with a smile.
“What?”
“Let’s never go camping again,” he murmured as he pulled me even closer.
“Amen, brother. Amen.”
Chapter Thirteen
The second flight to LA was decidedly more stressful than the first. In retrospect, I can’t place all of the blame on Hana. We were both uber-paranoid about this particular kind of problem. After all, a man had cheated on me once before with far fewer temptations dangling in his midst.
As I waited to board the plane at ten o’clock that Friday morning, I received a phone call from my best friend.
“Cris?” By the sound of her voice, something bothered her a great deal.
“What’s wrong?”
“Uh, look . . . I really struggled with whether or not to call you about this, and I might be completely out of line, but—” She hesitated.
“They’re getting ready to board, babe. Just say it.”
“Naz doesn’t want me to tell you because he thinks it’s ridiculous, but has Tom ever mentioned someone named Jenna Morrow?” she asked.
“Are you talking about the actress? They’re filming a movie together right now,” I responded patiently.
“Yeah. Well, there are pictures on the web of him with her at some party this past weekend. She’s—she’s all over him . . . and it looks like he doesn’t mind one bit.”
I was silent.
“Cris? I mean, it’s probably nothing . . . but three days ago there were also pictures of him hanging out with that heiress girl, Brooklyn Beresford.”
“The reality TV chick? The one who argued that Africa was a country, not a continent?” I sneered pejoratively.
“Uh, yeah . . . all these sites are clamoring to suggest that Tom Abramson is ‘sowing his oats,’ and he’s enjoying his newfound fame in the arms of California girls. There’s a paparazzi picture of ‘TomTom,’ as they call him, allegedly leaving Jenna Morrow’s house later that same night—around three o’clock in the morning. An unnamed source says they’re seeing one another.”
“Unnamed source, my ass. Some idiots are just trying to drive traffic to their site,” I spat.
“You’re probably right. You’re not mad at me, right?”
“Of course not,” I stated in a much kinder tone. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure
it’s nothing.”
“Definitely. I just thought I should tell you before you got to L.A. I didn’t want there to be any nasty surprises.”
I knew exactly what she meant. For the first time in many months, I could feel that strange tearing sensation in my heart again.
“Thanks, Hana. Love you,” I murmured.
“Love you too.”
For the next five hours, the left side of my brain fought the right side with unceasing vigor.
Of course the “spin doctors” would try to attach an attractive actor like Tom with someone equally fascinating. It was nothing to be surprised about. If Tom fails to give them enough media fodder to suggest that his love life is red-hot and full of sin, the next step would be to challenge his sexuality.
But . . . Why was he at Jenna Morrow’s house in the middle of the night? Why didn’t he tell you about it? Was Jenna one of the girls he mentioned by the fire last month? You never asked him any of their names. Oh, God . . .
He’s not cheating on you.
You shouldn’t have waited this long to have sex with him.
Come on, Tom’s not just in it for the sex. He’s not that kind of guy.
Didn’t Brooklyn Beresford have a sex tape?
It’s not a big deal . . . just a few stupid pictures.
Pictures don’t lie.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The angel and the devil continued their war.
He’s an actor . . . you’re nobody special.
Tom is not Ryan.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through me as I considered the last, and most resonating, thought.
Tom is not Ryan, and you shouldn’t believe Tom would do something that repugnant just because Ryan did.
I tried to focus on that for the remainder of the flight and the subsequent taxi ride to Tom’s apartment.
I was just so . . . afraid, and I hated Ryan even more for making me this frightened of a few wayward photographs taken by people trained to make something out of nothing.
I punched in the security code to get into the apartment building and hauled my suitcase into the elevator. My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored doors, troubled and uncertain. I tried to quell these feelings as the elevator opened onto Tom’s floor. He was too observant, and he would definitely notice something was wrong if I didn’t do a better job of concealing it within the next few seconds.
The apartment door opened soon after I tapped tentatively on its surface. I plastered a smile on my face and walked inside, actively trying to conceal my mental siege. Tom yanked me into an embrace and pressed his lips to mine with breathtaking effect. I kissed him back as though I were trying to banish any trace of another woman’s touch from his memory—which is, all things considered, nothing more than an emotionally destructive form of branding. Desperation, thy name is Jealous Female.
He pulled away from me to catch his breath, and his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement as he stared carefully down at my face.
I averted my gaze and strode further into the living room.
“What’s the plan?” I asked cheerfully as I gazed at nothing.
“Look at me.”
I took a deep breath and spun around to smile at him with forced merriment.
“Awful,” he sighed. “Just awful.”
“What’s awful?” My voice sounded shrill and manufactured.
“I think I should be asking you that question,” he said as he looped his arms across his chest and waited. I stared back at him in complete silence. There was no way on earth he would force me to admit how scared I was of “TomTom” and his California girls.
