by Knight, JJ
The day goes by in a haze.
Chet returns from the Italian offices and checks on me. I can barely say two words to him.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
“What can I do?” he asks.
Dylan left his old guitar behind, but I can’t bear to look at it, so I give it to Chet to keep in his room.
I’m alone again.
Someone from the hotel staff comes to take the dishes from yesterday, or maybe the day before, and bring me more food. The roses that Dylan brought are droopy, and I ask her to take them all away.
The housekeeper who cleans the room keeps apologizing to me, like it’s her fault I’m a sobbing mess, barricaded inside my room.
From looking at the windows, I know it’s a beautiful evening outside. But I can’t even step out onto the balcony.
* * *
By Tuesday morning, all my hope is gone. Even if Dylan didn’t get on a flight immediately after he left the hotel, he’s definitely gone by now. I know from his publicist that he has appointments today in the L.A. recording studio, and the album is important to him.
His music is more important than me.
My heart is broken into a thousand pieces. I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.
I drag myself through the motions to get ready for work.
Chet and I share a taxi to the distributor’s office, where I go through the motions.
Meetings, talking, plans, designs, repeat.
Sabrina asks me what’s wrong, and I tell her I’m just homesick. When she presses me for more, I tell her I miss the farm I grew up on. I miss being somewhere simple, where I fit in.
We have to stop talking, because I can tell I’m upsetting Sabrina. She looks like she might cry, and tells me she misses her farm, too.
I quickly change the topic and demand to see the new posters her department was working on.
We work through lunch. I throw myself into my job. My heart’s not into anything, and I’m not as decisive as usual, but the work comes out as good as ever.
I just want to stay busy.
The week goes by, and then I come in and work on the weekend, too. Sabrina wants to take me around Rome, but I won’t go.
I can’t even pretend to be happy.
It’s better for everyone if I stick to my work.
* * *
When our time in Rome draws to a close, I’m a mix of emotions.
Part of me can’t wait to go home. I miss Amanda and Riley, and I want to see them so bad.
Today is our last full day in Rome. We’ve got a huge celebratory dinner planned with all the Deluca executives. Sabrina teases me about wearing something low-cut, so they can all stare at my chest one last time.
For a minute, I stare across her desk at her.
“One last time?” I repeat. I only heard part of what she said. That’s been happening a lot since Dylan left me here in Rome. I try to listen to people, but there’s a fog in my brain that makes everything hazy.
I sleep for at least nine or ten hours every night, and drink so much coffee in the day, but I feel like I can’t wake up.
Sabrina pushes a tiny cup of espresso toward me, then takes a sip of hers. I stare at her in a daze as her brown hair and brown eyes shift, and she reminds me of my sister, Riley. Where am I? What’s happening?
I feel like I’m surfacing for a moment, gasping for air, before plunging back down again, into this murky fog.
I take the espresso and toss it back, followed by the glass of water her assistant brought with the espresso.
Sabrina says, “If you have nothing low-cut, I could lend you something.” She grins, teasing me. “Give my bosses one last look at your perky Americano…” She doesn’t say the word, but waves her hands across her own chest.
I let out a laugh. It sounds weird. This might be the first time I’ve laughed in ten days. Now I’m smiling, and a bit of sunshine is coming through my fog.
“They’d like that,” I say. “They could slobber over my eye candy, one last time.”
“Unless it’s not the last time,” she says coyly. “You can come back and see us here in Rome any time. But bring those friends of yours that I have heard so much about. Bring them! You can all stay at my house. You don’t need a hotel.”
I look around at the small office Sabrina and I have been sharing the last few weeks.
“Sabrina, I won’t be in this office tomorrow. I won’t see you, and I’ll miss you. I’ve been here a month, and I’ve gotten so used to everything. I think going to L.A. will make me feel homesick. Homesick for Rome!”
She laughs. “Then don’t leave,” she says. “You can do my job, and I’ll be your assistant.”
“No way. I’ll be your assistant.”
She tips her head back and lets out a big, Italian laugh.
When she’s done, I say, “I’m really going to miss you.”
She gives me a serious look, then leans across the desk and whispers, “He still hasn’t called?”
“No.” I clench my teeth for a moment until my emotions settle. “I talked to my friends, the ones who live in the house next door. He won’t talk to them about anything. Not a word. Everyone’s shut out. Can you believe it?”
Sabrina lets out a low whistle. “But those girls, they were his friends too, no? What is happening? I do not understand. I think he is in danger. When you cannot talk to your old friends, it is a very bad thing.”
I have to clench my jaw again. She’s right. I can understand him shutting me out, but he’s been a good friend to both Riley and Amanda. I wish he would talk to them at least.
“He’s got his publicist and agent,” I say to Sabrina. “They’re sensible about things.” I take a deep breath and cheerily say, “He’ll be busy. He probably went straight into the recording studio last Tuesday morning and hasn’t left.” I nod as I talk, convincing myself. “He’s obsessive about his work, you know. Just like all the best artists.”
“He is very talented,” she says.
I feel like she’s about to say something else, but stops herself short.
“Very talented,” I agree.
