While We Were Dating

by Jasmine Guillory

  “Last year . . . last year was really hard on me. The past few years were, really, but I guess I didn’t pay attention—didn’t have to pay attention—until last year. My career . . . my fame, I guess, came on so quickly. I’d been working quietly in Hollywood for years, and then I exploded, with that Oscar nomination and all that press a few years back. And it was incredible and gratifying and brought me more than I ever could have dreamed of.” She let out a long breath. “And my whole life changed. Sort of before I even realized it was happening.”

  She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. Ben didn’t say anything, or ask any questions, or try to hurry her along. He just kept hold of her hand. Finally, she started again.

  “Last year . . . I’d been working a ton—I did three movies back to back, I wanted to take advantage of the moment while I could, because I knew this stuff can be fleeting, especially for someone like me. And while I was working on Vigilantes, it’s—”

  “You’re in that movie? That’s so cool!” Ben said.

  She laughed and then sighed. She hoped to hell she would actually be in it.

  “Yeah, though I can’t tell you much about it; I only have a handful of scenes.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, while we were in the middle of filming, I started having anxiety attacks. I couldn’t breathe, the world would go fuzzy, my heart would beat so fast. Oh God, Ben, the first time it happened, I was so scared. I was in my trailer—I’d just gotten to the set. There were a bunch of photographers outside on my way in. They yelled something rude at me, about my body, how I looked that day—they do that, to try to get a bad picture,” she said in response to Ben’s outraged glare. “And I didn’t react, I’m good at that, I just smiled. I look pleasant and blank-faced in the pictures, I saw them all later, even though they hurt to look at. But when I got to my trailer, I couldn’t breathe. I felt like the walls were closing in on me, like I’d never be able to escape, like I’d have to have that blank smile on my face for the rest of my life, no matter what garbage the world threw at me.”

  She swallowed.

  “I made it through that day, but it kept happening. And I felt so lonely, like there was no one I could talk to about any of this. I’d achieved so much, my life was a dream, shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t I be thankful? I still sort of feel like that, to be honest. I felt like an asshole complaining, or having a hard time with any of this. It’s just part of the job—shouldn’t I be able to deal with it?”

  Why was she tearing up again about this? It was ridiculous. She took a few deep breaths, and Ben held tighter to her hand.

  “So I didn’t think . . . once the anxiety attacks started, I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t even . . .” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t even tell my family, or my best friend. I felt like I had to be strong, and if I told them, if I acknowledged that it was happening, it would mean I was weak.”

  Ben lifted her hand and kissed it softly.

  “Oh, sweetheart. That’s not how it works,” he said.

  She laughed, and a few more tears came out.

  “Well, I know that now,” she said, and they both laughed. “But then . . . no one expected me to get that Oscar nomination, you know—well, no one except for me—and after the nomination, I was so caught up in making sure I didn’t go on to fail, to be a disappointment, that I had to work as hard as hell, and prove that I was worth the nomination and the accolades and the magazine covers and dresses, that I felt like I couldn’t give in. I thought if I just pushed through, I could handle it. That it would all stop.”

  She’d felt so lonely then. With no one to talk to, no one to burden with this weight she’d thought she had to carry on her own.

  “I bet that strategy worked out great, right?” Ben slid his hand onto her knee.

  She laughed.

  “You may be surprised to learn this, but no, it did not work out well at all.”

  It felt sort of . . . freeing, to talk to Ben about this. When she’d told her family and Penny, it had been in the moment, and they’d been so concerned about her that their worries had affected her. And when she’d told Simon, she’d just been terrified for her career, and she could tell he’d been worried about that, too. But Ben had no emotions—or any other needs—tied up in her, and seemed to take this in stride. It felt almost easy to talk to him about this. Maybe it was just easier to fall apart with someone who wasn’t a part of her life.

  “As a matter of fact, no, I’m not surprised that didn’t work out well,” Ben said. “I’ve tried to ignore my problems like that before; it’s never really worked.” He laughed. “But I still keep trying.”

  She liked the warm, solid feeling of his hand on her knee. Even though this thing with him couldn’t go anywhere—she didn’t even want it to go anywhere—that didn’t matter right now. She’d just let herself enjoy it for the rest of the drive.

  “Yeah. Well. I managed to keep it all—my anxiety, my fears, how I had trouble getting out of bed every day, all of that—a secret from everyone on set, thank God. But we were almost done filming, and I had a few weeks off afterward. I’d planned to head up to the Bay Area to see my family, but I knew they would see right through me, and I didn’t want them to worry about me. So instead I canceled. I just locked myself in my house so I could hide away from the world.”

  His thumb moved back and forth on her knee. It made her slow herself down, deepen her shallow breaths.

  “Did that help?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I thought I would be relaxed, you know? Not have to worry about seeing anyone, any press, any photographers—not have to think about what they were thinking about me, if they’d noticed how I was acting, what they would say about me, how bad the pictures of me would be. But instead, it just got worse. I felt . . .” She took a breath that quivered, as much as she tried to stop it. “Like I was all alone in the world with this problem—me, I was the problem, and there was nothing I could do about it.” She’d already said more than she meant to, but she couldn’t stop now. “It was . . . it was a really dark time.”

