The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  I burrow beneath sheets that still smell like him and curl myself around the pillow where he once rested his head, and think maybe, if I just lie here long enough, the ache inside my soul will fade from something unbearable to something slightly more tolerable. Something that lets me haul in breath without feeling like my ribs are splintered, that allows me to close my eyes and see only the darkness inside my eyelids instead of the memory of his face as he leaned down to kiss me for the first time on a deserted stretch of sand under a whole galaxy of stars, his big hands cupping my jaw and his thumbs tracing small warm circles on my cheeks.

  It’s ironic, in a way, that when he spent the night with me for the first time — a massive tangle of blanket-hoarding limbs, taking up too much space and stealing all the pillows — I’d rolled my eyes and huffed indignantly. Now, in the absence of his hulking frame, the bed feels vastly too large. I’d give anything to go back to those easy, empty nights before he crawled into my sheets and under my skin.

  The tears flow faster.

  I’m not even sure why I’m crying — maybe because this feels like an indisputable ending. But can you really call it an end when we’d barely even started? Can you call it a break up if you allow yourself to be broken? If you are a willing accomplice in your own destruction?

  I’m not sure. All I know is, I am mourning something that was never mine. I am Violet, afraid to leave this island, afraid that he will slip through my fingertips like a ghost as soon as reality sets back in.

  And he is not Beck, I realize with horror, hugging my pillow closer. He will not offer reassurances, will not make promises he has no intentions of keeping.

  He is Grayson Dunn.

  The movie star.

  The sexiest man alive.

  Hollywood’s golden boy, with a million-dollar car and an endless supply of beautiful women at his beck and call.

  Somehow, it was easy to forget all that while we were here, as far removed from Hollywood as you can get. Somehow, I managed to convince myself that two passion-filled weeks with me in paradise would be enough to change him.

  But people don’t ever change. Not really.

  And the saddest part is that I knew it — I was fully aware of who he was, of the dangers of getting too close, of handing over my heart on a silver platter and expecting him not to shatter it to pieces. I knew, and I let myself fall anyway.

  I am the only one to blame, here.

  I am the reigning queen of bad decisions.

  The hardest truths to swallow are the ones that contradict the lies we've been telling ourselves. When you're in denial about someone's intentions, when you've spent days or weeks or months or years making excuses for their inactions and inadequacies, it's damn near impossible to dig yourself out of the delusional hole you've burrowed into, like an ostrich with its head buried in the sand.

  I’ve been lying to myself about him for so long, I can barely see straight anymore. I have inflated our relationship in my mind so far past the point of return, I counted even his indifference as intimacy and his distance as desire.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  Perhaps I am simply that self-destructive, that incredibly masochistic, to align myself with such a man against all reason and common sense. Perhaps I’m even more messed up than I realized.

  Or maybe I knew all the shitty things he’d do to me, in the end… and I fell in love with him regardless.

  Maybe love isn’t something you can control, or talk yourself out of just because it’s not convenient.

  Maybe Grayson is a choice that was never mine to make.

  Harper comes in, eventually. She’s slightly more sober as she lies down at my side and strokes my hair, murmuring all those soft, sweet things best friends say when a boy breaks your heart.

  He’s an idiot.

  He’ll come around, you’ll see.

  He’s just scared of commitment, he’s not scared of you.

  Don’t give up on him just yet, honey.

  Maybe someday he’ll see the woman you are, and be the man you need…

  The problem is, there’s another voice inside my head. A vicious voice with years of practice at making me feel inconsequential. This voice is far harder to shake off, and far more believable than Harper’s heartfelt reassurances.

  Who the hell do you think you are?

  You’re nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Of course he saw that.

  Of course he left you.

  When the voices grow too strong, when the pain gets too intense, I mercifully tumble over the edge of consciousness, like Alice down a rabbit hole.

  I dream of green eyes and crashing waves and solar system socks and cracked chess boards. And when I wake in the harsh light of morning, there are already tears on my cheeks.

