If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “Do you see it going anywhere?”

  Whitney rolled her eyes and tipped her forehead to Elle. “Do I need to? We’re having a good time.”

  Elle gritted her teeth. “Sorry. I just want you to be happy.”

  “You want me back with Nolan, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re thinking it,” Whitney snapped.

  “I know I’ve said a lot of stuff about him, but you were happy with him, weren’t you?” Elle pushed. “I thought you two worked past all of the Gina stuff.”

  “It was too much.” Whitney broke eye contact, watching the tourists at the next table as they snapped pictures of their beignets.

  “Love isn’t easy, Whit. And I’m not excusing Nolan, really I’m not. But to be happy, sometimes you need to work at it.”

  “Our versions of happy might be different, that’s all,” Whitney said, shrugging.

  “They might be,” Elle conceded. “But I’m afraid for you.”

  Whitney flinched, shocked at Elle’s choice of words. “What does that mean?”

  “If you never ask the question, you’ll never have an answer.”

  “An answer to what, exactly?”

  “Your version of happiness. What is it? I don’t think you even know what you want because you never ask yourself. I’m not sure if you’re too scared to ask or you’re just not ready to hear the answer, but the clock’s ticking and it’s not going to stop. I’m not saying you have to get married and have babies, but you deserve to be fulfilled. Sure, you’re having fun, but is that all you want for yourself? Don’t get me wrong, Whit. Everyone loves crazy fun Whitney Bartolina. But when does carefree, up-for-anything become . . .” Elle’s voice trailed off and her front teeth bit into her bottom lip.

  “Pathetic?” Whitney asked, eyes wide.

  “No, no. I didn’t say that.” Elle shook her head. “I just want you to figure out what you want. Your career is fantastic. You’ve achieved so much. But what about your heart?”

  Whitney resisted the urge to snap at her friend or to deflect the uncomfortable topic with a snarky remark. She knew Elle was right.

  She wasn’t ready to ask herself that question. Not yet.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she pursed her lips. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and strained. She didn’t want to think about any of this—she didn’t want to touch the topic with a twenty-foot pole. She wanted to avoid it as she had for years. She was good at that. Damn good. Her career kept her preoccupied while she danced around the needs of her heart, of her soul. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, constantly with the wrong men just so she wouldn’t be alone. Whitney could handle being alone just fine. But what she couldn’t handle was regret, boredom . . . resigning herself to a bleak future just so she had the comfort of a shiny band wrapped around the appropriate finger. But deep within herself, she knew that fleeting casual relationships would eventually have to become a part of her past, or her life would be filled with more regret than she could imagine. Regret for not pursuing what mattered most: real, honest, true love.

  She didn’t know when she would have to confront it, or what confronting it even looked like. All she knew was she wanted to delay it for as long as humanly possible.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elle continued. It was her turn to reach for a napkin as she dabbed the corners of Whitney’s eye. “I didn’t come to New Orleans to make you cry. You’re like my sister, Whit, and I just want more for you. I know Nolan messed with your head for a long time, and you were always so damn strong. I admired that, really I did. And I understand if you want to leave him in the past.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Elle insisted, dabbing Whitney’s other eye. “I’m sorry if I seem unsupportive. But if I’m honest, this rugby guy seems like a rebound, a distraction . . . like you’re using him.”

  “Using him?” Whitney recoiled, appalled. She was never one to use others and Elle should’ve known that better than anyone. “For what?”

  Elle placed a hand on Whitney’s forearm, squeezing gently. Her expression was soft, she was begging Whitney to understand. “To avoid figuring out what you want.”

  “Oh.” She knew there was truth to Elle’s observations. Charlie was a delightful distraction from the pain and confusion that surrounded her relationship with Nolan.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s fine, I’m . . . I’m fine,” Whitney said, brushing away Elle’s napkin, but grabbing her friend’s hand. “You’re looking out for me and I love you for it. When I’m ready to ask the question, you’ll be the first to know the answer, I promise.”

