by Kat T. Masen
I’m partly grateful that it has been nonstop chaos from the second we landed. New York City is one of those places that you either dreamed about visiting for your entire life or a place you avoid for fear of crowds and dirty streets. It’s like nothing I expected. Compared to back home, it’s loud, overpopulated, and noisy with cabs honking their horns for no apparent reason, driving like maniacs, and almost crashing a dozen times.
I don’t care for that unorganized nonsense. What I love is the culture. The beautiful buildings with so much history behind them. The art galleries that people say is a must-do if visiting the city. Granted, we have been here for only two days, and most of it has been spent indoors, though if I were to get a spare moment, I’m hoping for the chance to explore.
The caffeine begins its journey into the depth of my brain and gives me a much-needed boost of energy. With two more interviews scheduled for the day, we dart between locations and battle the nasty storm that buckets outside, out of nowhere.
My cell is pinging repeatedly, notifications of weather warnings and emails from Charlie. Nothing from Wesley.
It’s odd behavior coming from him. I sent him a simple text yesterday when we landed telling him we were here, and explained that the day would be chaotic so I probably wouldn’t get a chance to chat much.
He simply responded with a ‘K.’
Infuriating, but what do I expect? I want space, and space is what I’m getting.
And how wrong am I to assume.
After Emerson’s final interview, she makes her way back to the hotel, and I decide to explore. With some free time, I head out to the Guggenheim Museum. I absolutely love it, immersing myself in art. I didn’t expect to find art so entertaining, fulfilling, while smiling to myself as I walk around for hours.
Losing track of time, I pull out my cell to call Mama as soon as I exit the building.
Eight missed calls.
Three text messages.
All from Bad Boy Rich.
Wesley: Why do you keep doing this?
Wesley: Milana, please answer your phone.
Wesley: Do you want me to call Em and tell her to put you on the phone?
I don’t appreciate the threat and know he’s capable of doing exactly that. I dread this conversation but know I have to ease his worried mind.
“You’re alive.” I can hear the drag in his voice, the sound of a puff echoes through the receiver.
“I told you I would be busy. This is my work. You can’t expect me to drop everything for you.”
“Funny you should use the term work. Is that what you’re doing now?”
“I went to a museum.”
“Interesting. I thought you have no time to chat since work is so busy.” His maddening laughter annoys me deeper than I care to admit. “Common decency… heard of it?”
The heat in my cheeks begins to rise, the air around me stifling hot as anger consumes me. “I could say the same for you,” I grit, feeling suffocated by this conversation. “I told you I needed space, and you refuse to give it to me. Let me process the fact that I saw you doing some drug deal outside your place in the middle of the night.”
Silence falls on his end.
“Exactly, I didn’t think you would have a response to that.” I shake my head, disappointed in him. “I have to go.” I’m about to hang up since he chooses to keep quiet, and just before I do, he calls my name one more time before admitting he is using right now.
Standing, alone on this busy street in New York, I just want to break down. My short-lived happiness of visiting the museum and wanting to share it with Mama is once again overshadowed by Wesley.
“I don’t know what to say. Or how to feel. Look…” I switch my tone to more sympathetic, “… I’m here until tomorrow afternoon then off to Vancouver. I need to clear my head, I think this will be good for us.”
“If you say so.”
“I believe so. Bye, Wesley.”
I wait for him to say goodbye, but it doesn’t happen, forcing me to end the call.
With a heavy heart, I battle the fierce wind that makes it difficult to walk, and hail a cab back to the hotel where Emerson and I are sharing the penthouse suite.
Back at the suite, I find Emerson laying on the sofa FaceTiming with Logan. She ends the call with her ‘I love you’ and turns to face me.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet today,” she says, stabbing her fork into a salad bowl she’s balancing on her lap.
“Full schedule and just the time zone.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s Liam?”
“We broke up,” I admit, quick to add a smile and derail the topic. “You looked so natural today with that mommy-blogger group this morning.”
“I’m passionate about being a mommy.” She beams, showing me some photos of Lola that Logan sent her. “It’s hard being away. Really hard. I never expected to form such an attachment, you know? I always thought I’d be one of those moms who happily would hand off the baby. Now, I know why my mom cried when my brother and I left home.”
I understand, partially. Being away from your mother is tough. Though, Emerson’s maternal instincts are something I just don’t have. Motherhood, babies, a woman’s yearn to procreate, it isn’t for me.
Liam tried to convince me, but it only ended up in us arguing. Even Phoebe would try to persuade me by showing me hot men carrying babies. I protected myself when I had sex, I even researched tying my tubes. It isn’t a phase, and unlike other women, I welcome my periods each month.
I am not lying when I tell Wesley I’m getting them. I can easily skip the white pills and avoid them but don’t want to risk anything. My cramps are a dead giveaway that it’s on it way in the next two days and totally explains my mood.
“What do you say to you and me going out tonight? Have some fun, just us girls?”
“Sounds great.” I grin, happily. “In fact, I would love to. I think that’s just what I need… a girls’ night out.”
