by Roxy Reid
I kiss her forehead, lingering to breathe in her sweet scent, because at some point in the last few weeks it’s become the scent that calms me and makes me feel like it’s all going to be ok.
I gently take my hand back, and she stirs, blinking up at me sleepily.
“What’s going on? Why are you dressed?”
“Shhh. Something came up. I have to get back to L.A. It’s an emergency.”
“Is Poppy ok?”
“Work emergency. Poppy’s fine. But I have to go,” I stroke her hair. “Go back to sleep. I’ll have a car come pick you up.”
She shakes her head, and for a wonderful second I think that despite the early hour, she wants to come with me.
But what she says is, “I’ll just take a Lyft.”
“From out here? That’s over a hundred dollars. Let me…”
But she’s already rolling away, giving me her back. Her breathing deepens, and I realize she’s asleep again.
I sigh, and dig in my wallet. Luckily, I have cash. I leave three hundred on the bedside table, and add “for the Lyft” to my note. I think a little more and add “also breakfast.”
Ok, now I’m just stalling.
I stand, and leave the hotel room without looking back.
If I let myself look back, I don’t know if I’ll ever leave.
15
Sienna
When I wake up Joshua is gone. I’m alone in a hotel room and there’s a wad of bills on the bedside table.
It comes back to me quickly – the best night of my life, Josh leaving in the middle of the night, something about a work emergency. I notice his note, and see that the money is for a Lyft to get me back to L.A.
But it doesn’t come back quite quickly enough to replace the feeling of being used.
Sex had. Joshua gone. Money on the table.
I throw back the covers and get out of bed.
I know he’s not like that. At least I tell myself he’s not like that, as I shower, and get dressed in yesterday’s rumpled, sandy clothes.
It’s just that Joshua lives in a different world than me. One where he gets business calls in the middle of the night. One where his professional dreams are so big, they’re worth rushing off in the middle of the night for. One where three hundred dollars is pocket change. One where he always needs to be in control.
For some reason, that makes me feel worse.
I slip on my shoes, grab my purse, and turn to look back at the hotel room.
Last night, with Josh, this room felt magical. A little oasis away from our real lives. Where I could pretend I was his equal. Where I could pretend that maybe this thing between us, whatever it is, could be more than a lie born out of bad timing and mutual business interests.
Today, it just looks like an anonymous hotel room. The money sits on the table. Where, realistically, money has probably sat before.
Of course this thing with me and Joshua wasn’t - isn’t - going to last. I know that. I’m not stupid. But I thought I’d get a few weeks before the universe started throwing signs at us. Maybe a few days. At the very least, breakfast.
Whatever. I don’t need him. I turn to go, head held high.
Then I think better of it. There’s no one to see my pride. And it won’t mean anything to him.
I go back to the bedside table, and take the note, with his beautiful, sloppy, barely legible handwriting. I fold it carefully and tuck it into my purse.
It’s not a love letter. But knowing Joshua, it’s the closest I’m going to get.
I leave the cash as a tip for housekeeping and head out to find my way home.
It turns out there’s a car rental place a ten minute walk from the hotel, which is a minor miracle. I’m farther from the city than I realized, and I just don’t feel like sitting awkwardly in the back of someone’s car right now. Driving along the highway while belting along to the radio seems more my speed.
I’ve got that good hollowed out feeling you get after almost an hour of singing, when I spot an old-school diner just outside the city and pull over.
I’m already feeling better than I did when I woke up. Obviously I overreacted to the cash on the bedside table. Joshua was just trying to cover the cost since his work emergency left me without a ride. It’s not a sign from the universe telling me I’m dating hopelessly above my league. It’s a sign that I’m dating a thoughtful man.
Not that we’re dating. Are we dating? I’m going with him to an event later this week, but that’s a fake date for the press. Although now that we’re … whatever we are … I can’t see how it will be that different than a real date.
Is it just that we both mean it when we kiss now?
Because I’m realizing that I meant it before. I absolutely meant it.
I park and head into the diner. Everything is retro mint green and pale pink, and I feel vaguely like I’ve seen it in a music video. I slide into a booth and pull the menu out from behind the napkin dispenser.
As I look at the dozens of ways I can order eggs and the one way I can order vegetables, I suddenly realize how hungry I am.
Well. I did work out last night. Although Joshua did most of the working. The things that man can do with his mouth. Also his hands. Also his dick.
I hide my smug smile behind the menu.
I’m deciding whether or not I need hash browns or pancakes with my eggs and bacon when my waitress shows up. She’s older than God, with a faded vintage t-shirt, a precisely placed notepad in her apron pocket, and a look that says she expects me to know what I want, or else.
I panic order everything, plus the coffee.
She jots it down on her notepad, then squints at me over her glasses, “Are you an actress?”
“No,” I say, confused. In two years of living in L.A., the number of times I have been mistaken for an actress is exactly zero.
“Hmm,” she says. “I know you from somewhere.”
She disappears before I can explain that I’ve never been to this diner before, so I shrug and pull out my phone to answer work emails for a while.