  “Second,” Elle corrected her.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll be the first to know, Whitney. And that’s exactly how it should be.”

  “Ah,” Whitney replied. “Touché.”

  “But I’d better be the second.”

  “I promise. But I’m not ready yet. The past two years with Nolan have my brain so frazzled, I just can’t. And pushing me won’t make it happen any sooner.”

  Elle nodded, closing her eyes. “I get it, I do.”

  Whitney knew she needed to break the tension, to lessen Elle’s guilt. But she was stumped on how to do it. And so she chose to pretend the strain between them had magically vanished into the muggy air of the city.

  “Now finish your drink. We have to get to auditions.”

  “You hardly touched your food,” Elle said with wide eyes, gesturing to the two remaining beignets in Whitney’s paper basket.

  “We’ll be eating all day, remember?”

  “Ah, that’s right.” Elle eased off her chair, grinning as she rubbed her swollen belly and linked arms with Whitney. “Bring on the jambalaya and po’boys. Oh, and do you think someone will serve us crawfish? I’m dying for some crawfish.”

  Whitney chuckled as she pulled Elle closer. “That baby’s going to weigh twenty pounds when he’s born. You know that, right?”

  “She,” Elle said quietly.

  A smile crossed Whitney’s lips. “She?”

  Elle’s eyes misted as she nodded. “We found out a few weeks ago and I’ve been dying to tell you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted to give you my full attention. I know the baby’s been just about all I can talk about lately. I wanted to focus on you while I was here.”

  Whitney was grateful for her friend’s devotion and honesty, but it saddened her to think Elle felt she had to censor herself in any way. “You know,” Whitney began, “I can’t wait to meet her. She has no idea how much Auntie Whit is going to spoil her. How soon can I take her to the salon?”

  Elle rolled her eyes, but in them Whitney saw relief. She ran her fingers through Whitney’s thick curls. “I think she needs to wait a while for highlights.”

  “What about a little polish?” Whitney pressed, rubbing her hand on Elle’s belly. “Baby’s first manicure?”

  “Maybe.” Elle giggled and took Whitney’s hand in her own. “Speaking of firsts, you’re the first call I’m making when my labor starts.”

  “Second,” Whitney corrected her.

  “What do you mean?”

  Whitney raised an eyebrow. “You should probably call your husband first, don’t you think?”

  Elle smiled in realization. “I suppose.”

  “Is Luke freaking out?”

  “He’s out of his mind. He’s always wanted a daughter.”

  Whitney beamed. “I can see that. And forget daddy-daughter dances, he’ll bring her to the Golden Globes.”

  Elle laughed, clutching her belly. “And so it begins.”

  With arms linked, the two ladies strolled to the auditions. Whitney relished in their bond. Elle was the only person in the world who saw her completely—the good, the bad, every single bit of who she was. And for that, as much as she sometimes tried to fight it, she was grateful.

  ALBUQUER
QUE

  Summer colds are the worst,” Whitney whined to Katie, tucking a Kleenex into the pocket of her jeans. Her sinuses were plugged and her head pounded. It was their second day in Albuquerque, and she felt as if she’d been run over by a semitruck whenever she moved her stiff muscles.

  They were halfway through the day of casting and thus far, Albuquerque was a dud. And she couldn’t afford duds. Not with that bonus hanging in the balance. Whitney wasn’t sure if it was her sickness or if they were simply striking out in this city. That day they were served burnt fajitas (the smell stuck to her clothes like honey), sea urchin that tasted like kitty litter, and chicken-liver pâté that almost came right back up.

  The only saving grace in Albuquerque was a contestant named Joe who served the most robust and delicious beef chili with a side of Peruvian street corn. Whitney was brand-new to this dish but it knocked her socks off. Joe, a native of Illinois and a recent transplant to the Southwest, explained that the corn was roasted, skewered, and slathered with butter, spices, and Cotija cheese. Whitney was in love. If she hadn’t been feeling under the weather, she would’ve asked Joe to make another batch as the one ear of corn did nothing but ignite her taste buds. When Whitney thought of her list of semifinalists, Joe was definitely the one to beat.

