Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  Things are right in the world again.

  With some relief trickling in and the tension gone, I laugh at myself. I can’t believe that I almost let myself give in to all that bullshit again.

  Hopefully, once I land in LA, I’ll be able to shake this aching guilt still gnawing at me.

  33

  Macy

  After my not-so-brief pity party, which, in the future, I will be referring to as a nap, I spend a few minutes picking up after Aaron.

  For a guy, he has a surprising amount of shit. I’m not sure how he fit it all in his designer bag, so I don’t bother to try.

  It makes sense that if I can get his stuff out of sight, I can forget about him. Meeting him. Being here with him. Fucking him.

  Out of sight, out of mind, right?

  Then I can quit thinking about how he moaned as I swallowed his cock. And how searing fucking hot he looked when he asked me if I was ready to go for a ride.

  Goddamn it.

  I start circling the room faster, throwing his things into the other side of the closet.

  There, on the floor by the couch, is the shirt he was wearing yesterday when we left for the boat ride.

  An odd, hardly recognizable groan escapes me as I bend over and snag it off the floor. Holding it to my face, I inhale and sink to my knees. The spicy vanilla musk floods me with a vivid deluge of recent memories.

  What the hell? Is it a drug?

  Whatever it is, I’m fucking crying again. It only adds to my embarrassment when I pull the shirt from my face and see it wet with tears and snot.

  How do I even describe how I fucking feel right now?

  With my motivations, my intentions like I’m a character in some shitty fucking movie?

  Or, should I make it a lot simpler by describing the end result in a single fucking word? Anger. There are a few other choice words I could use like hurt, but anger seems to be winning.

  Using the shirt, I muffle a whimper that slowly turns into a scream. It finally dawns on me that I may be losing it.

  It has come to this.

  Frustrated and exhausted, I stay on the floor sobbing for a while. By the time I’m ready to stand up, the tissue box is empty.

  Snagging the pile of used Kleenex by my head, I pull my lethargic body up and head to the bathroom. Once I throw them away, I confiscate a back-up roll of toilet paper and take it out to the bedroom with me.

  It wasn’t even an entire week. It was essentially a long fucking weekend—how did this all hit me so damn hard?

  I need to do something constructive, like maybe work on my thesis.

  After one longer sniff of Aaron’s shirt, I pull my laptop out from its neglected bag under the desk. While it’s firing up, I arrange my toilet paper and notes.

  My eyes are still leaking although I have no idea why. I feel blank. Empty.

  It’s time to think about something beyond me. Something important. Worthwhile.

  Google taunts me. My fingers have a mind of their own as I type in Aaron Michaelson new project ex-fiancée.

  Immediately, hundreds of results flood my screen.

  The first headline reads, “Aaron Michaelson’s New Project with Ex-Fiancée.” My gluttony for punishment has me clicking the link right away.

  Almost compulsively, I start reading. Wouldn’t you know it, Aaron’s plans to sign on have already been leaked to the press. If nothing else, this confirms he won’t be coming back.

  Article after article, releases from just the last hour or so, give details and names about Aaron’s plans and next steps.

  If I was a stalker, he’d be very easy to track down. No wonder he hates the paparazzi so much.

  There’s no detail spared from public knowledge—except things like the title and plot of the film—and everyone figures they know exactly how he should be handling everything.

  My tissue pile gets bigger as I peruse the articles, torturing myself.

  Of course, his ex-fiancée is gorgeous.

  I’ve, maybe, glanced at a photo or two in the past, but her fans have made sure the internet is saturated with evidence of her beauty.

  Of course, I learn way more about how wealthy he actually is.

  If I knew any of this before I got involved with him, I never would’ve had the backbone to follow through.

  I’m not even sure what he saw in me at all.

  Oh, that’s right, I was just his honeymoon vacation fling.

  A knock on the door has me cutting short my latest pity party.

  “Just a minute!” Closing my laptop, I sweep my tissue pile into a trashcan and run to look at myself in the mirror.

  Well, that’s a lost cause. Fuck it.

  Pulling open the door, I face the music. The familiar face of our room service delivery man greets me.

  “For the happy coup...Oh, I’ll just leave this here.” He cracks a small, uncomfortable smile as he backs away and turns to practically run for the elevator.

  The abandoned cart outside our door, I mean, my door, is just going to have to sit. I’m not hungry and I’m certainly not in the mood for that shit right now.

  Shutting the door, I head back into the room. I’m exhausted.

  Going into the bathroom, I spend a few minutes running cool water on a washcloth and soaking my face.

  Wringing it out, I take it to the bed with me as I settle in for the night.

  Even though I know it’s weak, I fall asleep with a damp washcloth on my eyes to soak up my tears and with Aaron’s shirt cuddled to my chest.

  Just for tonight.

  It’s late morning before I start to function.

  Between sleeping on the floor the night before, the crying jag, and even the hula hooping, my body is starting to rebel with a pervasive ache.

  Rolling out of bed gingerly, I start the coffee pot and head into the bathroom to assess the damage.

