by Thea Dawson
I wake up bleary early the following evening. It takes me a while to orient myself, then I go to check on Alex. She’s still in bed, unconscious. My sleep schedule is going to be messed up for the next few days, thanks to my all-nighter with her, but I’m craving the coffee I usually have when I wake up. I make some decaf and hope for the best, then dig out my phone to call Annabelle. There’s a text that was sent last night:
You left your wallet :) I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.
Damn, I hadn’t even realized, but now that she mentions it, I remember putting it down with the bottles of wine when I went back to the lake house, but I don’t remember picking it up again. Good thing I didn’t get pulled over on the way home. I have some cash that I keep in a drawer in my room for emergencies. I might use that to run to the grocery store. But before that, I need a shower, and before that, I need to text Annabelle.
Hey babe, I text, hoping she’s back from the lake. I pause, not sure what to say next, but she texts back almost immediately.
Everything okay?
I sigh. Not great, but it could be worse. How was the rest of your time at the lake?
Her answer comes back quickly. I missed you :(
I smile. Missed you too. I don’t want to leave Alex alone just yet. Can I get the wallet from you tomorrow?
You don’t have your license. You shouldn’t drive :), she replies. I can bring it by tonight.
I want to see her, but I decide against it. If she comes over now, I’ll be tempted to talk her into staying, and I can’t afford another late night, not with my interview with Zac tomorrow. Plus I need to be alert so I can keep an eye on Alex. I’m still half worried she’ll do something stupid, like take a bunch of pills or try to drive to Seattle to track Trevor down. I want Annabelle to meet Alex, hopefully for them to be friends, but this is not the time.
This isn’t a good time, I text back reluctantly. Can I call you tomorrow? We’ll figure it out then.
Those little animated dots play along the bottom of my screen for a long time, like she’s writing an essay, but in the end, all I get back is a succinct, Sure.
I’m on the verge of typing “I love you,” but common sense catches up with me just in time. I shake my head. It’s way too soon for thoughts like that. I’m not sure what else to say, though. I think about it for too long, then finally write, I miss you.
She doesn’t text back.
I go through the apartment and make sure that there isn’t any more alcohol stashed anywhere. For good measure, I take Alex’s car keys and hide all the medication except for a couple of ibuprofen that I leave on her bedside table with a fresh glass of water.
She rolls over and half opens her eyes as I start to tiptoe out of her room.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask. It’s a stupid question; I know she feels like shit.
“I think I’m going to die,” she moans. I can’t tell if that’s heartbreak or hangover talking; probably both.
“It might be a day or so before you’re back to normal,” I tell her. Given how much alcohol she consumed yesterday, it might actually be longer, and that’s not including the time it’ll take her to recover from Trevor the married asshole, but there’s no point telling her that. “Listen, will you be okay for a little while if I go out?”
She nods then looks like she regrets it. “Where’re you going?”
“Gym to work out, then the grocery store. When I get back, I’m going to make you a good healthy meal, okay?”
She groans. “I can’t eat anything.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday, and you threw all of that up,” I point out. “I promise I’ll make you something that’ll stay down. You’ll feel better if you aren’t starving to death on top of everything else.”
She manages another moan in response and curls up and closes her eyes. I leave quietly.
Fortunately, the receptionist at the 24-hour gym down the street recognizes me, which is good since my i.d. is in my wallet. I work out as hard as I can for the next 45 minutes, working off the long drive yesterday, and the longer night that followed it. I hit the grocery store next and stock up on fresh vegetables, lean meats, and eggs.
When I get home, I make Alex a good dinner and coax her into eating it, then send her back to bed with a cup of tea. I should call Annabelle, but I'm emotionally spent from dealing with Alex. Plus, I'm down to twelve hours before my interview with Zac, and I've decided to focus on getting ready for that. Once it's done and out of the way, I’ll be able to bring all my attention back to Annabelle, the way she deserves.
24
Annabelle
“You idiot, Annabelle,” I whisper to myself for the tenth time since texting my last message to Archer.
Far from allaying my concerns, my brief text conversation with Archer has left me more unsettled. His texts have been abrupt, completely lacking in the warmth that characterized our time at the lake. Am I reading too much into them, or is their shortness a message for me?
And why didn’t he mention anything about his meeting with Zac? Is he trying to hide it from me? Does he assume I know?
I wait up half the night, hoping that he’ll text me again or call. I should just bite the bullet and call him, but I’m too chicken. The whole situation is bringing out a passive-aggressive side I didn’t even realize I had. I'm afraid now that I’ve been a complete idiot, and that if I start calling him and texting him, I’m just going to make more of a fool of myself.
If he wanted to get in touch, he would, right?
For all that I didn’t want to be alone tonight, I end up avoiding my roommates by holing up in my room, where I replay in my mind every last word that Archer and I exchanged over the weekend. I pick up my phone at least fifty times, thinking I’ll call him and just ask him flat out if the whole weekend was a sham … then each time I lose my nerve and put it down again.
If it was a sham, I don't want to know. Not yet.
Eventually, I go to bed and drift off, but I sleep badly, and in the morning, I drag myself out of bed. I force myself to shower and dress and eat something, then spend what's usually my most productive time of day just staring at Archer’s wallet.