  Fifteen

  “ I can’t feel anything when I use one of those.”

  - A pull-out-method advocate.

  I watch Hawaii shrink into the distance as the jet ascends, wondering if I’ll ever be back again. Wondering if there will ever come a time when I can walk a white sand beach without thinking of me and Grayson and Violet and Beck and this whole twisted mess we’ve made.

  I’m sober — mostly — and my tears have dried. I will not waste another moment weeping, today. My mascara is far too expensive for that.

  I sip a mimosa to stave off my hangover and fall into a fitful sleep on the couch for most of the flight home. The hushed sound of Wyatt and Harper murmuring back and forth wakes me a few minutes before we land in LA.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s still sleeping.”

  “No… I mean, is she okay …” He pauses. “With Dunn leaving.”

  “She will be.”

  “It’s like Helena all over again. He’ll never learn.” I hear a deep sigh from Wyatt. “Christ, if I didn’t need his pretty face to promote this movie for the next six months, I’d bash it into something unrecognizable.”

  “Wyatt! I’ve never heard you talk like that.”

  “Yeah. I’m not generally the beat-down sort. But in the case of Grayson Dunn, I might make an exception.”

  Hearing those words makes my lips twitch into a smile. Wyatt Hastings is incapable of passing up an opportunity to flash that protective streak.

  “I just hope she doesn’t start to spiral.” Harper sounds nervous. “Kat can get pretty self-destructive, when she’s feeling low.”

  “How so?”

  “In the past, she’s had some bouts of depress—”

  I choose that moment to sit up, startling them both into silence.

  “Are we there yet?” I ask breezily, as though I haven’t been eavesdropping on their private conversation about my emotional damage.

  Wyatt smiles at me. “Wheels down in ten minutes, tops.”

  “Great. I’m starving.” I stretch my arms over my head and feel my back crack. “Definitely need a burrito or three, as soon as we’re back in the city. It’s been far too long since I visited my favorite taco truck.”

  Wyatt laughs.

  Harper mutters something about a bacon cheeseburger.

  When the jet lands a few moments later, we disembark in numbed silence. I think we’re all still stunned that it’s finally over, that we’re actually home.

  Wyatt walks us to the town car waiting at the curb in front of the private terminal. He hands our duffle bags to the driver, slips him a tip, and faces me with a stern expression on his face.

  “You call me if you need anything. I mean it, Katharine. Anything.” His stare lingers on the dark circles beneath my eyes. “And get some rest. You look like crap.”

  “Thanks, old man.” I hesitate a beat, then step into his chest and hug him tight.

  “A hug?” he says, sounding shocked as his arms close around me. “From the self-proclaimed hug-hater?”

  “Shut up.” I squeeze him tighter. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you . For everything.”

  “Don’t get
mushy on me, baby.” He clears his throat roughly, trying to sound nonchalant. Releasing me, he turns to Harper and lifts his hand. She jumps to high-five it. “Bye, Harper.”

  “We’ll see you at the cast party on Monday, right?”

  His lips twitch. “I assume so — it’s at my house.”

  “Oh. Right. Seeya there!”

  I hook my arm with hers and drag her into the waiting town car. Exhausted from the trip, we lean back against the leather seats and stare out our windows at familiar streets lined with palm trees and gridlocked with rush-hour traffic. LA looks too bright, too busy, too bursting with life after the natural, unadulterated beauty of Hawaii. I can’t help thinking, given the choice, I’d pick white sand beaches and green sea turtles over flashy designer stores and double-decker tourist buses any day of the week.

  When we pull up outside Harper’s apartment, she pauses with her hand on the door lever.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Time to break up with Greg,” she mutters lowly. “Wish me luck.”

  “Luck.” I squeeze her hand. “Hey. Just remember — toothpaste gobs.”

  She steadies her shoulders. “Toothpaste gobs. Got it.”

  “Life is too short to be with someone who doesn’t make you happy.”

