A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  “But I’m not coming to L.A. with you tonight?”

  He looks into my eyes again. “No. As soon as I touch down in L.A., the shitshow begins.”

  “Well, on the bright side, you won’t have to endure my father’s surprise party.” I grin, pretending I’m making the best of this.

  “When’s that?”

  “First week of February.”

  He strokes my cheek. “I’d do anything to be there.”

  I smile gently. “Can we write letters?”

  He furrows his brow at me like I’m nuts. “It’ll take six weeks just to get one letter.”

  “It will not. Let me see.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and search. “Looks like it’ll take two to five days for first class. That’s not too bad.” I show him the Google search result.

  “Letters would be nice, I guess.”

  “Yeah. It could be fun—old school, even.”

  “I can’t imagine they’d check my mail.”

  “Probably not.”

  His eyes shift to the moon-and-stars necklace he gave me for Christmas. He brushes his fingers across it. “So many nights apart.”

  “It just means we’ll have lots of reuniting to do, right? You know what they say—absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Giving in to a smirk, he says, “And the balls bluer.”

  I giggle, relieved that he’s not so angry anymore. He leans in to kiss me. It’s long, deep, and it quickly leads down the expressway to Nakedville.

  Afterward, we lie together, and I breathe deeply, trying to get my fill of his soap-and-shaving-cream scent. Dread hits me when his phone starts ringing. This is it. He groans as he gets up and walks over to the chair to get it. “Fuck. My lift’s here.”

  We throw clothes on, and he finishes grabbing his stuff. We stand together in my room, quiet, and holding hands. The air hangs around us, heavy with sadness.

  “If I can find a way to talk to you or even see you, I will, Claire.”

  I kiss him. “In the meantime, I’ll be a letter-writing, mail-checking freak.” I chance a smile, hoping to bring some levity.

  He attempts a smile. “I’ll miss you,” he says as we walk to the apartment door.

  I only have moments before I fall apart. “I’ll miss you, too.”

  We share one final kiss, and then the apartment door clicks closed. I successfully hold my breath until I’m sure he’s gone. Then I burst into tears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I suspect my muse is as depressed as I am because she’s not made a peep in days. I sit in front of the piano and stare at the keys, poking at them. They ring out, but there’s no spark. I miss Dan, but worst of all, I feel cut off—which I am, of course. Duh.

  Sushman. If I ever meet that guy, I’m junk-punching him. He probably needs to get laid . . . Wait! Maybe he’s got a crush on Dan. Maybe he’ll paw at Dan during interviews like Sophie—another bitch I’ll junk-punch if I see her again.

  Shit. I’m turning violent, and it’s only been two weeks. This is not good.

  I pack up my bag and head home. I hate that it’s dark at four-thirty in the afternoon on top of being bitterly cold. I don’t think I own enough clothing to get me warm. I arrive home and do my best to shake off the chill. Bridget’s in the kitchen, cooking. “Hey,” I say, hanging my coat on the hook and leaning my bag against the wall.

  “Hey, how’d it go?” Bridget asks.

  “Eh. What are you making?” I peer into the pot.

  “Chili.”

  “What are those floating yellow things?”

  “Butternut squash.”

  “Oh. Never had chili with that before.”

  “You’ll love it. Anyway, Camille will be home soon, and we’re going out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You’re coming, too.”

  “Okay, but to where?”

  “Out. You need to leave this apartment before the sweatpants reappear.”

  I swat her ass. “Fine. I’m going to my room . . . to put on the sweatpants!”

  “Don’t you even!” she yells after me.

  I lie on my bed and read over the two letters I’ve gotten from Dan:

  Claire,

  Well, this sucks. Can you even read this? I never noticed how awful my handwriting is. Anyway, what’s going on? How’s the music? I’m sitting in my bedroom, eating some of the chicken parmesan dinners you made me. Thanks for including directions, too. It’s forced me to learn how to use the fucking oven. Anyway, your food’s amazing, but the Chinese restaurant’s been calling, wondering where I’ve been. Ha!