“What happened between last night and today to prompt that ghastly performance?” he demanded quietly.
“Nothing.” I cut my eyes and wordlessly asked him to leave it alone.
He walked over to me in two strides and grasped my chin between his thumb and index finger so he could tilt my head upwards and peer unobstructed into my face.
“Don’t play these silly games with me, Cristina. You’re far too self-assured for this. If you want me to beg you for the next hour to tell me what I did wrong, we can do that, but either way I’ll find out. Save us the time and just tell me so I can start to make it right.”
My heart jerked to a sudden stop as I gazed earnestly into his grey eyes. They were filled with an intense concern that leveled me. In that instant, I realized something even more terrifying than the news Hana had divulged to me hours before. I looked away as awareness washed over me.
I knew I was finished. My struggle was done. Every effort I had made to prevent myself from having to undergo further heartache in my life was now immaterial. I was in love with Tom Abramson. There was no way to deny it to myself any longer.
A revelatory moment that should have brought pure joy instead brought with it unadulterated fear. If I loved him, he could hurt me. Irrevocably. I couldn’t take it. Not again.
“Jenna Morrow,” I choked out pitifully as I forced myself to look up at him.
His shoulders sagged a bit, but his face relaxed considerably as his mouth curved into a wry half-smile.
“You were looking at the net again. I warned you about that,” he said sardonically.
“Look, I hate myself for this, but if I don’t ask you . . . it will just get worse. I’m ill-equipped, shall we say, to deal with this shit again,” I whispered.
“I understand,” he responded.
“I just need to know: what were you doing at her house in the middle of the night?”
“Firstly, Jenna is a really sweet girl, and I don’t want you to be mad at her for any of this. Her boyfriend broke up with her that night, and she had a lot to drink. She just needed a friend, and I wanted to make sure she got home safely. The same morons who said I left her house in the middle of the night also knew I was there for no longer than fifteen minutes, but that information isn’t racy enough, so they neglected to report it.” He waited patiently for me to digest the facts.
My cheeks started to flush as I absorbed the foolishness of the situation in its entirety, but I still needed a moment to come to terms with the fact my fears were unfounded. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
“Not good enough?”
“I guess you were too much of a gentleman to tell her to take her drunken paws off of you. I just need a minute to banish the image of what I was planning to do with her angelic blonde hair if I got my hands on it,” I mused acerbically.
He pulled me into his chest, and I felt a rumble of laughter against my cheek. “Don’t hurt her. The poor girl’s been through hell this week.”
“I’m sorry,” I said in a muffled tone as I buried my face against him.
“Don’t be. It’s a little ridiculous that everyone thinks I’m shagging every girl I talk to . . . if only I could be that lucky,” he joked.
“Hah!”
“At least you didn’t mention the blurb about that reality star, Brooklyn Beresford. I like it when women know basic geography . . . it’s sort of a small pre-requisite,” he continued.
“God, you’re picky. If basic geography is a pre-requisite, I think I should know the proper way to refer to your country on a map. England? Great Britain? The United Kingdom? I have a suggestion: How about ‘Island of Scones and Bangers’?”
“I like it . . . since you’ve already taken ‘Island of Twice-Fried Fatback.’ ”
I laughed loudly as he leaned in to place a kiss on my forehead. “I still don’t know why you’re single, Abramson. You’re a riot,” I teased back at him.
“Just so you know, I’m not actually single, and maybe it’s time the public knew that.”
“Because that would be such a good idea,” I stated dryly. I could not help the smile that made its way onto my face to hear he no longer considered himself single.
“Eventually they have to find out . . . why not now?”
“Want me to hold a press conference?” I said with bright sarcasm.
H
e didn’t respond. Instead, he merely grinned knowingly before glancing at his watch.
“Are you supposed to be someplace?” I asked.
“You’re supposed to be someplace after lunch. Let’s get something to eat, and then I’ll take you there.”
“What’s going on?” Suspicion laced my words.
“You know better than to ask, but I’m taking you out tonight, and I forgot to tell you to bring something to wear, so we need to take care of that.”
“I brought a dress,” I said carefully.
“Humor me . . . and that’s all I intend to say on the subject.” He ruffled my ponytail affectionately before turning towards the kitchen to find our trusty delivery menus.
After lunch, I followed Tom to his car, and he proceeded to drive us to the back entrance of a red brick building off a highly trafficked thoroughfare.
“Is this a dress shop, or am I being questioned by the police?” I asked in confusion as he held open the door to a small flight of stairs we climbed.
“You’ll see,” he said with mirth.
At the top of the stairs, Tom swung open another door to a brightly lit room with scuffed hardwood floors.
“You’re late.” The testy, accented voice of Esteban Alvarez rang from the opposite end of the space. Tom merely shrugged glibly in response.