  She looks over at me as she digests my words and her eyes go soft. “Do me a favor?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Try to remember that advice applies to your own life, too.”

  I blow her a kiss as she steps out of the car, takes her duffle from the driver, and heads inside with a melancholy wave and a flash of purple hair.

  Being back inside my crappy condo is a bit surreal.

  It’s not exactly a climate-controlled villa on the beach with unlimited room service. Looking around at the thin coat of dust on my particleboard furniture, listening to the sound of my neighbors screaming through the thin wall, I realize, with a start, that it’s the first time in almost three weeks I’m really, truly alone. No Harper to sunbathe with, no Sloan to hear feedback from, no Wyatt to run lines with.

  No Grayson to make love with.

  I drop my duffle on the floor without bothering to unpack, walk straight upstairs to my bed, and collapse into it with a groan. My phone is mocking me with its utter lack of messages from a man I’m not even sure I want to hear from. My houseplants are dead and withering in their pots by my window, after far too long without water. The stale air is suffocating me.

  Or maybe it’s the solitude, I’m choking on.

  I attempt to turn on the AC, only to discover the unit has stopped working. When I pull open the sliding glass door to the balcony off my bedroom to let in the breeze, I spot my beat-up Honda sitting off-kilter in its spot out front, with not one but two flat tires.

  There’s not a speck of food in my refrigerator, but it looks like I won’t be driving to the store to restock anytime soon. The thought of calling a tow truck and dealing with a mechanic is too much to handle, at the moment.

  Stomach rumbling, I climb under my duvet and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I had something — anything — to distract me from thoughts of Grayson and the fact that he hasn’t called, though he must know I’m back in LA by now.

  We’ll talk when we’re both home.

  I’ll see you soon.

  As I drift off to sleep with my phone tucked beneath my pillow, I can’t help wondering if there’s a statute of limitations on those words. At what point does soon become never ?

  * * *

  T he next morning , I wrestle a wonky-wheeled cart down the dairy aisle, wondering how I always seem to pick one that’s malfunctioning. It’s a hidden talent — much like my ability to only ever buy overripe avocados and continually purchase gross substitute sunflower butter instead of chunky peanut, by accident.

  I sigh as I pass through the produce section, where hand-drawn chalkboard signs proclaim ORGANIC in bold white script above the locally-sourced lettuce. Smaller, discreetly-placed placards declare CONVENTIONAL LETTUCE in plain, passive aggressive lettering. Apparently, writing “normal goddamned produce” would be too straightforward.

  In most parts of this country, they’d congratulate you for just buying vegetables; in California, they’ll judge you heavily if you don’t buy the right kind of vegetables.

  The meat section is even worse.

  All natural, hormone free, gluten free, antibiotic free chicken, bathed in the tears of free-range alpacas and massaged twice daily with a deep-pressure shiatsu technique to ensure maximum flavor and tenderness.

  I spend more time trying to decipher bullshit on the labels than actually putting things in my cart. I can’t help but think grocery shopping should not be this difficult.

  By the time I reach the checkout aisle, I’m half-starved and feeling snappier than usual. I haven’t eaten since the muffin I scarfed down on the flight yesterday, followed by a wholly unsatisfactory dinner consisting of a stale granola bar I discovered in the dark recesses of my cupboards last night.

  I glance at my phone as I wait impatiently for the cashier to ring up the customer ahead of me. No new messages. Harper’s cell is at the bottom of the South Pacific, somewhere. Wyatt’s busy in post-production. And Grayson…

  I scroll down through my contacts and find his number. He’s still saved as Jake From State Farm , which should make me laugh but instead makes me feel sort of hollow. I reprogram it to GRAYSON DUNN while waiting for my turn at the register, resisting the urge to send him a text message. I will not succumb to the clingy, crazy impulses he’s inspired… No matter how much his silence is killing me.