  I don’t look too bad. Not good, but better than I thought I would.

  Way better than last night.

  And today’s mission is not to think about him. Period.

  It takes me a good hour to get ready before heading out to breakfast. Most of that time goes into putting on my camouflage makeup.

  But I looked decent, and the coffee had done its job along with a few ibuprofen. I feel pretty decent, too.

  It doesn’t take me long to get seated in the restaurant. Ordering a light breakfast of fruit and granola, I spend most of the time on my phone.

  I’m diligently avoiding anything that will trigger me to stray from today’s mission. I certainly don’t want to start crying in public.

  I believe I’m past it, but I’m not going to take any chances. So, it’s Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram for me today. Light, cheery, and funny.

  Catching up with all my friends, seeing what they’ve been up to this spring break makes me feel, for a moment, like I’m back home. Like none of this ever happened.

  The illusion feels weak, I admit, but maybe I can work with it going forward.

  Leaving the restaurant, I make a last-minute decision to walk off my breakfast. It’s beautiful out and I think a little sunshine will really pick up my spirits.

  Heading out the front, it isn’t until I hit the sidewalk that I recognize that same reporter from yesterday.

  He’s heading right towards me. Straightening my spine, I’m determined to ignore him.

  But when we get within ten feet of each other, his demeanor changes. Rushing towards me, he falls into step beside me.

  “Miss, yesterday when you were with Aaron Michaelson, did he mention anything about his commitment to sign on to the new project?”

  What the fuck?

  How does this guy even recognize me? I looked like shit yesterday when we got back.

  And does he really not fucking know?

  Glancing at him, he’s holding his phone up recording me as he speaks.

  “I… I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” Picking up my pace, I try to pull ahead of him.
<
br />   “Please miss, what’s your name?”

  I don’t look back at him. I immediately cut to the right off the sidewalk and onto the expansive lawn of the resort.

  I hear him behind me, calling out as a last-ditch effort, “How do you know Aaron Michaelson?”

  He’s obviously not allowed on the grounds because he doesn’t follow me.

  Circling around the resort, I head straight for the beach.

  Sinking into a chair, I clutch my phone and will my heart to settle.

  This is bad. I guess I won’t be leaving the resort on foot over the next few days.

  I startle when a waiter stops directly in front of me. “Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please. Could I have an orange juice?”

  Leaning on the backrest, I think back on how upset Aaron was when the reporter questioned him.

  That was just a small taste of what he must go through on a regular basis. It definitely gave me a new appreciation for exactly how invasive they are.

  And for now, that small taste is enough.

  I don’t need any more drama, or invasive press, or getting stranded on islands, or fights in the lobby both play-acted and real. It’s bad enough letting go of it all now, I can’t imagine what a basket case I’d be if we’d separated after a week.

  Or longer.

  So, this is how it happens. They call it “falling for someone” for a reason, after all.

  You really do fall.

  Fuck.

  34

  Aaron

  “You can just stay up front. I’ll show myself out, thanks.”

  Immediately after delivering those instructions to the chauffer, I turn off the limo’s intercom. We’re finally fucking pulling into my gate, and I don’t want to see or talk to anyone—I just want to get out then go inside.

  My nerves, usually tighter than steel, are just about ready to snap. It’s not like me at all and I can’t fucking explain it.

  Every part of the trip seemed to take for-fucking-ever.

  After we slow down oh-so-fucking gradually to a stop, I leap out of the limousine and walk purposefully to the main entrance.

  What I need is a shower, a drink, and some perspective—preferably in that order. Although, maybe I should have the drink before the shower. I mean, realistically, I won’t get perspective until I can get some order into my thoughts.

  With a sigh and a glance around, I finally unlock my front door.

  For some reason, the mansion I call home seems awfully big and empty today.

  I don’t recall ever feeling this way before.

  The minute I shut the front door, my mobile rings. Without thinking or checking who it is, I answer the call.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, my friend,” a familiar voice comes through the phone speaker.

  “Hey,” I reply, lifelessly. I shouldn’t have answered. It’s Bud Freeman, a director and an actual decent human being in Hollywood, but he’s among the billions of people I don’t feel like talking to at the moment.

  “So how was the trip, my man?”

  “Fucking awful,” I mumble, slipping off my shoes. I throw my keys on the foyer table and head into the main living area of my home, a home that feels awfully foreign to me.

  Fuck, has it always been this huge? It seems like someone else’s house. But it’s mine, and there’s nobody else here right now—not even staff.

  “Really?”

  It’s almost fucking eerie, but I try to distract myself by talking to my friend who called the second I walked through the goddamn door.

  “I got delayed leaving St. Maarten, fucking air traffic problem. I never knew the place was so popular.”

  Bud only laughs, he probably knows better than to interrupt my flow of whining.

  “Of course, it was no better flying into LA,” I continue my rant as I walk over to one of the bars and pulling out a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. It’s early, but I need a strong drink.

