Two. Million.Tweets.
Of course, news ofThe Um No Just Nojilt spread like an out of control wildfire with headlined captions:Wait. What?; Oh No She Didn’t!; Come Back Dixie, Come Back!;andJaxson is Still Single,Ladies.
I hated Dixie Lane for making a mockery of my love forher.
Weeks went by as I took shelter in my New York City apartment, unsuccessfully avoiding the media. Hastily, I agreed to one on-camera interview with the popular morning news show,Wake Up America—hoping to squash the media’s desire to stalk me like ravenous wolves tailing their prey. And after explaining, on National TV, just how shocked, heartbroken, and emotionally bruised I was after the rejection, Dixie Lane surfaced on the cover ofSuperstar Magazine,looking hotter than ever, her infectious smile taunting me, as she nestled snug in the arms ofDate Me, Then Marry Me’slead cameraman. Apparently, the lovebirds were newlyengaged.
Dixie was gettingmarried.
Yep. It sucked to beme…
So, I did what any man in my position would have done. I decided to come on this show to tell the tenacious ladies ofThe Scoopand all of America the truth about DixieLane.
“Did you suspect she was seeing the hot cameraman? Like, did they ever exchange flirty looks?” asks one of the cohosts, the one who has a determined look practically living on herface.
“Uh. Nope. But it made me realize Dixie Lane was never onDate Me, Then Marry Meseeking true love.” I turn my head to look directly into the camera “Let’s just say Dixie was on a mission to boost her lackluster modelingcareer.”
The audience gasps. And the ladies around the table produce a varied mix of the ultimatesurpriseface.
“So, tell us,” slurs the lead host as she sips on what I suspect is a little more than water, “what does the newly single Jaxson Malone plan to donow?”
I lean back in my seat, rub the stubble on my chin, and produce a smug shrug. “Disappear.”
“Jaxson, my love,”Mom begins as the three of us sit in the backyard eating lunch. “Why not head to Paris? You know Gramps misses you,” she nudges, sipping on amimosa.
I just came to my childhood home in the Hamptons for a visit. Well, honestly, I wouldn’t really call this visiting. I am…escaping my own meaninglesslife.
Dad simply looks up from the newspaper he’s reading, picks up his cup of coffee, and offers a scant nod. After all, my dad isn’t much of a talker. He’s a purebred thinker. A proactive problem solver. Having worked as an actuary for the world’s largest financial institutions, he is a natural problem solver who avoids offering input, until he weighs all possibleconsequences.
His nod doesn’t mean he agrees. His nod means he’sanalyzing.
My mom, on the other hand, always preferred the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants approach to just about everything. A highly sought after motivational speaker, she notoriously encourages and inspires women to follow their dreams of becoming successful entrepreneurs with her trademarked slogan Be The Real YouNow.
“You know, Gramps can use some help with his business now that he is getting older,” Mom says, in her annoyingly effective singsongytone.
Gramps and Nana moved to Paris twenty years ago after my mom left home for college. The two, who had met in the South of France, settled on a life of leisure as Nana continued to write and also rediscovered her love of painting and Gramps started a successful car service called Chic Limousines. Since Nana had always been a successful romance-novel author and Gramps a successful entrepreneur, the two were able to purchase a spacious villa in Paris, where Gramps converted part into an office and garage to store the five luxury town cars used for the limo business. However, he’s been hinting that he wants to move on from operating Chic Limousines,andmove from Paris to whisk Nana off to the South ofFrance.
Dad lifts his gaze from the newspaper and my wondering eyes meet his knowing ones. “Now, son, I think your mom may be onto something. You can finally put that MBA you earned to good use by helping Gramps with the business. Why not take a break from all the Dixie-crap madness, give acting and modeling a rest for a while, and immerse yourself in France? God knows, the villa your grandparents live in is large enough for you to hang out in. Going to Paris might just be a win-win.”
Dad’s words seep into my brain like a miracle elixir.Take a break from all the Dixie-crap madness.And I should put my MBA to use. After all, I worked my ass off at NYU to earn that degree before an agent discoveredme.
But me, live inParis?
After a week of deep pondering, I pack up, sell my precious Porsche, and sublease my New Yorkapartment.
Then, I hop on a plane towardfreedom.
No more media frenzymadness.
NoDate Me, Then Marry Megroupies.
Just me, my clothes, and a one-way ticket to Paris,ooh-la-la,France.
By the time I land and make it through customs, then scurry past the crowds to baggage claim, I’m beat. At the same time, I can’t help but feel the excitement brewing in mygut.
Taking in the ambiance of it all, I allow my gaze to wander up to the ceiling, admiring the décor as I continue down the corridor, following the signs to baggage claim. Passengers hurry past me, in an effort to make their flights, one twisting me around when his shoulder brushes mine. And when I spin back to continue my jaunt to baggage claim, I bump right into a woman, knocking her down, the force causing her cell phone to fly out of herhand.
For a minute, I stand, unable to speak, as I grab hold of her arms, helping her rise to her feet. She is fucking gorgeous.Breathtakingis the rightword.