***
Aurora has rescued me from an almost fashion disaster. I didn’t expect to go out to some fancy club, bringing mainly work attire and a pair of jeans in case. It’s late, and after today’s dramas, I could have easily gone to bed and called it a night almost regretting my earlier enthusiasm.
Emerson is raring to go, clearing it with Logan, and ensuring we have two bodyguards. She plans for us to go to a low-key club that plays Spanish music in a quieter part of the city. An older crowd frequents, though the tapas and sangria are apparently to die for.
Emerson looks gorgeous wearing a long-sleeve black dress and strappy heels that almost come to her knees. She complains about her hair being in terrible condition, asking Aurora to style it into a side wave.
I can’t fault Aurora on the dress she found for me—ivory lace that sits on the top of my shoulders, though slightly shorter than I normally wear, the hemline stopping mid-thigh. Aurora is vocal in telling me how much she loves my hair, styling it into waves that fall gracefully down my back.
“Argh… I love your hair so much. I really should stop cutting mine,” Emerson complains.
“I’ve always worn it long. Mama has long hair, too. It’s our thing.”
“You don’t speak much about your mom, or back home, for that matter.”
I smile. “How about we get to the club. After a few drinks I’ll be happy to talk about me.”
We arrive a little after nine and still manage to get a table. It’s in a great position, right in front of the dance floor. The lighting is dim, creating a somber mood and is exactly what Emerson wants. No one in the club seems to have recognized her, and she tells me it’s nice to relax unnoticed.
We eat delicious tapas and a seafood paella that’s amazing. The dancers show us their moves, while we laugh, drink sangria, and enjoy ourselves.
“We should find you a man.” Emerson giggles on her second sangria. “A man who can move his hips like that is bound to be good in the bedroom.”
“I can
find my own man, thank you very much.” I laugh, my head spinning slightly from the sweet booze. “Besides, I don’t think there’s anyone here under the age of fifty.”
Emerson sways to the music, glass in hand. “What’s wrong with a mature, aged man? Maturity means experience. They know how to please a woman.”
I laugh. “Logan will kill you for saying that. Isn’t he your age?”
She dismisses my comment, finishing her drink and eating the fruit at the bottom of the glass.
“Yeah… I’ve always been with guys my age. But older men… something mysterious. Now, c’mon… how about that guy over there?”
I glance over and see an older gentleman with silver-colored hair, and he’s wearing a cravat.
“He’s old enough to be my grandpa.”
“What? No, he isn’t. Maybe just one dance. Look at him.” We both turn, making it obvious that we’re staring at him. “That hip replacement must really be working out for him.”
We laugh, almost in tears, feeding off our relaxed state from the sangria.
“I need a man who gets me. You know, someone who just makes me crazy in the bedroom and is wild. But also loves me and understands what I want,” I moan.
Emerson nods her head, pointing her stick at me and almost stabbing my face.
“I can find you a man like that. You’re beautiful, like seriously. There must be someone I know who would be your perfect match.”
“I like this guy I’ve met,” I admit, followed by a loud hiccup. “But that’s it.”
“Do you have a dick pic?”
“Emerson,” I yell, throwing a peanut at her face. “I don’t, but even if I did, I wouldn’t show you.”
No shit. How awkward would that be? Boyfriend sends me a dick pic, and I show his ex. I’m pretty sure his dick is one of a kind, and she would spot it straight away. I need to stop saying dick. It’s making me miss him.
“Boo…” She giggles. “Logan would sooo kill me anyway.”
“You guys are great together. You mesh. Like, he just gets you, and you get him. And when you argue, you make up, and no one loses.”
Emerson lifts the jug, her hand unsteady as she pours some of the delicious liquid into her glass, spilling a little bit on the white tablecloth.
“That’s why I love the guy. When I was with Wesley, it was so toxic. He was toxic. Seriously, what a waste of time.”
My stomach caves. Either the sangria or Emerson’s opinion of Wesley is making me want to throw up. I take a deep breath, swallowing, then finishing the rest of my drink, which momentarily takes all the pain away.
“You guys must have had good times. He’s kinda hot,” I admit, rather foolishly.
Emerson raises her brow at me, my cheeks reddening from my brazen comment. I drink harder, forcing myself to forget what I’ve said.
But I am desperate.
I want to talk to someone.
Tell them that I’m falling for him and don’t want to admit it.
That it’s been such a short time and impossible to feel this about someone, but I do. And I hate it. I hate the anxiety of being in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about me and has bigger issues which he needs to seek help for.
“Wesley is Wesley. When things were good between us, they were good. When they were bad, his true colors showed.” Emerson relaxes her shoulders, smiling softly. “I always worry about him, despite him being a dickhead half the time. I don’t know… he has a troubled past, and I wish he could just move on, you know?”
I know. I want the exact same thing.
“From what I’ve heard, it’s just a giant mess. What about that Farrah girl?”
Emerson shakes her head, rolling her eyes with disgust. “Ignore her. She thrives off attention. If you ever meet her, you’ll know what I mean. She will make a move on any man… she’s even tried to hit on Logan.”
“What about these claims that Wesley got her pregnant?”