  I’m trying to make jokes here, but they’re falling flat. I’m pissed off as ever. Not getting pissed, mind you, just my inner asshole is raging. You could say I’m hemorrhoidal. Did that make you laugh?

  Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting your reply in nine thousand days. <— See? Last attempt at another joke. I miss you.

  Love,

  Dan

  I took a picture of my letter so I would remember what it says.

  Hi Dan,

  I’m almost positive nine thousand days haven’t passed, maybe more like eight thousand, nine hundred, eighty-two? Not sure. And yes, you sound bitchy, but I am, too. On the bright side, your jokes are funny—in your letters anyway. I think you need to work on your delivery in person. <—Just joking!

  Writing music is, well, meh. Nothing’s working. I’m just not feeling it, not right now, anyway. It’s probably because I’ve been distracted, visualizing a good ol’ junk-punch to Sushman when I see him.

  My mother’s been . . . my mother. She called when the news hit that you were back on the market and gave me an earful. I tried to explain that it wasn’t true, but she’s selective with what she wants to believe, so, yeah, that’s been interesting.

  I’m happy you like the food! That makes me smile, as does the fact that you haven’t burned your house down—yet.

  I hope your promo prep is going well (sounds like a colonoscopy—ha!). Speaking of colonoscopy, I had a thought: maybe Sushman has a crush on you and that’s why he’s up your ass. Are you actually being followed?

  We’re expecting a huge snowstorm in a couple of days. They’re saying upwards of a foot!

  Looking forward to your letter in eight thousand plus days. And by the way, I like your chicken scratch. ;)

  Love you,

  Claire

  Hey Claire,

  I’ve just finished eating the chicken marsala you made. Wow. I really liked that one. It’s a good thing Colin’s on tour because he’d have all these dinners polished off by now.

  They gave me a phone, but it’s one of those starter ones a kid would get, and it’s preprogrammed with my mum’s number, Sushman’s, Len’s, and that’s it. If you can believe it, Sushman is a bigger fucking wacko than I ever thought possible, and it’s making me paranoid this letter may get intercepted by the publicity police since I just wrote that. I don’t think he’s got a crush on me; then again, how would I know unless he grabbed me or something? Speaking of grabbing, my balls have transitioned from blue to purple. Just saying, and I’m glad you like my jokes, but that one wasn’t. I ache for you, literally. And I hope that sounds hot and not as desperate as it feels. Just kidding. Not really.

  Moving on . . . sorry the music’s being a bitch. Seems it’s the bitchy season, like an El Nino, but El Bitcho. <—How was that joke? Eh. Working on it.

  A foot of snow? Maybe you can go sledding. Sledding is fun. Fucking is better, but I digress.

  Sorry your mum’s giving you a hard time. I’d say let it go (bonus points if you just sang that in your head), but then I know how hard that is for you. Just don’t let her get to you too much.

  Big news—
I think I found a fucking payphone, and I may take the chance to use it, so if you see a random number, answer it. Could be me.

  It goes without saying that I miss you. I do love the letters, but well, I can’t wait for this shit to be over. Oh, and they’re making me take some up-and-coming actress to dinner. We’re going to Pachysandra, which is a hot spot for celebrities. It will suck. I’m not just saying that. But I want you to know so you know, you know? <—Sounds like a joke but it’s not.

  Love you, Claire. Only you.

  ~ Dan

  I writhe around on my bed like I’m in some lame, tearjerker movie, clutching the letters to my chest.

  “What are you doing?” Camille says. I look to the doorway where she’s standing, eating chili from a bowl.

  “I’m writhing.”

  “Writhing should be hot, and yet you are . . . mostly pathetic. God, you need to get out. Come have some of Bridget’s chili. It’s ready.” She walks over and grabs my hand, pulling me up and dragging me into the kitchen.