Five minutes later my waitress slams a cup of coffee down in front of me, “I know who you are. You’re Joshua King’s fiancée.”
“Oh. Um,” belatedly, I remember I should probably say yes, so, “That’s me.”
She gives me a pitying look, “Well, don’t give those gossip sites any mind. I’m sure he loves you.”
“...Ok,” I say, wondering when I’ll get my pancakes.
“He’s one of those old fashioned types that marriage really matters to. I can tell. Otherwise he would’ve gotten married a half dozen times already, like everyone else in this town.”
Ha. If only she knew. But I smile and say thank you.
“Just stay off of that horrible Hollywood Scoop site, and you two will be fine,” she says. A bell dings from the kitchen. “Oh look, your order’s up.”
She goes to get my food, and I finish tapping out of my email. Then, purely out of curiosity, I pull up Hollywood Scoop. I’ve been avoiding the blurbs about Joshua and I, but my waitress made it sound like Joshua and I are a full story or something…
But it’s not about us at all. At least, not about me. There’s a zoomed in photo of Joshua at an outdoor cafe with Brittney, and the heading, “Joshua King Cheating on Fiancée With First Love Brittney Archer?”
I roll my eyes. They’re definitely trying to make something out of nothing. I like that he and Brittney are close. It’s what makes both of them such good parents to Poppy. And it’s how I know Joshua is going to still treat me like an actual person worthy of respect when we eventually end this thing between us.
I’m scrolling through the photos, trying to figure out what restaurant they’re at so I can give Joshua crap about it later, when my waitress returns with my food.
“Oh, honey. I told you not to look at it.”
“It’s fine, I trust him,” I smile at the photo sequence of Joshua noticing the camera, scowling, and abruptly trying to hide both hims
elf and Brittney behind a giant opened newspaper.
Who says print journalism is dead?
Curiosity sated, I set my phone aside and dig into my blueberry pancakes, which taste like heaven. I settle into the booth, content to carbo-load and people watch.
There’s a pretty cute kid across the diner applying whip cream to her eggs. Clearly not as smart as Poppy, I think. In the corner, a middle-aged couple quietly tease each other. At a table near me an old man finishes eating his single egg, asks for more coffee, and unfolds his newspaper. It’s easy to imagine him coming here every day, and I smile.
Until my eyes snag on the paper itself. The headlines look oddly familiar, but it’s definitely today’s paper …
Dread creeps into my stomach as I realize where I think I’ve seen that paper before.
But that’s impossible. Joshua said he had a business thing. And it’s barely ten. How bad of an emergency could it have been if he has time to meet Brittney for breakfast?
Unless it was never a business thing. I thought last night was… well, wonderful. Magical. Fun, Sexy, Exciting, Exhausting. And all of it possible because I knew I was absolutely, one hundred percent safe in his arms.
But maybe it wasn’t the same for him. Maybe he was bored: not deep enough to be meaningful, and not extraordinary enough to be thrilling. Maybe while I was sleeping the heavy sleep of the sexually satisfied, he was lying awake having epiphanies about how Brittney’s the one he’s supposed to be with.
I’m spiraling. I grab my phone to prove to myself that Joshua wasn’t holding today’s newspaper. It’s an old photo. It has to be. Joshua wouldn’t lie to me.
I pull up the story, and start frantically scrolling through the photos to get to the newspaper one.
Oh, hell. It’s today’s newspaper.
A slump back in my booth and stare at my half eaten breakfast. I feel like crying. Joshua lied to me. Why would he lie?
My phone rings, and I jump. It’s Joshua. Joshua’s calling.
I panic, and hit reject. I can’t talk to him right now. His lie hurts too much.
I pay and leave as quickly as possible. I get in the car, but I don’t drive away. I just sit there, my hands on the steering wheel, trying to get my breath back. Because the grief is turning to sharp, broken anger.
I don’t know why I’m surprised that he lied. I don’t know why I’m fucking surprised. From the very beginning he’s been lying. He lied about what the launch party was for. He lied to the press about us. Worse, he convinced me to join his lies. To help the great Joshua King fool the world a little better.
I flash to the image of him on top of me, pinning my hands, telling me to trust him. Promising to give me what I need.
The fucking asshole.
I pound the steering wheel, “I hate you, Joshua King! I fucking hate you.”
My throat is tight with emotion – fury, heartbreak, embarrassment. I’m worried I’m about to start crying, so I jam the key into the ignition and start driving.
On the passenger seat my phone rings again. Joshua’s lying face fills the screen.
I don’t answer him.
If he wasn’t my fucking client, I’d never answer again.
I remember Carlotta’s threat to fire me if I don’t bring him on-board as a client permanently. God, why did I make that deal. I’m such an idiot.
My phone starts ringing again.
It’s still Joshua.
Beautiful, lying, perfect, horrible Joshua.
His ring glints on my finger as I drive, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I snatch it off my finger and throw it onto the passenger seat next to my traitorous phone.
I want to scream. Just scream and scream and scream. But I’m worried if I start I’ll never stop.
16
Joshua
That’s weird. Sienna’s still not answering. I toss my keys in the bowl by the door, toe my shoes off, and flop down on my couch, thoroughly exhausted.