“I don’t know… he told me it isn’t his. I kinda believe him. Wesley’s not a kid person. I don’t see him wanting a family. He doesn’t take to mine, and he hates being around small kids.”
I smile widely and with a bout of happiness. Those simple words comfort me in ways I don’t expect to feel at this moment. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, all along, I was focusing on what I expected he would want rather than what he actually wants.
I grab my cell, open up a text, and send without any hesitation.
Me: I love you.
I probably should regret it. But I don’t. I bask in this euphoric state, allowing myself to live if only for this moment, and follow what my heart and head are so desperately in sync with.
And moments later, in the middle of Emerson’s drunken cha-cha with some old lady, my cell lights up on the table, and his name is there, in bold.
Wesley: About time. I love you too, baby.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hell has found a place inside my pounding head.
I curse the sangria that lured me in with its delicious sweetness. Red wine and I do not mix. It isn’t just my head throbbing, my stomach doesn’t take well to it either. Waves of nausea taunt me as I lay here regretting my decision to unwind, drink, and be merry.
With a sudden rush, I race to the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the side of the bed, hobbling through the pain until I’ve made it just in time to dry heave into the bowl.
I’m dying.
Plain and simple.
I continue to sit here, falling asleep for minutes, maybe an hour, until loud banging against the door wakes me up.
“Milana!”
The scream isn’t appreciated at this moment, high decibels echoing inside my sore head, causing my eyes to flinch from the repeated agony. A frantic Emerson barrels through the entrance dressed in her nighty with her hair looking like a bird’s nest.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
My mouth tastes awful, laced with metallic something and incredibly dry. I clear my throat, and above a whisper, ask, “Do you have to be so loud?”
“We have to get out of here… now.”
“Why?” I move my body that seems to ache all over. I recall the sangria and the dancing. Salsa, cha-cha, and perhaps, if my memory is accurate, the tango.
“What happened?”
“Our flight got moved forward. We need to leave in thirty minutes.”
In a state of panic, all my senses are on alert. Thirty minutes? I look at my room, an empty suitcase and clothes are strewn everywhere.
My head, my eyes—the pain intensifies.
“Thirty minutes? But I thought we had four hours?”
“No, we don’t. Now hurry.”
She runs out of the room, the same time I hurl into the bowl one more time. This will be the very last time I consume any alcohol, I swear. I want to cry. I need someone to hold me and tell me that everything will feel better soon.
An overdramatic Milana needs to shut the fuck up and get the hell out of here.
I turn the shower on, scramble to find any clothes which happen to be a pair of jeans, my Chucks, and an unironed shirt. It doesn’t matter. We will fly through the airport so quickly that no one will notice me anyway.
By the time we get to the airport, I feel slightly better having taken some Advil and Gatorade. My hair is annoying me, so I twist it into a bun, wishing I had put on some makeup since my face looks so pale and tired. The dark circles beneath my eyes make it look ten times worse.
JFK is surprisingly quiet this morning, not like the mad rush when we arrived here. Our driver unloads our bags as three security guards stand by, ready to assist us with checking in.
As soon as the automatic doors open, there’s cameras in my face flashing with bright lights, blinding and forcing my eyes to flinch, people yelling my name, loud noises, people crowding my personal space with microphones. My heart rate accelerates, and my chest tightens from the claustrophobia. I look over to Emerson in a panic. I don’t compute.
Why are
they surrounding me and not her?
And then through all the noise, I hear one person shout into my face, “How long have you been in a relationship with Wesley Rich?”
Then, the others follow suit.
“Are you pregnant with Rich’s baby?”
“Is it true that you’re having an affair with Wesley and left your boyfriend?”
Amongst the hysteria, I look over to Emerson again, her expression fallen as the words resonate with her. I want to talk to her in private, but there’s an onslaught of paparazzi. Our overprotective security guards fight them off, shielding our bodies while scurrying us toward the terminal and straight to boarding the flight.
What the hell just happened?
How did they find out?
It’s only when I sit down that I notice Emerson isn’t behind me. I stand, searching, worried and confused. Hank, a younger bodyguard, answers my question before I even ask.
“She’s in a private room. They’ll board her last.”
“Oh,” I mouth, sitting down, disappointed.
I stare out the window. The rain is falling lightly, the gray sky casting above us. What happened back there terrifies me. I don’t think of myself as an overly anxious person, but the anxiety cripples me with people demanding questions about my personal life, and my inability to walk without being scrutinized. Even in the midst of it all, I see their judgment.
Wesley Rich. Movie star.
In a relationship with this ugly girl.
She’s nothing like Emerson Chase.
Look at the way she’s dressed, and her hair. Where did he find her?
The muscles in my leg tighten, this urge to get off the plane becomes more and more desperate. I take deep breaths, holding back the nausea and cries that so desperately want to escape. We still have some time until we take off. I frantically search for my cell in my purse where I find it fallen to the bottom amongst my other possessions.
I see Wesley’s texts, one after another, but I don’t have the strength to open them. I’m overwhelmed by us, and what this relationship is doing to me. I want to hear his voice, and despite my drunken stupor last night, I recall us exchanging words that can’t be retracted, at least, not in my eyes.