Was it only two days ago that I was telling myself that I’d be willing to throw away all common sense and dignity just for a chance to sleep with Archer—even knowing that it wasn’t likely to go anywhere?
I stroke the worn leather of the wallet and sigh.
I can’t regret sleeping with him—not yet, anyway. It was the most amazing, intense experience of my life. I realize now that ever since I started dating, I’ve been playing it safe, settling for guys I didn’t feel incredibly passionate about because I didn’t want to risk getting hurt. Even losing Tommy Lipstein to his fantasies about Carina was more a blow to my pride than my heart.
Even if nothing comes of my relationship with Archer, I know I’ll never settle again.
But I’m beginning to think I might regret falling for him the way I did.
I slam the wallet on my desk, stand up and pace around my room. Why can’t I be one of those girls who can sleep with a guy and walk away the next day? Or at least one who can ask him straight up what the deal was. Better to know than to exist in limbo like this.
It’s that thought that finally does it. I’m going to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I can’t hold onto Archer’s wallet indefinitely anyway—even if he wants nothing more to do with me, I’m not a thief—so bringing it back to him is as good an excuse as any.
It would make sense, of course, to call or text him first, but there’s a devious part of me that I didn’t even know existed that makes me think I’ll be more likely to get to the truth if I take him by surprise.
So, with that in mind, I get ready to go out.
My heart is starting to thump with anticipation, each beat sending a nervous thrill throughout my body. I’m excited to see Archer again, but also anxious.
I’ve driven to the address listed on Archer’s driver’
s license. He lives in a bland apartment complex in a neighborhood of strip malls and coffee shops that looks like it caters to twenty-somethings.
I park, check my make up quickly in my rear view mirror before I get out of my car, then make my way to his apartment and knock.
Nothing.
Oh, stupid Annabelle! I’ve been so caught up in my anxiety about the whole thing that it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be home.
I’m about to knock again when I hear a scuffling noise and the sound of a bolt being pulled back. The nervous vibrations in my stomach threaten to make me lose my balance, then the door opens.
It’s not Archer.
A girl about my own age stands there wearing a thin pink tank top that does nothing to disguise the fact that she’s not wearing a bra, and a pair of cut-off sweatpants that show off long, tanned legs. Her hair is up in a messy bun, she has no makeup on, and her face is sickly pale. She looks like death warmed over, but she has a nice figure, and I can tell that if she were healthy and dressed properly, she’d be pretty.
Very pretty.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taken aback. “I think maybe I have the wrong apartment. I’m looking for Archer Carleson?”
“Oh,” she says. It comes out as kind of a groan. “He’s not here at the moment.”
“Oh,” I say back. The shock of seeing a half-dressed woman in Archer’s apartment has made me forget why I came. “Um … do you know when he’s coming back?”
She shakes her head. “No. Listen, I hate to be rude, but I’m not feeling all that well at the moment …”
“Yeah, sorry.” I begin digging in my purse for Archer’s wallet. “I brought him his wallet …”
She blinks as I hold it out. I’m reluctant to let it go, my one tangible reminder of Archer’s existence, but I let her take it from me.
She frowns at it. “Did you find it somewhere?”
“Um, not exactly. He left it at my house this weekend.”
Now she sort of squints at me. “Oh … well, that was nice of you, to put him up.”
Whatever she thinks Archer and I were doing over the weekend, she obviously doesn’t see me as a threat, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
“Are you his roommate?” I ask. Surely Archer told me his roommate was a man? Or did I just extrapolate that from the name? I’ve already come up with a half dozen excuses for her presence here: maybe she’s his roommate’s girlfriend or his sister, or maybe she’s Archer’s cousin, in from out of town unexpectedly, or—
“Yeah,” she replies. “I’m Alex.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. All this time I assumed Alex was a man. It never occurred to me that Archer might be living with an attractive woman. But he always referred to her as his roommate, not his girlfriend, so that was a good sign, right?
But of course, he wouldn’t have told me he had a girlfriend if his goal was to seduce me into a meeting with Zac.
“He said you had some kind of problem? Is everything okay?” I ask. Sorry to say, I don’t honestly care if she’s okay or not, but I’m desperate for more information about what’s going on.
Alex sighs and misinterprets the problem I’m asking about. Or maybe not. “Yeah. Archer and I had a fight, and I kicked him out for the weekend, but we’re fine now. Listen, I’m really sorry, but I had way too much to drink over the weekend, and I’m not really up for a conversation.”
I’d been prepared to believe that maybe she was really ill, that Archer had come back to take her to the emergency room or something, but drinking? Last night? Had he come all the way back to LA just to party with her? I just stare at her, feeling as if I’m getting shorter and dumpier and plainer—and stupider—by the moment.
“Okay,” I finally say. “Well, you’ve got his wallet. Maybe … just tell him I stopped by or something? My name’s Annabelle.” I immediately wish I could take back the words. I sound pathetic.
Alex must hear the pathos in my voice, for she gives me a look of profound pity, and anything that’s left of my self-esteem drains away.