  He glanced over at her, a soft, caring expression on his face. She hoped he didn’t look at her too long like that—she’d cry again. Luckily, he looked back at the road.

  “How did . . .” He stopped himself. “Sorry, I hate that I can’t really look at you while you’re telling me all of this. I don’t want you to think I’m not paying attention.”

  She put her hand on top of his, and he immediately turned his hand over to hold on to hers.

  “No, It’s okay. I think . . . I think maybe it’s easier this way for me. I haven’t . . . this isn’t something I really talk about a lot.”

  He nodded.

  “That makes sense. And I hope you know, but in case you don’t—I would never tell anybody about this.”

  She’d thought about that, of course she had. But he was the first person she’d even been slightly inclined to trust in a year and a half. Her therapist had kept telling her to trust her instincts about people. So here she was. Trying to trust them. She hoped to hell it didn’t blow up in her face.

  But she didn’t think it would.

  “Thank you for saying that. I think I already knew. But yeah, I haven’t been public about any of this for a reason. I’ve seen the way the press—and the studios—treat women like me who are public about this stuff, and it sucks. How they get called crazy, how everything they do or say or wear or eat turns into evidence that they’re unstable or losing it or something else like that. I don’t want any of that to happen to me.”

  He held tight to her hand. She was really glad to be with him right now.

  “I don’t want any of that to happen to you, either,” he said. “You don’t have to answer this, but—you said you’re doing okay now. How did you get out of that dark place?”

  Tears came to her eyes ag
ain.

  “My dad. He and I . . . we had a different relationship when I was a kid. I was a hothead, and so was he, and because of his job he had all of these rules I was supposed to obey, and I never wanted to, and he always discouraged me from acting—unlike my mom, who told me to do whatever I wanted as long as I could support myself. But we got along better as we both got older. He somehow figured out that something was wrong with me. He told me he had a meeting in L.A. and so he was coming over to my place. I tried to pull myself together when he came over. But as soon as he walked in, he took one look at me and asked, so gently, what was wrong. And everything came spilling out.”

  Even just thinking about that day was still so hard.

  “So, when you knew something was wrong with him, you had to rush to him,” Ben said. “I understand.”

  She brushed her tears away with the back of her hand.

  “It was silly. I should have just . . .”

  Ben touched his finger to her lips.

  “No more of that, remember?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, you’re right. But yes, what you said. He helped me find a therapist and a psychiatrist. I got on meds and started seeing someone twice a week at first. Those first few months were really hard.” She let out a breath. “Really, really hard. But now I’m doing so much better.” She wiped her eyes again.

  She glanced over at him. She liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he was listening.

  “Anyway. Sorry for all of this. I’m a little embarrassed now. Once I started talking, it was hard to stop. That’s probably way too much information.”

  “No,” he said.

  She looked over at him, but his eyes were on the road.

  “No, what?”

  “No, it’s not too much information. No, you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “Oh.” She took a deep breath. Tears came to her eyes again, but they were good ones this time. “Okay.”

  “I just wanted you to know that,” he said.

  She wiped her tears away.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll say this, too—I think I told you part of this last night, but before last night I hadn’t slept with anyone since before all of that happened. I tried, early on, when I’d just started having anxiety attacks, but just being that close to someone made me anxious, and I was so paranoid, that this was all a trick, or that he’d put cameras somewhere, and so much other stuff. But last night . . . I didn’t worry about any of that. It was just so great, and fun, and it felt like . . . I don’t know, such a celebration. So I was crying just from relief, that I could have that joy again, that I feel so much better now, especially since there was a time when I thought I’d never be able to relax around another person again. Especially the kind of relaxation with no clothes on.” She grinned at him, and he grinned back. “So. That’s a very long way to explain . . . everything.”

  * * *

  —

  Ben was quiet for a while. He didn’t know if Anna was okay with him asking her questions about everything she’d told him or not, but one question was at the forefront of his mind, and he figured there was no way he’d last the three-plus hours left in the drive without asking it.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “But can I ask—why did you tell me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m really glad you did. But . . .”

  “But I don’t know you that well, so why did I trust you?” Anna finished. He nodded, and she thought for a while. “It’s because of how you responded. Last night, I mean. You could have pretended not to hear anything and just gone back to sleep, you could have just hugged me and not said anything. But not only did you soothe me and listen to me, but you said you’d leave if I wanted you to. I don’t even know why you asked that, but it made me feel so comfortable with you—like you’d do whatever it took to put me at ease.” She turned and looked straight at him. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Oh.” Now he felt embarrassed by the conclusions he’d jumped to. He was very glad he had to keep his eyes on the road.

  “I thought . . . I wondered if you’d had a bad experience sometime. With um, sexual assault, something like that. I thought maybe I did something that made you remember something you didn’t want to, so I just wanted you to . . . I don’t know, feel safe.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you were crying for a happy reason and not that one.”