Maybe Sienna slept in. We did use each other pretty good last night.
I grin, smug, my mind already going to all the things I’m going to do to Sienna tonight. I hate that I had to run out this morning, but after lots and lots of coffee, and an agreement to tell her the whole truth, Brittney finally put me in touch with Bill Davis.
Bill Davis, who, thank everything in the universe, is a fan of mine. He put me in touch with Marilyn Cohen, who reluctantly agreed to meet me so I could explain why I’m the right person to make her late husband’s last movie.
And I did. I stood in her humble, old-fashioned living room, and told her everything. My plans for the cast, the director, what I love about the script, the areas that – no disrespect – were a little less solid writing, and how I would handle them with care to make sure they still shined. I told her about how this movie was everything I loved about movies, and perfectly embodied everything I want my production company to be.
She listened, noncommittally, while I put my heart and dreams on the line in a room with wall-to-wall beige carpeting.
There was nothing strategic, or professional about it. I didn’t do any research beforehand. I didn’t decide exactly how much to tell her, and how much to keep a secret. I just opened my heart up and bled.
At the end I felt like I’d run a marathon. Or been to therapy. One of the two.
And then she said yes. Marilyn Cohen said yes, I could have her husband’s movie. She even accepted my invitation to attend the launch party.
First Brittney, now Mrs. Cohen. This unfiltered truth-telling thing is addictive.
Of course, there’s one more woman I have to tell the truth to.
I call Sienna again, but she’s still not answering. So I call and make a reservation at the fanciest restaurant in Hollywood. Then I second guess myself and make another one at the most romantic. And then another one at a small, cozy bistro that doesn’t normally take reservations but makes an exception when I explain to the hostess that there’s a woman I’m head over heels for and I think she knows that but I still need to tell her. Also I offer a thousand dollars for them to hold the table for us.
It’s possible it’s the thousand dollars that does it, but I like to think it’s my heartfelt pleas.
I try Sienna again, but she’s still not answering.
I check my watch. It’s 4 p.m. I’m starting to get worried.
Hey, are you ok? I keep trying to call you but I can’t get through. I press send and pace my living room, waiting.
Her response is quick, and curt. I’m fine. Busy.
Hopefully not too busy for me to take you to dinner, I joke.
She doesn’t answer.
Ok, maybe I need to do a little groveling. I did run out on her this morning.
I’m really sorry I had to leave like that this morning, I type. Believe me, it was the last thing I wanted. But everything’s back under control, so I’d like to take you out. And explain why I ran out. And apologize some more. Really, it might take me all night to make it up to you.
I hit send.
There’s the little blue dots that show she’s starting to type. Then stopping. Then starting again.
It’s probably too much to hope she’s sexting, but hey. It could happen. That’s how rosy my world-view is today.
But when her words appear, they feel like a kick to the gut.
Stop, Joshua. I know you lied. So just stop.
What the hell?
What lie? I ask, but she doesn’t respond. And knowing Sienna, she won’t. She’s done with this conversation.
I feel a spurt of panic. It’s like when I lost the Ouranos script, but ten times worse.
Why does this keep happening to me?
I desperately wrack my mind for things she could be mad about, or think I’m lying about.
And yeah sure, there are things. I’m not perfect. But nothing that’s changed since last night, when she trusted me implicitly, moaned my name, and fell asleep wrapped around me after telling me it was the best night of her life.
“Argh!” I buried my hands in my hair. What the hell is wrong with women? What could have–
Oh shit. The paparazzi this morning.
I grab my phone.
A quick search takes me to some shitty gossip site that more than implies I’m cheating on Sienna with Brittney, complete with photos of the two of us getting coffee this morning. I look earnest, vulnerable even, clearly begging her for something.
Normally I’d be grateful they got it wrong and assumed I was trying to get her back, instead of the truth, that I was trying to get her to give me a lawyer’s phone number.
But what if Sienna saw this. Normally, Sienna would brush off something like this, but we did just have sex for the first time, and then I left in the middle night for a business meeting...
I know you lied.
Shit. Shit, shit shit. I call Sienna, frantic, but she doesn’t answer. Of course.
The mature thing would be to give Sienna time. Let her calm down. Talk to her later.
But I can’t stand the idea of her thinking I’d do that to her. Worse, what if this makes her start examining all the cracks in our relationship?
Not that there are cracks. There aren’t cracks. We’re solid.
It’s just that I’m her client. And I ruined her professional reputation. And then convinced her to be in a fake relationship with me for the benefit of the media. And then had sex with her before I ever took her on a real date, even after she said she was a virgin.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit. Fuck.
I grab my keys and shove on my shoes and race out the door.
I need to set her straight, now.
Sienna’s car is parked in front of her apartment when I get there, but when I pound on the door, no one answers. She doesn’t answer my phone calls either. Or the second round of knocks.
Finally I give up and slump against her door, the idiocy of my plan sinking in. What am I going to do, sleep on her landing until she comes out in the morning to get the paper?
Sienna doesn’t want to see me. She’s cutting me off, without giving me a chance to explain what happened.
