by Kat T. Masen
“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 removes from my arm.
She has no idea what it feels like.
She feels betrayed? I am humiliated.
Everywhere I turn, I’m doing something wrong. Losing friends because of my actions, losing a perfectly suitable job because I allow my personal life to interfere.
And it all has one thing in common—Wesley Rich.
All I have left is my family.
As soon as the plane touches the tarmac, I switch on my phone. I have nothing from Wesley, a dozen texts from random people in my contacts list asking me about my relationship, and a voicemail from Mama.
“Sweetie, it’s me. I’m sorry I missed your call. I’ve been tired lately. It must be the change in weather. I hope it is nothing too important. I miss you, and your brother. Maybe a trip back home might be in order. I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us. We’ll talk soon. I love you.”
Around me, voices call my name. My vision is blurred, spots of colors that make no images or sense. Everything is echoing. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring it all, and shutting down the noise by covering my ears.
“I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us.”
“Grandpapa? Grandpapa…”
He’s gone.
He’s a memory.
And just like that—my nightmare begins.
Mom’s Alzheimer’s is fast becoming a reality.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What you’ve experienced is called a panic attack.”
The doctor, summoned to our hotel by a worried Emerson, explains how stress is a huge element, and my first, yet short, panic attack was induced by everything going on in my life that overwhelms me and snowballs into one intense moment.
She speaks in great depth about well-being, the measures I need to take to reduce, if not eliminate, this from happening again. She calls them triggers—something, a warning sign, that will prompt me to find a coping mechanism before I reach that point again.
I understand, but so much of what she says seems so far-fetched and unreasonable. So I have some personal problems. I’m not a kid. I can face these problems and move on. I don’t need help from professionals, nor do I need to schedule an appointment with some overly expensive doctor, who will listen to me talk for an hour and charge me a fortune.
Doctor Peterson prescribes some medication and recommends I spend the day resting. That piece of advice I welcome with open arms.
Emerson listens attentively, asking questions on my behalf while I continue to lay here like a vegetable. I’m exhausted. My limbs feel like jelly, my eyelids are barely able to remain open and acknowledge that Doctor Peterson is leaving.
The whole ordeal has been one giant blur. I can’t even remember how I got here. What I do remember is listening to my voicemails, hearing Mama’s voice, and feeling overwhelmed by fear as she mentioned my Grandpapa.
Then, there’s the issue of the media finding out about Wesley’s and my relationship. The paparazzi are relentless, and if my memory serves me correctly, a few were stationed outside this hotel. I don’t recall their faces, nor their questions, but their invasive behavior annoys our security guards. Thankfully, Emerson is a pro at avoiding them, dragging me with her and covering our faces with immensely large sunglasses she has in her purse.
Sitting on the edge of my bed dressed in her sweats, a sad smile shadows Emerson’s normally positive aura. Letting out a deep sigh, she places her hand on top of mine and rubs it gently. “I’m here if you need to talk. I won’t judge, and I’m sorry I judged you earlier. It took me by surprise. I’m sorry.”
She loses herself for a moment, deep in thought. Much like myself, she has dark circles under her eyes from the grueling trip and our big night out. Though, she’s still beautiful—natural and flawless—in her own right.
“When I first signed up to Generation Next, the reality show, I had no clue what it was like to be in the spotlight. My brother, Ash, and Logan had just been scouted. They were famous for their abilities, lived and breathed soccer. Me… I was on television and didn’t expect the level of fame that came with it. I also didn’t expect the intrusion.”
I listen, resting my head against the pillow and pulling the blanket up closer to my chin, keeping my body warm.
“I guess it’s why Wesley and I were right for each other, at the time. He was going through the same thing, and we both felt trapped. If our lives would play out on television, wouldn’t it be easier to be with someone who was experiencing the same thing?”
“Tell me…” I ask, softly, “… about you and Wesley. I want to know it through your words, not the tabloids.”
She shuffles her legs onto the bed, crossing them beneath each other. “He was gorgeous. Every time I was around him, we had this flirtatious thing we would do, and I loved it. I wasn’t stupid, women wanted him, and I guess, if I’m being honest, I wanted to be the one who had him, not them.”
I smile, without the bitter attachment, because I understand exactly what she means. This possessive hold over an unattainable man is a force to be reckoned with. I have never felt anything so powerful.
“He’s charming.” She grins, adding a small laugh. “When he’s in a good place, he is so creative and driven. Do you know that part of our dry-fit technology concept is because of him?”
“I thought he had nothing to do with it?”
“He came up with the basic concept, then we passed it on to a technical team to move forward with the rest. I just wish he didn’t mix with the wrong crowd. As I said, when he’s on, he’s on. But when he’s in that dark place… it’s hard to pull him out.”
“And his mother, what do you think of her?”
Emerson’s laugh is short but full of contempt. “She’s determined, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, I don’t trust her. She’s so hung up on wealth that she doesn’t realize she has a son who needs attention.”