  She turned her whole body toward him.

  “That’s—” She stopped and swallowed. “That’s so kind of you, Ben. And I’m glad I was crying for a happy reason, too.”

  He wished he could lean over and kiss her, but Highway 5 wasn’t the best place to do things like that.

  Was he ever going to be able to kiss her again? Or—the dream—see her naked again? They hadn’t talked about it, but he’d assumed their fling was a purely Palm Springs kind of deal. Now that they were out of that hotel room, notwithstanding his hand on her knee and her hand on his arm, he was pretty sure that the whole relaxation with no clothes on between the two of them was a no-go.

  Well, he supposed he’d have to be happy with the very excellent sex they’d had last night and this morning—the very excellent sex he’d had with Anna Gardiner!—and leave it there. Plus, they’d see each other on set on Monday; there couldn’t be any secret winks or lingering glances then—that was for damn sure.

  “I’m glad you told me about all of that. Thank you.”

  Why did he say thank you? Now he felt stupid for thanking her for that. But it had felt like a compliment, that she’d chosen to share all of that with him.

  She put her hand on his. Her hands were so smooth, but firm.

  “Thanks for not being weird about all of it. On one of the few dates I’ve been on since all of this happened, I mentioned my therapist in passing and the guy got so strange about it. I was like, my God, we’re in L.A., doesn’t everyone here have a therapist? Apparently not.”

  Ben laughed.

  “Yeah, some dudes get so scared of therapy. Like, do you think they’re witches who are going to steal your power, or something? It’s just talking to people. One time I mentioned offhand to a friend I’d just come from therapy and he reacted like I said I’d just come from robbing a bank or something.”

  It had taken him a long time after that to mention it to anyone else. Not because he thought it was something to be ashamed of, but because he didn’t want to deal with people who did. Especially after the time he’d mentioned therapy to a woman he was dating, who seemed to think it made him damaged in some alluring way, which had creeped him out.

  “Yeah, it took me awhile to get over feeling like I should feel bad about all of this, or that something was wrong with me.” Anna shook her head. “Well, to start getting over feeling like that, at least.” She moved her hand off his. He wished she hadn’t.

  “Also, um. Can I ask you a favor?” she asked.

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Can we talk about something else? I haven’t . . .” Her voice wavered. “That was a lot, is all.”

  Ben didn’t let his expression change, and he didn’t reach for her hand, even though he wished he could give her a hug. She clearly didn’t want to get emotional now. Lucky for her, he had a lot of practice at avoiding emotions.

  “Absolutely.” He thought fast. “Okay. What’s your default breakfast order? You know mine. And please, do not give me any yogurt-and-acai-berries nonsense; it’s just you and me in this car, no one is listening.”

  She laughed out loud, which had been his goal.

  “You read that interview, did you? Yeah, that was bullshit, but I have to say these things sometimes, as much as I hate it. My manager made me do that one. I also went to a spin class with that interviewer, if you can believe that. Okay, okay, my real breakfast order is a modified version of what I got this morning.”

  He thought about her that morning,
in a robe that showed an incredible amount of cleavage, a breakfast sausage in her hand. Good God. He’d had to bring this up?

  “Scrambled eggs and breakfast sausages?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Yes, but ideally I’d also have very crispy hash browns, and if I’m being indulgent, sourdough toast. But they only had home fries on the room service menu, and those are usually too soggy for me, especially via room service. They had no sourdough, so I got the English muffin.”

  He thought about that for a moment.

  “So you get no potatoes at all if you can’t have crispy hash browns?”

  She nodded very seriously. This seemed to be distracting her well.

  “Yes. Or, rather, I’ll get no potatoes at all if I can’t have good, crispy ones. I try not to let the Hollywood weight thing get to me too much, but if I’m going to eat carbs, they’d better be my favorite kinds of carbs. So crispy potatoes or no potatoes at all.”

  “That’s fair,” he said. “I, on the other hand, will eat potatoes of any size, shape, and manner. Mashed, fried, scalloped, baked, hashed, totted, whatever you can do to a potato, I’ll eat it.”

  They went on like that for the next hundred miles or so, talking hard about mostly nothing. Anna seemed to be smiling the whole time, and her body didn’t have that stiff, anxious air that it had when she’d told him about her crisis and the aftermath.

  “Heard from your parents lately?” he asked her, right as they drove past the off-ramp to SFO. He was so glad he’d made that ridiculous, nonsensical suggestion to drive her to Palm Springs the day before. He couldn’t believe it had only been a day.

  She held up her phone.

  “They texted again a few hours ago, or my mom did, at least. ‘Dad is feeling much better, we’re taking it easy today. He wanted a date shake, but I told him no, it wasn’t good for his heart, and he grumbled, but not too much. I promise I’ll keep you posted on what his doctor says. Love you.’ ” She sighed. “I hope that’s a real promise. Maybe it is, now that she’s spooked I’ll just show up, no matter what.”