  “Listen,” Chris said from his barstool. “Besides Joe, this day has been a bust. Go back to the hotel and rest.”

  Whitney was touched by the gesture, but the thought of not spearheading the remainder of the day’s auditions made her nervous. Chris scoffed at her moment of hesitation.

  “C’mon, it’ll be fine. You and I have agreed on almost every single contestant so far.”

  Except Charlie.

  “Almost,” Whitney agreed, wiping her nose. “You’re right, I do feel pretty awful.”

  “Seriously, go lie down. You look like death.”

  Whitney’s mouth dropped. “Oh, gee, thanks. That’s what a girl wants to hear.”

  Chris shrugged and pressed his lips into a thin line. “I call ’em like I see ’em. Go on. Katie and I got this.”

  Katie nodded and stroked Whitney’s arm. “He’s right, you should go. You’ll be back at it tomorrow.”

  Whitney slid from her barstool and the room spun slightly. She closed her eyes tightly and nodded in submission. “Fine, I’ll go. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

  “Of course,” Chris said with a patronizing nod.

  Whitney gritted her teeth. “I mean it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Chris laughed. “I promise. Now, go already.”

  Under protest, Whitney grabbed her purse and made her way back to the hotel. When she reached her room, she sank into the soft feather pillows of her bed and dozed away the afternoon. Vivid dreams of Nolan kept her brain occupied as she slept, and when she awoke to a loud knock at her door, the dreams had been so true-to-life that she assumed she’d find him standing on the other side.

  But it was Katie.

  Whitney surprised herself with her own disappointment. Those dreams had gotten to her subconscious and she realized just how much she’d been missing him since their encounter in Chicago.

  Katie scrunched her pale nose. “Oh no, I woke you up.”

  Whitney waved her in, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I needed to wake up anyway.”

  Katie lifted her arm to show Whitney a plastic pharmacy bag brimming with products. “I brought you some things.”

  Whitney’s face brightened when Katie passed her the bag and she sorted through the items. Four different kinds of cough drops, Kleenex, lip balm, NyQuil, gossip magazines, a trashy romance novel, Swedish Fish, and Twizzlers.

  “You are the sweetest,” Whitney said, hugging the bags of candy tight to her chest. “Seriously, thank you.”

  “No problem. You looked so miserable at auditions, I just wanted to make you a little more comfortable.”

  Whitney ripped open the bag of Swedish Fish and popped one in her mouth. She sighed as her teeth pierced the sugary soft candy. Candy always soothed her better than almost anything could. “This’ll definitely do the trick.”

  “I’ll let you rest. Just text me if you need anything. Oh, and I ordered room service. Chicken soup and crackers should be here soon.”

  Mmm. Chicken soup. Mama always made the best homemade soup. I should call her. “You’re the best.”

  Whitney returned to bed with her candy and moments later a huge, steaming bowl of soup was delivered to her door. The moment the piping-hot broth reached her lips, a not-so-distant memory flashed inside her brain, bringing her back to the last major sickness she had.

  It was a weekend and she’d had a terrible case of the flu, so bad that she didn’t even have the energy to leave her bedroom. When she walked, her legs wobbled and the room spun. She and Nolan were dating at the time, and with one quick phone call he arrived with chicken soup that tasted almost exactly like this hotel’s.

  Don’t do it.

  Whitney, do not get your phone. Do not call him.

  Do. Not. Call. Him.

  Too late.

  Feeling nostalgic, vulnerable, and feverish, Whitney found Nolan in her contacts and tapped his number to dial, lying back into the comfort of her bed’s feather pillows. They cradled her like a nest as she held her breath, wishing she’d listened to her gut. Calling Nolan was a bad, bad idea.