  I load my items onto the revolving belt with more force than necessary, knocking over a stack of bubblegum in my haste. Looking up, I find the teenage cashier peering at me with wide brown eyes. Her face a perfect picture of shock.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, feeling foolish as I scramble to re-stack the scattered gum. “Under-caffeinated and overtired.”

  “You’re Kat Firestone.” She sounds awed.

  I freeze with the last pack of gum clutched in my hand. “What? How could you possibly know…?”

  Her finger lifts to point at the magazine rack of tabloids directly behind me. Whirling around, I see my own face glaring from their glossy covers.

  The first one I focus on features a picture of me in pigtails on the set of Busy Bees , a young Grayson hovering in the background. I don’t know how they found out about our history or where they got that picture of us, but it’s clear someone has been spilling my secrets to the press.

  FROM CHILDHOOD CRUSH TO BIG SCREEN ROMANCE: KAT AND GRAYSON’S STAR-CROSSED LOVE STORY! INSIDERS CLOSE TO THE COUPLE TELL ALL…

  Insiders.

  What a load of bullshit.

  Rolling my eyes, I glance at the magazine on the rack beside it and feel the blood drain from my face. The picture they’ve used on the cover is bad enough — messy hair, pouty expression, zoomed in so far you can see my individual pores — but the headline is what stops me in my tracks.

  The letters are bold, blood red.

  WHEN KAT’S AWAY, HER MAN WILL PLAY… GRAYSON SPOTTED IN INTIMATE MOMENT WITH EX-LOVE, HELENA PUTNAM! EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS ON PAGE 12!

  I feel my heart stutter inside my chest as I see the picture inset beside the close-up of my face. It’s grainy and dark, taken outside a nightclub, from the looks of it. But it’s definitely Grayson — I’d know him anywhere. I’ve memorized the exact shape of his shoulders, committed the precise scope of his build to memory.

  He’s unmistakable — even out-of-focus, holding another girl’s hand and shielding her from the camera flashes.

  Helena.

  My heart begins to pound as I attempt to think of a good reason for him to be out with her, mere hours after he landed back in the city. I tell myself that he probably needed to see her for something work related… remind myself that these tabloids are full of lies and misleading stories… reassure myself that there’s no possible way the man I’ve fallen
for could be so unbelievably cold as to cut me out completely and go back to his ex without so much as a conversation…

  None of it sounds very convincing.

  “That’s you on the cover, isn’t it?” The cashier’s voice is a squeak of excitement. “Have you really met Grayson Dunn? Are you really dating? Is he, like, actually that hot in person? Or hotter ?” The questions pour out of her so fast, I’m not even sure she’s breathing. “Is Helena really pregnant? Are you going to kick her ass? No offense, but you’re pretty dainty and my friend Mary Beth said she saw Helena on Rodeo Drive once and she was, like, over six feet tall. She used to be a model, you know.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I murmur.

  “Anyway, watch out because I bet she could, like, totally kick your ass. Even if she’s pregnant. Maybe especially if she’s pregnant — all those crazy hormones in her system… I would not want to be you, right now.” She starts scanning my groceries. “Actually, that’s a lie. I’d kill to be you. Just tell me if he’s a good kisser. Please? I read this interview with Helena a few months ago and she told the reporter he was, like, amazing in bed.”

  I bite my lip to keep from screaming, snatch the closest three tabloids from the shelf, and slam them down on top of my package of paper towels before I can change my mind. “I’ll take these too.”

  She squeals again. “I knew it! It is you!”

  The whole time she’s bagging my groceries, she babbles on about Grayson and Helena and how absolutely glamorous it must be to have my life. The sound of my pulse roars in my ears, tuning out her words. I clutch the magazine so tight my fingertips turn white, staring down at the pixelated photograph of the man I spent the past three weeks falling in love with, taken less than two days ago outside a nightclub.

  His first night home. His first night without me.

  “Maybe this is lame,” the girl says, flushing red as she passes me my receipt. “But do you have any advice about how to make it in Hollywood? My dream is to be an actress, like you.”