  Camille pushes me into a chair. “Ow.” Bridget grabs a filled bowl and places it in front of me with a spoon.

  “Eat,” Bridget says.

  I eat. “This is pretty good, Bridget! I wasn’t sure about the squash, but it’s good.”

  “Thanks! So we’re going to the movies in a bit, maybe to a bar after. Can you handle that?”

  “I can handle that.” I nod and continue eating.

  ***

  We’re in the theater, waiting for the movie to start, when the previews begin. And, holy shit! Sushman’s movie is one of the previews. I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth. There’s a close-up of Dan’s exquisite face in all its magnificence—his sculpted jaw, full lips, and sparkling emerald eyes—and I nearly pass out because I’m not breathing. When he smiles, glancing over his shoulder toward the camera, I whimper embarrassingly loud. Then it cuts to him stepping out of a shower, a teeny towel wrapped around his waist and his hard, wet body stretching and flexing as he strides across the room.

  Bridget taps my shoulder like mad, and I smack her hand away. “Shh!!”

  I’m in awe. I mean, Dan’s normal hotness isn’t normal, but this . . . this perfection on the screen is beyond words. Once the preview is over, I turn to Bridget and Camille. “Sushman is an asshole, but holy shit he’s a brilliant asshole. Dan was—my heart is hammering! I kind of get this ‘single’ angle, you know?” I fan my hot face.

  “Are you ill? You were just planning Sushman’s demise last night, and now he’s a genius?” Camille says.

  “Yes? No? I just want them to replay that!”

  We all giggle and the movie starts, but as the darkness settles around us, it settles inside me, too. Yes, I miss Dan, but it’s more than that. Will this space and distance grow to become more than temporary? It’s all I can think about, and by the time the movie is over, I’m running to the bar down the street and ordering a round.

  Camille and Bridget exchange a glance as they often do. “As if I can’t see you two,” I say, sipping my beer.

  “What? What are we doing? You’re paranoid,” Camille says.

  “You’re doing that silent conversation thing. I’m not crazy.”

  Bridget laughs. “You are most certainly crazy.”

  “Come on, did you see him, though? How good he looked? And shit, he’s out there in the world, unable to talk to me, and—and—having to take strange women out to dinner. I mean, what is that?” I start gulping my drink.

  “He’s writing letters to only you, though,” Camille says.

  “Big whoop.” I’m pouting and depressed there’s still five weeks to be apart.

  “Big whoop? I think it’s sweet!” Bridget says.

  “Don’t minimize the romance of it, Claire. It’s awesome. Enjoy it,” Camille says, clanking my beer with hers.

  I sigh. “You’re right. I just miss him. I’ve been avoiding watching anything with him on it, so to get a taste like that? Well, I almost combusted.”

  The three of us settle onto stools at the bar and drink and talk and drink and laugh.

  “I’m so glad you guys got me out. Thank you, I totally needed this. You always know what I need,” I say. I think I’m tipsy. My words may have just run together. Not sure.

  Someone leans into my ear from behind. “Hi, Claire.”

  Startled, I spin about. Fuck. “What are you doing here?” I sigh dramatically. Camille and Bridget raise their eyebrows at me.

  He smiles smugly, and I realize how much he enjoys repulsing me. “Good to see you, too. I heard you and Dan broke up. I’m not surprised. He’s not enough man for you.”

  I turn a smidge to face him. “Shouldn’t you be in L.A. stalking him?”

  “Nah. I’ve got prettier people in my sights now.” He licks his lips a bit, smirking at me. Chills run down my arms. “You and I should go to dinner some night.”

  “No. Now go away.” I turn my back to him.

  Camille hops off her stool, and I swivel around to see her stand tall, close to him. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Amused, he checks her out from head to toe. “Wait—aren’t you the hot cop? From Halloween?”

  She steps closer to him. “She didn’t want to see you on Halloween and she doesn’t want to see you now. Go.” Her petite frame is always surprisingly intimidating.