She waves at her computer screen. “It’s okay. I don’t believe all the stories. I know they are always lies.”
“Are there new stories about him?” My heart skips. I’ve been so careful to not go online. I know better than to go looking for anything. I managed to turn off the app on my phone that was sending me alerts about Dylan, and I’ve been in the dark. I’d rather be in the dark than hear bad things.
“Nothing new.” She winces. “Just the same things. Always the neighbor, telling the stories. This and that. Pretty girls, come and go all hours of the day. Lies. That’s what Hollywood means, to me. Movies and lies.”
She looks up at me, and her big eyes are full of so much pity, my heart breaks into even more pieces.
“Sabrina, I’m going to be fine. As soon as I get home, I’ll apologize for… I don’t know. For hurting his feelings.”
“He will be sorry.”
“Uh, sure. Then he’ll tell me I don’t need to apologize, and that it’s all his fault.” I let out a silly chuckle. If I just keep making dumb jokes, I’ll be fine.
She glances pointedly at the engagement ring on my finger. “And the wedding?”
Right. We’re supposed to be getting married in a week. I don’t have a dress… or a fiancé. Somehow, I don’t see the wedding happening as planned.
Through clenched teeth, I say, “You’ll come as our guest. I don’t know when, but you’ll be there.”
She agrees to this, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. To her, these are just Hollywood lies.
After a moment of silence, she says, “Jess, can you teach me how to shake hands like you do? I want to learn this, the American way.”
I laugh again. Laughing is getting easier. “You should ask Chet. He’s the president of the company. He’s got a great handshake.”
“Not as good as yours. What is your secret?”<
br />
I look down at my hand for a moment. It’s been so long since I took the workshop in college, that I’ve almost forgotten the secret.
“The handshake is about trust,” I tell her. “You show that your right hand is empty, with no weapon.” We both chuckle for a moment. “Some people grip too hard, trying to send a message of dominance. But that’s not what my teacher taught me. He said it’s about offering the person your trust. You do want your grip to be firm enough so they feel it. Your willingness to trust.”
“You make it sound beautiful.”
I look down at my hand. “When trust works, it is beautiful.”
She gets up from her chair, and we practice shaking hands until she feels more confident.
She’s a quicker study than me. I had to work hard on my handshake, because of self-esteem issues. I’d been neglected for years before my grandmother took me in. Even though Nan loved me, I felt like a charity case, a reject. I wasn’t like some of the other students, who felt they deserved the best of everything.
Sabrina and I finish up our final details for the day, then visit the washroom together to freshen up our makeup.
We’ll go to the fancy dinner tonight, to celebrate the marriage of Deluca and Morris.
I wish people would stop calling it a marriage.
Chapter Thirteen
The restaurant is truly gorgeous, with dazzling chandeliers and hand-painted murals on the walls. I’ve been to some Italian restaurants in L.A., but they’re pale imitations of this, the real thing.
I choose a chair that offers a view of the door. Every time a dark-haired man comes in, I check to see if it’s Dylan. I keep hoping he’ll fly back and ask me to extend my stay in Italy.
A man with messy, dark hair walks in. He has Dylan’s swagger, and he scans the room until he stops on me. He gives me a flirty look, but he’s not Dylan.
I look away and take a sip of my wine.
Time is running out.
Our first course includes plates of calamari, a grilled eggplant salad, and dates stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in prosciutto.
We eat together like family. And after working together so closely, we are family. I’m going to miss everyone, even the gross old guys who stare at my chest.
With each course of food, I keep saying I can’t eat another bite, but then I take a taste and keep going. I stop watching the door.
We’re enjoying the tiramisu for dessert, and I have to blink away the tears that come to my eyes. Dylan and I were supposed to find the best tiramisu in Rome, together. I’ve found it, and he’s not here.
Chet seems to be picking up on my thoughts. He leans over to me and says, “You’re going to be fine.”
I finish the last bite of tiramisu and push the plate away.
“Not if I keep eating like this. I’ll explode.”
Chet signals for the waiter to bring us coffee. He turns to me, a thoughtful look on his face. I’m sure he’s about to ask me if I’ve heard from Dylan yet. Everyone keeps asking me to remind them how many days it’s been. I swear, I should get a T-shirt made up for each day.
8 days have passed since Dylan stormed out of the hotel room.
9 days have passed since Dylan stormed out of the hotel room.
Maybe if I wore that on a T-shirt, people would stop asking me what’s happening. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing with my life.
Before Chet can ask me, I hit him with a question.
“So, Chet. When are you going to settle down and get married?”
The conversations around us settle down, as other people turn to listen.
He looks embarrassed. “As soon as I find her.”
“You’re so romantic, for a guy,” I say. “What makes you think there’s only one girl for you? You liked Sabrina’s friend at the bar. The blonde. We should see if she wants to join us for drinks.”
Chet gives me a funny look. “I’ve been looking for a while and I still haven’t found my girl, so I’m starting to doubt my dream.”
“What dream?”