  One ring. Hang up, Whitney.

  Two rings. Shit, there’s no point, he’ll know it was me.

  Three rings. Where the hell are you, Nolan?

  Four rings and a click . . . Here we go . . .

  “Hey, doll.”

  She closed her eyes tight, listening to his voice, smooth as silk. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d missed his nickname for her. That simple word brought her back to happier times, times she fought so hard to forget.

  “Hey,” she said with a sigh.

  “I was hoping you’d call. Did you get my messages?”

  In addition to the gifts he’d sent to the other cities she’d visited, he’d also left countless voice mails on her cell, begging her to give him another chance.

  “Yeah, I, uh . . .” She hesitated. “I guess I wasn’t ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To talk to you. To let you in.” Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. She regretted her words, soaked in vulnerability.

  “Does that mean you’re ready now?”

  Whitney paused, attempting to remain stoic, impervious to his charm, but her aching body and stuffy nose just wanted comfort, calm, and harmony in a relationship that had been turbulent for so long. “I’m not sure.”

  “And the English guy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Are you seeing him?”

  “Yes,” she answered honestly. Nolan sighed in response. “And you? Are you seeing anyone?”

  Nolan paused and huffed into the phone. “No, doll. I’m not. I’ve been waiting by my phone . . . ever since you broke my heart in Chicago.”

  Whitney pursed her lips, doubting that Nolan Rivera, movie star, was waiting by his cell phone in the hopes she’d call. But what if he was? What if he really did love her? Was she foolish to walk away without giving him one last chance to prove himself?

  Don’t fall for it. This is Nolan Freaking Rivera. He doesn’t wait by a phone for anyone.

  “That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?” she snipped, picturing him with adoring fans clamoring to get up close and personal with their favorite movie star.

  “Melodramatic?” Nolan’s tone was harsh, defensive. “Forgive me for loving you, Whitney. Remember, you called me . . .”

  Whitney ignored his use of the “L word” once again. “You’re right, I did.”

  “Why?” he pressed.

  “I’m sick.”

  “So?”

  “Remember that time about a year ago when I had the stomach flu?”

  It was quite possibly the worst flu Whitney had ever had, and Nolan had found her passed out in her
bathroom after hitting her head on the bathtub. She’d had trouble forming words due to extreme dehydration. He’d nursed her back to health, insisting she drink Gatorade every fifteen minutes until finally, two days later, she was able to eat real food.

  “I’ll never forget it,” he said with a reluctant laugh.

  “Yeah,” Whitney said, her strong facade falling to the soft bed beneath her. “I lost five pounds in like two days.”

  “More than that! You were a skeleton.”

  “Nice.”

  “A sexy skeleton.” He chuckled.

  Whitney paused. “Anyway, you took good care of me.”

  “I tried.”

  Silence hung between them until Whitney’s sneeze broke the tension. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s why I called. I have a bad cold and they sent me home. I’m in this empty hotel room and I just . . .”

  “You wanted to be taken care of, I get it. I’ll call the hotel, get you some soup.”

  “I’m eating some now.” She swallowed another sip. “But thanks. I guess I just needed . . . I don’t know, someone.”

  “Well, if you needed someone, I’m glad you thought of me.” Whitney was pretty sure she could hear his smile through the phone, even through his snide tone. “But I have to be back on set in just a few.”

  Whitney’s heart sank and she wanted to punch herself for feeling that way. “I understand. Where are you filming?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Hmm,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s funny. I was just there.”

  “Why don’t you skip the next city and come to Nola? I’ll take care of you.”

  Whitney gritted her teeth. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Just tell ’em you’re sick. It’ll be fine.”

  Here we go.

  “Seriously, doll, my PA will be at your beck and call while I’m filming. And then when I’m done, we can—”

  “I have a PA, remember?” she interrupted. “Her name’s Katie. I told you about her.” She could feel herself regretting the phone call as Nolan’s selfishness reared its ugly head once again.

  “That’s right. Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”