I give her a quick version because I don’t have enough time to really get into the details right now. But it’s enough, and it has the right effect.
“So he just forgot what he was doing when he kissed you?” she asks when I’ve finished.
I only nod, because if I tried to speak, it would come out all squeaky. Having to relive it—even the shortened version—sucked.
She huffs out a breath. “Are you sure?”
I pull my chin in, giving her a teary glare. “I was there, Sam. I’m sure. It was just like it always is. We kiss, he suddenly forgets, then he leaves.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly leave this time, though. He got called away by that Victoria woman.”
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe it was a gift from the curse gods so I didn’t actually have to watch him get his things and walk out.”
I actually hadn’t thought of that until right now. That would have been awful.
“What if you just got your wires crossed? What if it wasn’t the curse?”
“I didn’t.” I shake my head. “And besides, he never called me. Or texted. I haven’t heard from him since.”
I stared at my phone for a while last night, trying to will him to contact me. Like if he did, it would change everything. But he didn’t.
Then I debated switching his name back to “Jerkwad,” but that thought made me even sadder. He’s not a jerkwad. He’s the one who saw me—all the messy, inconvenient parts of me—and made me feel like I was interesting instead of exhausting.
Or at least I thought he was. Maybe he is a jerkwad after all.
“Wow,” Sam says. “I wish I could give you some words of advice. But alas, I’m not a real therapist. I know that may come as a shock to you.”
This makes me smile a little. I’m grateful for Sam.
“I’m running out of time anyway. I have to get ready for work.”
“You’re going to work?” she asks, scrunching her face.
“Of course,” I say.
“Shouldn’t you take the day off and wallow in your bed?” she says. “You know, act like the rest of us humans do after heartbreak?”
I shrug. “Hollywood never sleeps.”
She watches me for a beat. “Is that it? Or would you rather be fixing other people’s messes than your own?”
I stare at her, my eyes stinging again but for a different reason. “You said you weren’t a therapist.”
She nods. “I had those two semesters, though. And besides, you don’t need to be a therapist to recognize that.”
I don’t say anything. I just take my coffee and go get ready for work.
An hour and a half later, I’m sitting at my desk, Tessa giving me a rundown of all the overnight numbers since some of the “leaked”footage went out last night and some of the cast posts have started going up.
Signs are pointing in the right direction, which is what I need to happen.
But more than that, I need it to be successful. At least enough that my time with Luke will be over and I can return to working for just Bailey. I can’t imagine going back to how things were—problem solving side by side with him, seeing him every day—while wanting something I can’t have.
Sam’s words from this morning keep running through my head. She’s not wrong—I would rather fix other people’s messes than my own. Because those are actually fixable. And mine is not.
Around midmorning, my phone rings, and like all the other times it’s happened today, my heart does a little hopeful jump.
But it’s not Luke. It’s Simone’s name flashing on my screen.