Chet frowns, seeming irritated that I’m dragging this out of him. “I’ve dreamed about this one girl, on and off, for years. I can see her clearly. She’s tall, with red hair and green eyes. When she sings, it’s like you’re hearing an angel.”
I’m trying to keep a straight face, but I’ve had a lot of wine with dinner. Also, I’m annoyed about guys in general right now, and their unrealistic expectations about the perfect girl.
“An angel,” I repeat.
The older executives nod, like they’re agreeing with him.
“Chet, don’t be ridiculous. If you put a girl up on a pedestal, she’s just going to fall off. Nobody’s perfect.”
There’s an edge to my voice that makes even me uncomfortable. The other men turn and go back to their conversations.
Our coffee arrives, and I thank the waiter for mine.
“Sorry for what I said,” I mutter to Chet. “No more wine for me, as of right now.”
“No, I deserved that,” he says. “No pedestal. That’s probably why Uncle Carter is always getting into so much trouble.” He shakes his head. “Believe it or not, it’s hard to find great role models for relationships in L.A.”
“Don’t look at me,” I say.
“Jess,” he says softly. “What you and Dylan have is as close to healthy as anyone’s going to get in our city. I’m not just saying that because I’m a hopeless romantic, either.”
“We’re totally dysfunctional. I can’t help it. I’m not exactly white-picket-fence material.”
“You’re perfect,” he says. “You’re one of my best friends, and when I do finally meet a girl I want to fall in love with, I hope you approve of her.”
“Just find a girl who likes you. If she likes you, she’s fine by me.”
He smiles down at his coffee. “Good advice.”
“Always easier to give than to take.”
“Jess, it’s much easier to spot true love in other people. You and Dylan have something true. Everyone can see it. Haven’t you ever wondered why the press is so obsessed with you?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I have wondered that, and yelled about it. Many times.
“It’s because of Dylan’s viral music videos,” I answer. “He’s popular on the internet.”
“That’s not it,” Chet says. “Lots of people get famous for a while. But the world gets bored and moves on. I’ve been thinking about this the whole time we’ve been in Rome. The public is obsessed with you and Dylan because they’re used to being fed lies and publicity stunts. Deep down, they know something real when they see it.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t think about this right now. Hearing that our love was real will only make it harder to lose him.
“They don’t know anything,” I say bravely.
“Hang in there. If he doesn’t come to his senses, I’ll talk to him.”
“No, don’t do that.”
“We all do what we have to do. We fight for what we know is right.”
I nod, pretending I agree with him.
I just don’t understand my life anymore, let alone love.
Chapter Fourteen
On the trip home, I feel like a seasoned traveler. It’s only my second international flight, but I feel years older.
My stomach tightens more and more on the flight. I guess I’m nervous about going home.
Chet is crashed out beside me, but I’m too nauseated to sleep. After I get sick of watching movies, I flip through magazines.
I’m in the middle of this month’s Vogue when I see something that shocks me. It’s a feature about Crazy JT, an artist Morris Music signed recently. That part doesn’t surprise me, because I remember when this publicity was getting set up.
What shocks me is seeing the blonde who’s posing with Crazy JT. She’s sticking her butt out to the camera and pouting like she’s a little girl. She’s no innocent little girl.
This is th
e same girl who was kissing Dylan at the Avalon. I’ve seen that video countless times, and I would know her face anywhere.
She’s pretty and tall, of course. Her features are nearly perfect, except one of her eyes is a bit smaller and set higher on her face. It’s nothing anyone would notice in person, but the asymmetry would show up if the photographer shot her straight on. Because I work in marketing, I notice these things. In all these Vogue pictures, they’ve used shots where the girl’s face is at a slight angle.
I flip back and forth through all the images. My body is so tense, I accidentally rip some of the pages.
Rage plows through me. It’s her fault my life has been hell for the last ten days. If she was here in front of me, I’d slap her harder than I slapped that jerk Antonio.
If I hadn’t seen those pictures of her and Dylan, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink that night at Shari Vari. Antonio wouldn’t have had the chance to put his disgusting mouth on me. There would have been no photos, and no awful fight with Dylan.
If it weren’t for this blonde, Dylan might be sitting next to me on this flight.
I turn to show Chet the ripped pages. He’s dead to the world, sleeping with an in-flight sleep mask over his eyes. That figures. He took a sleeping pill when we lifted off. Now I wish I’d had one, too.
I wave for the air steward.
“What can I do for you, Miss Rivera?” she asks sweetly. She’s an older lady, not nearly as old as my grandmother, but she has the same comforting aura.
“Is there something you give passengers who are freaking out?”
She looks down at the ripped pages on my lap. “Would you like some more magazines?”
“Never mind.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, hon.” She looks at my engagement ring, then glances over at Chet. “He’s a handsome one. Is he your fiancé?”
I snort. “Practically. At least he has time for me, and he trusts me.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll bring you something.”
In a minute, she returns with two drinks, one hot and one cold. They both smell of booze. The air in the cabin is cool, so I take the hot drink and thank her. It smells like cocoa and almonds, but it’s not too sweet. She starts to walk away, but I stop her and tell her to leave the cold drink, too.