Gina struck me as exactly that—gold and fame digger.
“But I don’t think Wesley wants her attention.”
“I think you’re right, to a certain extent. You can’t erase the past, and she’s done her damage. But I guess, being an optimist, it doesn’t have to be that way in the future. She needs to find her way, and Wesley needs to find his without her constantly bringing him down.”
I bite my lip, holding back my fears but at the same time, desperate to unleash what my heart so eagerly wants to communicate. And if anyone will understand what it’s like to walk a mile in my shoes, it will be Emerson Chase.
“It hurts me to see him that way. I can never imagine living a life without a supportive mother. I just… I just don’t know how to help him. I know he wants more from me, but I can’t give it, Emerson. All I have to give is to my mama. She needs me, not him.”
The sobs remain trapped in my chest, my tears unwillingly fall silently against the white pillow as I remember the voicemail from Mama. I can’t bear to see this happening. The woman I love and look up to is deteriorating at this slow and agonizing rate.
“I miss my mama every day, and it hurts.” I wipe my tears against my sleeve. “God, I know I look stupid. I’m too old to feel this way.”
Emerson pats my leg, comforting and listening to me. “No, you’re not. I miss my mom, too. We talk almost every day on the phone. When I leave her, I cry, too. It’s hard being away from your family, but on the bright side, one day, you’ll have a family of your own, and your kids will feel the same way.”
Slow and steady, I open my heart and tell Emerson what I have never admitted to anyone else. Not Mama, not Phoebe, an
d maybe, not even myself. “I don’t want kids. I’m terrified that I’ll have the same disease as Mama. And you know, I just can’t do it to another human being. It’s not fair to have to worry all the time whether or not they’ll remember you tomorrow.”
Emerson keeps her judgment at bay, nodding her head and understanding my fear to procreate. A huge part of me feels relieved, and it lifts a heavy weight off my shoulders.
“I understand how fear plays a huge part in the decisions we make. But, if for some reason you meet that guy you want to be with for the rest of your life, don’t shy away from creating a family. Blessings can come in all forms.”
My gaze wanders to the window, watching the sunset in the horizon. It’s stunning and perfect in so many ways.
“I love him. I don’t know why but I do.”
The bed moves slightly. Emerson is sitting by my side with her arm around my shoulder. I bury myself into her chest, grateful for her support in this moment.
“I shouldn’t, nor have the right, to question why someone loves someone else. But Milana, I will tell you this. Be careful, please. As much as I love Wesley for what we once had that was good, he also has a side to him that isn’t. And I don’t wish that on you. Just follow your instincts. In the end, what happens, happens.”
I could have gotten angry at her for throwing him into the negative bin again, but I know the truth behind her words because if there is no truth, I wouldn’t be feeling this way. I’d be on the phone to him, happy and telling him how much I love him.
Instead, I’m here confiding in his ex-fiancée.
Emerson’s cell vibrates in her lap, and it’s Logan, FaceTiming her.
“You should get that. Tell him I’m sorry, please.”
She stands, pursing her lips and smiling but only just. “I will deal with him. You deal with your own worries, okay?”
Emerson leaves the room the same time I hear Logan shouting over the speaker. Quickly climbing out of bed, I hover toward the door and listen to the conversation as Logan is yelling at Emerson.
“I fucking told you to end this! You never fucking listen to me. You always want to do your own thing and defend him. I swear Emerson, you need to fucking choose once and for all because I’m done with him being in our life.”
“You’re angry, but this isn’t my fault. I can’t control people’s feelings,” she says, raising her voice in frustration.
“You know what? I asked Milana to deal with Wesley. I don’t want him around you anymore. But hey, I didn’t expect her to spread her legs and fuck him.”
“You’re being an asshole right now. I will talk to you when you calm down, you understand me? And you can kiss having another baby goodbye!” She ends the call, letting out a loud groan and stomping her feet with anger.
It’s all my fault.
If anything happens to Emerson and Logan, I can only blame myself. The same feeling I have with Mama. I shouldn’t have left home. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t be this way. She’d remember that Grandpapa died years ago. Everything would just continue on.
I drag myself back to the bed, thinking about what Logan said. He makes me sound like a whore. I contemplate calling him directly to explain myself but quickly change my mind.
Beside my bed is a nightstand with a fancy lamp. My cell, sitting on top, shows nothing from Wesley. I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried.
I scroll through my contacts, in a clouded and frazzled state, and dial the number.
“It’s me.” I cry softly into the speaker. “Are you there? Say something.”
There’s a long pause. Each second that passes hurts more and more.
“I’m here. Milly, what is going on with you?”
Phoebe’s concern is comforting and exactly what I need. A piece of home, even if it’s just a phone call. I miss everything about her, and hearing her voice brings back so much of myself that feels incomplete since the moment we stopped talking.
“I don’t know, Phoebs. I just fell… like hard, and I’m scared. I’m losing everyone, but I can’t pull myself out of this alone. Then there’s Mama… she’s getting worse.”
