by Kat T. Masen
“Argh…I love your hair so much. I really should stop cutting mine,” Emerson complains.
“I’ve always worn it long. Mom has long hair too. It’s just been our thing.”
“You never speak much about your mom, or back home for that matter.”
I smile. “How about we get to the club. A few drinks and I’m happy to talk about me.”
We got there a little after nine and still managed to get a table. It was in a great position, right in front of the dancefloor. The lighting was dim, creating a somber mood and exactly what Emerson wanted. No one in the club seemed to have recognized her and she told me it was nice to relax unnoticed.
We ate, delicious tapas and a seafood paella that was amazing. The dancers showed us their moves, while we laughed, drank sangria and enjoyed ourselves.
“We should find you a man,” Emerson giggles on her second sangria. “A man that 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 is 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 would 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 kravat.
“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 were staring at him. “That hip replacement must really be working out for him.”
We laugh, loosely and almost in tears, feeding off our relaxed state from the sangria.
“I need a man that gets me. You know, someone that 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. I must have someone I know that would be your perfect match.”
“I like this guy,” 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 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 soooo kill me anyway.”
“You guys are great together. You just mesh well. 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 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 I had even said anything.
But I was desperate.
I wanted to talk to someone.
Tell them that I was falling for him and didn’t want to admit it.
That it had been such a short time and impossible to feel this about someone but I did. And I hated it. I hated the anxiety of being in love with someone that didn’t feel the same way about me.
“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 knew. I wanted 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 wasn’t his. I kinda believe him. Wesley’s not a kid person. I don’t see him wanting a family. He didn’t take to mine and he hated being around small kids.”
I smile, widely and with a bout of happiness. Those words, simple yet comforted me in ways I didn’t expect to feel at this moment. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, all along, I was focusing on what I expected he would want rather than what he actually wanted.
I grab my cell, open up a text and send without any hesitation.
I love you.
I probably should have regretted it. But I didn’t. I bask in this euphoric state, allowing myself to live—if only for this moment—and follow what my heart and head were 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.
About time. I love you too, baby.
Hell has found a place inside my pounding head.
I could curse the sangria that lured me in with its delicious sweetness. Red wine and me did not mix. It wasn’t just my head throbbing, my stomach didn’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 toilet.
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 is not 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, it aches 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? My room, suitcase, clothes 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 toilet one more time. This will be the very last time I consume any alcohol—I swear. I wanted to cry. I needed someone to hold me and tell me that everything will feel better soon.
An overdramatic Milana needed to shut the fuck up and get the hell out of here.
I turn the shower on, scramble to find any clothes which happens to be a pair of jeans, my Chucks and an unironed shir
t. It didn’t matter; we would fly through the airport so quickly that no one would notice me anyway.
By the time we got to the airport, I felt slightly better having taken some Advil and Gatorade. My hair was annoying me, so I twisted it into a bun, wished I had put on some makeup since my face looked so pale and tired. The dark circles beneath my eyes made 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 to check in.
As soon as the automatic doors open, there’s a flash of cameras in my face. 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; my chest tightening from the claustrophobia. I look over to Emerson in a panic. I didn’t compute. Why were 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 followed suit.
“Are you pregnant with Rich’s baby?”
“Is it true that you were 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 towards the terminal and straight onto boarding the flight.
What the hell just happened?
How did they find out?
It was only when I sat down, that I noticed Emerson was not behind me. I stand up, 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 outside the window. The rain is falling lightly; the grey sky casting above us. What happened back there terrified me. I didn’t think of myself as an overly anxious person but the anxiety crippled me. People demanding questions about my personal life, my inability to walk without being scrutinized. Even in the midst of it all, I saw their judgment. Wesley Rich, movie star, in a relationship with this ugly girl? She’s nothing like Emerson Chase.
Look at the way she is dressed, and her hair. Where did he find her?
The muscles in my leg tightened; this urge to get off the plane becoming more and more overt. 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 desperately search for my cell in my purse; finding it fallen at 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. What this relationship is doing to me. I wanted to hear his voice, and despite my drunken stupor last night, I recall us exchanging words that couldn’t be retracted, at least—not in my eyes.
And I knew myself well enough to know that his voice, alone, would lure me into his sinful ways. He would tell me this is nothing. I don’t have to worry, and fuck ’em. He didn’t care, so why should I?
Without realizing, my hands are shaking. I dial Mom’s number, desperate to speak to her and seek the reassurance I needed at this moment. The cell rings, and rings, until it hangs up on its accord.
I try again, closing my eyes and praying that she would pick up. Nothing.
Fighting back the tears, I send Wesley a text. It’s all I had to say at this moment.
I can’t do this. It’s not me.
I’m sorry.
My cell is hidden away in my purse; switched to airplane mode and out of sight, out of mind. The plane begins to fill with passengers; some walking past me without interest and some watching me followed by whispers to the person next to them. The announcement is made for all passengers to take a seat. Minutes later, Emerson sits down beside me, without saying a single word.
