“Do you have a few minutes?” Riley asks hesitantly. “We need to discuss a plan for crisis management.”
“Geez, Riley,” Pooja says. “Can we not allow the woman one night of wallowing in self-despair before we start working on a PR spin?”
“Who’s wallowing?” I grumble, draining the last of my wine.
Riley tsks in disapproval. “Fine. One night. But tomorrow, we need to set up a meeting and get on top of this before the press writes their own narrative.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“While I have you, can we review the press clippings that have run since the news broke?”
I blow out a sigh. “Why not? I’m always eager to learn how my life is disintegrating in real time.”
“Okay, let’s see,” she says, dutifully ignoring my tone. “Harper’s Bazaarran a listicle of seven celebrities who are still happily single. You were number one.”
“Because I’m the happiest,” I mutter. “Obviously.”
“BuzzFeed also mentioned you in a listicle,” she continues. “It was titled ‘Ten Celebrity Love Triangles That Are More Complicated Than the Bermuda Triangle.’”
Pooja snorts and I throw her a glare.
“Come on,” Pooja chides. “You know that one’s funny.”
Riley clears her throat again, reminding us that she’s still on the line.
“Also,Glamourmagazine wants to add you to an upcoming spread called ‘Jilted but Quilted: Chanel Bags Inspired by Famously Divorced Women.’”
I groan. “That’s so bleak. Will Chanel at least send me a pity purse?”
“Not sure,” Riley says. “But I can definitely reach out to the VIP team.” She pauses for a sympathetic beat. “I know this is a shitty thing to deal with, but we need to get a handle on this before it spins out of control. There will be a lot more of this coming your way tomorrow. Especially when the tabloids begin circulating your statement.”
“You know,” Pooja points out, “the press would have more to write about than your love life if you signed on to a new project.”
I lean back against the doorframe and close my eyes. I know she has my best interests at heart, but I’m not in the mood to rehash this conversation right now. “You know why I can’t do that,” I mutter.
Since Levi’s diagnosis, and my subsequent departure from the A-list, I’ve turned down every (albeit rare) project that came along. Even though Levi completed his early intervention services and will start kindergarten full time in the fall, I still can’t convince myself that it’s okay to take another job. There’s something holding me back, a feeling of uncertainty. Like I’m perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I know why youthinkyou can’t do that,” she counters. Pooja crosses her arms, emitting a loud squeak of latex.
“Jesus, are you two wearing the Felicia Fox costumes again?” Riley asks.
I grab the phone off the plush carpeting of the closet floor and hiss loudly into the receiver.
“You’re breaking up. I’ll call you tomorrow, Riley!” I disconnect and hurl the phone across the floor like it’s a venomous snake.
Pooja levels her no-nonsense gaze at me.
“Listen to me. You need to get out of here. This thing with the lake house is a sign.”
“You think everything is a sign,” I tell her. “You thought you met your soulmate at Erewhon because you both ordered a shot of sea moss in your smoothie.”
“And my skin has never looked dewier.” She grins. “From both the smoothie and subsequent orgasms.”
“Thank you for clarifying that.”
I tug at the zipper on my costume. Red wine always makes me sweaty. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m already seriously considering this change in summer plans.
“I don’t even know what kind of condition the house is in,” I admit. “My grandma had been in assisted living for the past eight years, and my mom rarely went out there after she remarried. It’s mostly sat vacant.” She never told me why her visits to the lake house became less frequent after she and Dad split. It was her mother’s house, after all, not his. But I suspect it’s the same reason I haven’t been back, either. Some memories are best left undisturbed.