“Breathe… one, two, three.” Phoebe breathes into the speaker like she’s giving birth, making me laugh through my tears. “When you’re ready… spill.”
I pour my entire heart out to her, everything from the moment I met Wesley to this evening. Phoebe listens quietly, though my stupid phone keeps buzzing from call waiting. I ignore it, wanting to hear her voice and nothing else.
“Jesus, Milly, it’s like a soap opera. What has Hollywood done to you?”
“Not Hollywood. Wesley.”
“You’re in love. This is scaring you because you’re in love with him. You’re in love with a movie star,” Phoebe screams, loud.
“What?”
“You’re in love with a movie star who is also your boss’s ex-fiancé. This is everything in life you’re against… movie stars and shitting where you eat.”
I sigh loudly, turning the lamp on as the night falls, and the darkness creeps in.
“I don’t think that expression applies to this situation, and it’s gross.”
“Milly, I’ve known you forever. This isn’t you. He isn’t what you’re about.”
She has known me for forever and states the truth. Wesley is not what I am about if I’m about anything.
But what if that is no longer me? The scared and timid Milana, who would run any time anything changed. Here I am now, the complete opposite.
“I miss home.”
“I know you do. We miss you.”
“We?”
“Liam and me. He asked about you again, for like the hundredth time. He still cares. It’s not too late, you know.”
“That boat has sailed, Phoebs. Liam and I are just Liam and I.”
“And you and Wesley are—”
“Wesley is crazy. I am… in love,” I finally admit, openly, to her.
“And that, my friend, is the answer to your problem.”
I think about what she’s saying, and stupidly I question why love should be a problem. Isn’t love supposed to be the greatest thing to happen to you? The world becomes full of rainbows, unicorns frolicking around, and all you can feel is the crisp, clean air and hear the sounds of a beating heart that bursts every day with joy.
Love is not crying each day. Love is not questioning whether you should pick up the phone and call him because you fear his mood swings and erratic behavior. Love is not asking for space.
And if love is not self-inflicting pain and falling back into his arms because, in a twisted way, it comforts you, then what is it I’m feeling?
The exhaustion hits me, the yawns coming hard and fast while I barely say goodbye, my phone face-planting me several times. Phoebe reminds me to call her later, something about catching me up on who is dating who in town, and the latest controversy with her neighbor’s teen pregnancy.
I doze off, only to wake to a commotion, unknown voices and some yelling. The doors to my suite swing open, forceful and slamming against the wall, with Wesley standing between them, wild and monstrous. He appears larger than usual—his built physique wearing a black hoodie and gray sweats. His beard, normally well-kept, is over-grown and covering his lower face.
Emerson is quick at his heels, pulling him back which he ignores, shaking her grip off him which only frustrates her more. His gaze is steadfast, hard against me, and his breathing is abnormally noisy—the only sound echoing in the room.
“Wesley, stop. Calm down, will you,” Emerson commands, her tone rigid.
“Leave us, please,” he grits, nostrils flaring with a piercing stare.
“No. You’re crazy. Are you on something?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. “You can leave us.”
“Are you sure?” Emerson glances at Wesley, staring him down with worry. “I’ll be right outside dealing with security, and a husband who will no doubt tear me to shreds.” She l
eaves the room, closing the door behind us.
Wesley paces back and forth, head bowed with a heavy step, clenching then unclenching his hands.
I’m not surprised to see him here. He has a way of finding me wherever I may be. I’m still tired, though I did sleep, my anger is controlled, perhaps from my exhaustion. And despite his clear anguish, I’ve missed him.
But I’m not going to tell him that.
I need to talk to him.
Set it straight, once and for all.
“Well, you’re obviously here for a reason.”
“What part of a relationship don’t you understand?”
“Here we go again,” I say, defeated, throwing my hands in the air. “I leave for two minutes, and you’re acting like a caveman. Give me a fucking break! Do you know what it’s like to have cameras point in your face demanding you tell them if you’re fucking Wesley Rich?”
“No… you give me a break.” His hands nervously run through his hair. I can see now, at closer range, his bloodshot eyes that Emerson must have noticed. He must be on something. The deal, the other night, he’s high now or whatever happens when you’ve taken something. He needs help, I can’t do this. This is beyond me.
“I can’t fucking think straight, Milana. You think it’s fun not calling me. Playing these useless mind games to fuck with me? I know you read my texts. I know you go out and have fun, dancing or whatever the fuck with other men. You think I just sit around and not think about you? I can’t fucking breathe. All. The. Time.”
“And do you think it’s easy for me? This life. Your life. It isn’t what I know. I don’t know what it’s like to have every move watched. What happened yesterday terrified me. On top of that, I have broken an important relationship because of us.”
“What? Your fucking ex back home?”
“No. Emerson.”
He remains quiet, lifting his head and biting his lip. I know he craves a drag, same thing he did every other time.