  “I mean, we circled in the fucking air for so long I thought we might actually run out of fucking fuel.” I pour the drink into a glass, a double at least, and start drinking it neat.

  The rust-colored liquid dances across my tongue and runs down my throat, igniting a trail of fire on its way.

  “And when we finally landed, customs was a mess with no way around the lines. And don’t get me fucking started on the traffic—it made the usual LA traffic look like fucking Omaha’s.” I make myself stop ranting for a second.

  It’s a nice distraction from...whatever it is I’m feeling right now, though I need another sip of scotch.

  “Maybe you would have been better off just fucking walking, my friend,” Bud jokes as I swallow a good portion of the drink.

  On one hand, I’m not in the joking mood. On the other, I’m reminded of something.

  “Hey, I don’t walk from fucking anything…” I’m trying to quote from one of my movies, but, for some reason, the rest of the quote escapes me.

  Try as I might to recall the full quote, it refuses to come to me.

  A blank. I draw a complete and perfect fucking blank.

  What the fuck is this about? I quote from my movies all the fucking time without any fucking trouble.

  That’s also an especially famous quote I can’t remember, from an especially infamous movie.

  “Well, why don’t you pour yourself a drink and have a calm-down. I won’t insult you by reminding you of the quote—you need a drink and a good sleep. Call me when you’re sorted out.”

  After the call, I stare at the device in my hand, watching the screen turn itself off, almost willing that quote to come back to me.

  But it doesn’t.

  Fucking blank.

  Only one thing to do.

  I head for the shower.

  Before anything else happens, I need hot water to wash away the dirt and grime from the trip home, from that reporter, from an entire experience which I can’t even start thinking about now.

  When I finally emerge from the master’s en suite, I feel a little more human.

  Dressed, and with another drink in hand, I wander to my screening room’s projection booth, and stare at the library of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. It takes me less than five minutes to find the film.

  I turn the cover over and read the blurb.

  Not one of my best work. Bad reviews, even worse in the box office. My one attempt at putting together a serious romance.

  As usual, I didn’t take it seriously. Even though I contributed that line I can’t remember.

  It made its budget back when people started laughing—midnight screenings, DVD sales and Rifftrax licensing all showed how much people liked to mock this little gem.

  Like, watch this copy of my famous flop, The Thought of the Tear.

  As I sit in the screening room, about to remotely start the projector, I’m still reading the Blu-ray case, including quotes pulled from reviews.

  There were some things critics liked, or at least one thing, the line: ‘What we have is something real, and it’s not worth walking away from.”

  How in the world could I ever forget that line?

  At the time I thought it was a great quote to put into the film. Not only was it a great line, it belonged to a story told to me by my grandfather, and it definitely belonged in a romantic flick.

  The old man used to love telling me stories about the way he courted my grandmother. Whenever he told a story when she was within earshot, she’d yell at him for stretching the truth. He may have embellished, but he knew how to make a story seem real, and immediate, yet somehow timeless.

  I don’t start the movie—I just can’t.

  Instead, I grab a light jacket and keys from the foyer closet and head out the door.

  And I go walking.

  In Los Angeles.

  On a weirdly chilly evening.

  I must be doing that for a fucking reason, though I’m not sure what it could be.

  Despite the nam
e, Sunset Boulevard does not feel very romantic when I end up there. The sidewalks are wide and mostly empty, and the late spring air is way too fucking brisk for LA.

  For a while, I let my feet pound the pavement. I have no destination in mind—but I’m heading towards Hollywood proper. The sensation of a deep, uncontrollable sadness, powerful enough to make me collapse on the sidewalk in front of Meltdown Comics, starts threatening to engulf me entirely.

  As long as I keep walking, I can keep it in the background. After continuing east for another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, it fades far enough to ignore—for the time being.

  Just before reaching Wilcox, I’m feeling especially numb. As exhausted as I was after the trip home, I just walked for miles, and I feel like I could keep going, and that fact scares me enough to stop me where I am.

  There’s a small, kind of artsy cinema on that corner of Sunset, and I duck inside the lobby to stop myself from fucking walking any further.

  Checking my watch on the way in, I see that it’s already close to fucking midnight. I honestly lost track, but, to my relief, the cinema looks open, and there’s a crowd streaming into the single auditorium.

  And there’s a poster— that I’m standing right fucking next to—for The Thought of the Tears.

  I guess I made it to a midnight screening after all.

  As if drawn by some invisible force, I buy a ticket and enter the theater, before I can stop myself.

  As I settle into a seat near the front, one of the few that’s left, I no longer need to stop myself. You won’t find me admitting this to anyone ever, but sitting in a darkened theater, with a crowd of strangers, and being collectively transported to another world while sharing the same perspective and experiencing the story together is about as close to fucking magic as anything else I’ve known in life.

  As soon as the lights fade out and the production company logo comes up on screen, I know the magic is about to begin.

  We’re transported, alright, but the laughter which starts over the opening credits does not let up. I should’ve known what to expect.

  There’s laughter at every fucking line of dialogue, applause in weird spots, and people yelling shit at the screen.