After the safety presentation, the engine roars as we take off and head to the sky.
Emerson had organized for me to sit at the window so I could experience the city from above. It was beautiful; another piece of the world that I wouldn’t have experienced had I not taken the job with Emerson. Resting my head against the chair, I think about all the things I had done in the past months that have both terrified and excited me at the same time.
And they all lead back to Wesley.
“How long?” Emerson asks, keeping her voice low.
“Only three weeks.”
“Three weeks with Wesley Rich is enough to send anyone over the edge.”
She wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t experienced. Though part of me questioned how much she would truly understand. Yes, they had a relationship but it was so tainted that she saw nothing but black. Or perhaps, I was living a lie behind rose-colored glasses.
“I don’t understand…” she stumbles on her words. “Why on earth would you want to be with him?”
I’m slightly offended. “Emerson, you dated him once upon a time. In fact, you were engaged to him. You were willing to spend the rest of your life with him. I’m sure you still remember something about him that kept you there.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Well, that’s your own opinion.”
I hated arguing with her. I respected her as my boss and a friend but the jealously, it got a hold of me and knowing that she once had something with Wesley became my focus…again.
“It’s just that Wesley is so infuriating. You deserve better than him.”
“What if he deserves better than me?”
“Not possible. Do you even know what he did to me? Not only did he go to Amsterdam and get high while sleeping with someone…plural. He cheated on me. With multiple girls in some gang-bang hurrah. He’s not good for you.”
I hold back the tears that stem from anger—not hurt. Emerson couldn’t possibly understand what Wesley and I had. Nobody could. I wanted to tell everyone I loved him, and it’s stupid, right? After three weeks how can I be so in love with a man that I know is not good for me? Everyone had an opinion on Wesley, and majority ruled that he was nothing but a bad boy.
“I think I can decide what’s good for me. I don’t expect you to understand. You see Wesley the way you want to see him. It’s different with me and him. He’s different when he’s with me.”
Emerson laughs, shaking her head and acknowledging her own private joke. “That’s what all the girls say. Why don’t you have a chat with Farrah? I’m sure Wesley has spun the same story and that’s how he wooed you into bed.”
I turn to face her, quick and sharp. “What makes you think that Wesley wooed me into bed? You don’t think it’s possible for two people to be sexually attracted to each other and make a joint decision to be intimate with each other?”
“Milana. Trust me when I say this to you. Wesley is no good. He will hurt you. He is destructive by nature. You’re smart, you’ve got good morals. Run while you can.”
“If you think he is so destructive, then why are you still business partners? Why won’t you let go of him? Are you still in love with him? Is that why you’re so worked up about us?”
With an incredulous look, Emerson stiffens her shoulders and crosses her arms with a slight huff. “I love Logan. I love my family. I’m offended you would suggest such a thing. We’re business partners because he won’t let go. I’m not giving up what I built from nothing. This was my dream—not his. And of course because he’s being an asshole, he holds onto it. Or maybe, because he’s still in love with me.”
The words cut deep. Exposing a wound that was surfacing slowly. My silence spoke volumes, my stare outside equally pained. For the rest of the flight, I ran every moment with Wesley through my tired brain. The way he treated me, the way he smiled, our intimate moments when it was just me and him. Alone with our souls. The way he laughed at my silly jokes, the way
he romanced me and opened his heart. All things he couldn’t have done if he was in love with her.
Halfway into our flight, I fall asleep. I dream of Mom; sitting on my bed and watching me read to her. She would laugh, hold me tight, and sometimes, if I was lucky—she would fall asleep beside me.
The voice, loud and rudely awakening me from my blissful sleep, is the captain announcing our descent. I rub my eyes, unaware that I had fallen asleep for hours. Beside me, Emerson is sitting still, staring at the chair in front of her.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry,” Emerson apologizes, quietly and keeping our conversation low enough that no one else could hear. “I don’t know where that came from. That’s Logan talking—not me. He has an obsession with Wesley. I get it—sort of. He’s my ex and Logan’s jealousy is unruly at the best of times. But what I said, Milana, it’s uncalled for.”
It didn’t erase the humiliation that followed. I had no words to say despite her apology. Part of me so desperately wanted to apologize to her. She risked her reputation and gave me a job. It allowed me to support Mom, and Flynn. But I couldn’t say the words. They were trapped. Buried beneath a pile of jealous resentment that created this undefined layer between us.
“Milana.” Emerson places her hand on my arm, resting it gently. “If Logan finds out, which he will, it will be very difficult for me to work with you.”
“Then I should quit.”
“C’mon, let me talk to him. I don’t want to lose you. Not just because you’re a great assistant but because you’re a friend. This hurts, okay. I feel betrayed.” Her voice wavers, the warmth of her hand removed from my arm.
She had no idea what it felt like.
She felt betrayed—I was humiliated.
Everywhere I turned, I was doing something wrong. Losing friends because of my actions, losing a perfectly suitable job because I allowed my personal life to interfere.
And it all had one thing in common: Wesley Rich.