  “Ooh, feisty. I like that. I’ll go, but first—” He throws an arm over my shoulder and leans into me as someone several feet away blinds me with a flash. “I promise I’ll see you soon for that dinner, Claire!” he says as he leaves.

  I knock back the rest of my beer. “He is so creepy!”

  “Who was that?” Bridget asks.

  “That was Ian Glammer—that asshole actor who stalks Dan, remember?”

  “Evidently, I didn’t have the pleasure meeting him on Halloween.” Bridget rolls her eyes. “Well, talk about the magic of movies. He looks way better on screen,” she says.

  “Why’s he here if he’s always stalking Dan?” Camille asks.

  “Good question.” I scan around to make sure he’s gone. “I’m just glad he’s gone.”

  We shake off the creepy vibes Ian brought along and stay a while longer, laughing and talking, and eventually making our way back home, where I promptly pass out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, I wake with my mouth so dry, it’s practically sealed shut. As I haul myself out of bed in search of water, I realize that I’m stiff and in need of a hard workout. It’s been too many futile days sitting and staring at a piano.

  I throw on some workout clothes, tie on my sneakers, and then with eyes still half-shut, grope my way to the kitchen for water. Guzzling some down, I immediately feel better, but send myself directly to the gym without passing Go.

  The workout is hard but feels incredible. I stretch and push my body until I’m good and sweaty and then head to a treadmill and start running. With music jamming from my earbuds, I watch the TVs playing various shows—news, infomercials, and I should have guessed—an entertainment show is on. I avert my eyes because, well, I’ve been trying to avoid “seeing” Dan. I hate how disconnected I feel from him and how I worry more each day if this distance is going to ruin our relationship.

  The “what if” train’s wheels start to chug, and soon it’s departing the station. What if he finds someone new? What if he realizes this is just too much of a pain in the ass to deal with? What if he decides he likes the single life and wants to do that indefinitely? What if, what if, what if . . .

  I glance at the TVs, catching a quick glimpse of Dan heading into some restaurant with a blonde in tow. Flashes pummel him while nausea pummels me. This must be the date he was talking about. He’s not overly smiley, but he does hold the door open for the woman—the ve
ry pretty and young woman. Oh God. This needs to stop. It needs to stop! I suddenly realize I’ve just shouted, “Stop!” out loud because the people next to me turn in my direction. “Sorry,” I say, pointing to my ear buds. “Singing along.” They nod and keep going, but I turn red and run harder because I need to shake the uncertainty that’s building up.

  I burst into the apartment and shout, “We need to drink tonight!”

  Bridget sits up on the couch. “What?”

  “Did I wake you? How could you be napping? It’s like one in the afternoon, and we got up only two hours ago?”

  She rubs her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m tired. Anyway, you want to go out drinking again? Damn, Claire. You’ll be an official drunk before this single life experiment ends.”

  “Ugh. I just need to get my head quiet. Maybe drinking isn’t the best way, but what else can I do? I’m having a hard time writing music, and I’m just antsy.”

  “I get it, I get it. It’s fine. Your girly bits are sad, which makes you sad. I get it.”

  “What?” I ask with a laugh.

  “You haven’t gotten laid in weeks, and your girly bits are bitchy. It’s normal. And I hate to burst your bubble, but we’re not going out tonight.”

  “What? Why not? You guys are always going out.”

  “Because the snowstorm is coming through tonight, remember? Camille’s out now gathering the requisite bread and milk.”

  “Oh.” I plop onto the chair, bummed.

  “She’s also getting alcohol, so you’ll still be able to get drunk, lush.”

  “Yay!”

  ***

  Later that night, the storm’s in full-swing outside—sideways snow, blustery wind—but the fun inside is in full-swing, too—a coffee table strewn with half-eaten Chinese, the TV’s on, and the three of us are in our jammies, curled up in the living room, drunker than drunk.