“Oh, honey,” she says, “I’ll tell him you stopped by, but don’t get your hopes up.” She says it with the jaded air of someone stating the profoundly obvious. “I love the guy, but he's a total man whore.” She gazes into space for a moment. “Men in general are just assholes.”
I nod without really thinking about it. She waves the wallet at me and starts to close the door. “Thanks. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
The door clicks shut and I’m left standing on the doorstep with an empty space where my heart used to be.
25
Archer
My meeting with Zac Borstein is brief, no more than ten minutes, but I’m aware that it’s ten of the most important minutes of my life, and it takes all my acting ability and self-control to remain cool and relaxed in his presence. Zac is friendly and polite, but he doesn’t waste time. He drills me on my acting experience and my goals for the future, asks me to cold-read some lines from the movie he’ll be starting in a few months, then stands up to shake my hand.
The interview is over. I have no idea what he thinks of me, and I resist the temptation to ask.
“Thank you, Mr. Borstein. I really appreciate your time.”
“A pleasure, Archer,” he replies. “Let me walk you out, and we’ll have Carla set you up with a screen test. There’s a small role in Sea Scape that you might be a good fit for.”
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate the opportunity,” I manage to say, but it’s all I can do not to jump into the air and shout.
A screen test! I’m screen-testing for Zac Borstein’s next movie!
Zac introduces me to his assistant, Carla, shakes my hand again, and disappears back into his office. Carla makes an appointment for me to come to the studio the following Monday for the screen test, gives me some pages from the script to look over, and I walk out of Windstorm Studios, my feet hardly touching the ground.
Short of him offering me a leading man role on the spot—which was a unicorn dream—I couldn’t have asked for things to go better. Even if this role falls through, I’m on his radar. My CV is on Zac Borstein’s desk, and I’ve spoken to the man face to face.
This is it. My big break.
And I can’t wait to tell Annabelle about it.
I take only a few steps down the street when I stop to pull out my phone. Leaning against the wall of the building, I call Annabelle. The phone begins to ring. A tall, attractive brunette walks past me as I’m waiting for Annabelle to pick up and gives me a slow once-over before smiling suggestively. I ignore her, and she heads into the studio.
Finally, voicemail picks up.
“Sweetheart, it’s me. I have some amazing news,” I say. “What are you doing tonight? I want to take you out to celebrate. Give me a call as soon as you can, okay? I miss you.”
I hang up, chuckling to myself. Who’d have thought, Archer Carlson, Man Whore, would be brought to his knees by little Miss Physics Student?
I’m humming to myself as I walk down the street to my car. The sun is shining warmly on my face, the sky is a glorious shade of blue. It’s a beautiful day, just like it always is in LA, but it seems even better today than usual. The colors are brighter, the air is fresher, everything about it is perfect.
My phone rings and I pull it out quickly, assuming it’s Annabelle. A quick glance at the caller i.d., though, and I see it’s Cassandra. Maybe she has more work for me. It’ll be welcome, but if everything goes well, soon I’ll be able to leave jobs like Gentlemen, Inc. behind altogether.
“Cassandra, good morning!” I say, my good mood announcing itself in the tone of my voice.
“Archer, I need to talk to you about your role last week with Annabelle Winter.”
“It went great,” I tell her. With any luck, Cassandra will never know how great it was.
“Miss Winter didn’t seem to think so. The review she submitted was not complimentary.”
I stop in my
tracks, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“She said you made her feel tawdry and cheap—her words—and that you humiliated her in front of her family. Archer, what on earth happened?”
It’s a moment like in the movies where the music is playing and suddenly you hear the scratch of the needle across the record, and then silence.
“Cassandra, I … I don’t know. It went great. She was happy … with everything. I thought. Are you sure she wasn’t … joking or something?”
What had gone wrong?
“Archer, I’m very disappointed. Your record so far has been excellent, and I’m willing to believe that there might be more to this situation than I’m aware of, but I can’t send you out on any more roles until we’ve sorted out exactly why she’s so upset.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat stupidly. Had I said something wrong in my texts? Should I have called her last night even though it was late? Less than 48 hours ago, we were crazy about each other. How did things go bad so quickly?
“I’m not sure what’s going on, Cassandra,” I say. “I’ll call Annabelle—“
“She gave you her number?” Cassandra sounds suspicious. “You know that all client-Gentlemen communication is supposed to go through the company.”
Shit. There’s a clause in the contract that says the client and the Gentleman she hires won’t contact each other directly for three months after the role; it’s to prevent Gentlemen and clients from making arrangements on their own and cutting Cassandra out.
“She … uh, insisted that I take it in case anything happened and I couldn’t get to the party,” I say, my acting skills deserting me when I most need them. It sounds lame, and I know Cassandra won’t buy it.
“Archer, I’m sorry, but this all sounds very strange. Up until now, I’ve been very pleased with your performance, but as of now, I’m striking you from our roster of available Gentlemen. Good-bye.” She hangs up.
I’m not happy about ending things on that note with Cassandra, whom I respect, but my concerns about her pale in comparison to my worries about Annabelle. I try her number again, but it just rings once and goes straight to voicemail. Has she blocked me?