by Kat T. Masen
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.
And I know myself well enough to know that his voice, alone, will lure me into his sinful ways. He will tell me this is nothing. I don’t have to worry and fuck ’em. He doesn’t care, so why should I?
Without realizing my hands are shaking, I dial Mama’s number, desperate to speak to her and seek the reassurance I need at this moment. The cell rings, and rings, until it hangs up on its accord.
I try again, closing my eyes and praying she will pick up. Nothing.
Fighting back the tears, I send Wesley a text. It’s all I have to say at this moment.
Me: 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 has organized for me to sit at the window so I can experience the city from above. It’s beautiful—another piece of the world that I wouldn’t have experienced had I not taken this job with Emerson. Resting my head against the chair, I think about all the things I have done in the past month 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 isn’t telling me anything I haven’t experienced. Though part of me questions how much she will truly understand. Yes, they had a relationship, but it was so tainted that she saw nothing but black. Or perhaps, I’m living a lie behind my set of rose-colored glasses.
“I d-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 Wesley. I’m sure you still remember something about him that kept you there.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Well, that’s your own opinion.”
I hate arguing with her. I respect her as my boss and a friend but the jealousy, it gets a hold of me and knowing that she once had something with Wesley becomes 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 can’t possibly understand what Wesley and I have. Nobody can. I want to tell everyone, I love him and it’s stupid, right? After three weeks, how can I be so in love with a man who I know isn’t good for me? Everyone has an opinion on Wesley, and majority rules that he’s 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 him and me. 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’s destructive by nature. You’re smart, you’ve got good morals. Run while you can.”
“If y
ou think he’s 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 that you’ve suggested such a thing. We’re business partners because he won’t let go. I’m not giving up what I built from nothing. This is 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’s surfacing slowly. My silence speaks volumes, my stare outside equally painful. For the rest of the flight, I run every moment with Wesley through my tired brain. The way he treats me, the way he smiles, our intimate moments when it’s just him and me. Alone with our souls. The way he laughs at my silly jokes. The way he romances me and opens his heart. All things he can’t have done if he’s in love with her.
Halfway into our flight, I fall asleep. I dream of Mama sitting on my bed watching me read to her. She laughs, holds me tight, and sometimes, if I’m lucky, she falls 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 fell 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 again. “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 was uncalled for.”
It doesn’t erase the humiliation that follows. I have no words to say despite her apology. Part of me so desperately wants to apologize to her. She risked her reputation and gave me a job. It allows me to support Mama and Flynn. But I can’t say the words. They’re trapped, buried beneath a pile of jealous resentment that creates this undefined layer between us.