Page 16 of Forced Proximity

And there were signs. So many fucking signs right in front of my face that I didn’t see – missing flights I bought for her, not showing up for holidays, not answering the phone then texting days later. Back then, I thought she was just being Mia – free-spirited, uncaged, can’t-be-bothered Mia. But guilt consumed me that I had ignored every textbook red flag. Maybe I didn’t want to see. Maybe I didn’t know. But my baby sister almost died because she lied and I ignored the signs.

I hadn’t cried since I was a teenager, and there I was, bawling at her hospital bed, looking at her bruised and infected track marks and the shell of the woman she’d become. I told her she could never push me away. I’d never stop loving her. I was – and still am – determined to show her the unconditional love we never received from our parents. But she had to be honest. I could handle anything. Anything. Except the lies.

It sucks she lives so far away. But all the begging and bribing in the world for her to live here with me hasn’t worked. The only money she’s ever accepted from me is for rehab, and she refuses to take any more. But if she’s close, I can keep her safe. During our childhood, I failed to do that and now ache to provide that stability. But Mia refuses, of course. Her stubbornness rivals mine.

I look at the dozen or so unread messages from my mom. Where Mia rejects any financial help, the only time my mom reaches out is for cash. I hover my finger over the phone. Delete or read? Delete or read?

A vehicle rolling up my driveway pulls away my attention. I shove the cell in my pocket, without deleting or reading. Out the window, Doc and the night guard Jack chat before Jack jumps in his car. When the front door clicks open and footsteps make their way to the kitchen, my gut tightens.

‘Hey, Doc,’ I say, forcing a smile. I’m an actor for Christ’s sake. It shouldn’t be this hard to pretend this nearly unbearable tension doesn’t exist. This past week went as well as could be expected, as far as first weeks go. But it’s still unnerving having someone watch me, even from a respectful distance. I complained to Zane, of course, but they just said they didn’t get why I’m so irritated since the paparazzi watch me all the time. Zane asked me if I have this same level of irritation with Jack, and the truth is, I don’t. But Jack arrives when I’m in bed, and I’m only with him for a few hours in the morning. With Doc, I don’t have a moment without her prying eyes.

As my former therapist can attest to, I hate self-reflecting. But, I did it anyway. Bottom line, outside these walls is a public persona. At home, it’s just … me. And I don’t like people seeing so much of me.

Last night, I made a pact with myself to create a relatively peaceful space for Doc and me. Besides, it’s not the worst thing ever to have a beautiful, strong-willed, intriguing woman protecting me. Of all the problems in the world, this is minimal.

‘Afternoon, Justin.’ Doc’s tone is cool as she pulls out a laptop and protein shake from her backpack.

I try not to let the tone get to me as I rinse a bowl. ‘How was your morning?’

‘Fine.’ She cracks open her shake. ‘Today, my goal is to outline items for your gate security teams. The light motion sensor on the southwest corner of the property is faulty, and we need to cut back the trees that line the north pathway.’

Jesus. It’s been a week, and these clipped interactions are starting to feel personal. Sure, some people don’t like small talk. I don’t particularly love it but come on. We’re together like twelve hours a day, and every time I talk, it’s like I’m giving her a root canal. ‘Wow.’

She snaps up her gaze. ‘What?’

‘You don’t do the whole small talk thing, huh? Do I bore you that much?’ Why are her simple responses so frustrating? My therapist would’ve had a field day with this, painfully breaking down every syllable to get to the root of my irritation.

‘It’s not about being bored. It’s my job. I’m not here to be your friend.’ She opens her mouth like she wants to suck the words back in but closes it instead.

Is she serious? The verbal slap is quick and sharp. ‘It’s been almost a week. What is it?’ Maybe this life provides me with the luxury of people being nice and accommodating, but seriously. Besides the conversation on Doc’s first day about basketball, which is clearly the only thing in this world this woman can even tolerate, she’s straight up rude. And I’m done. ‘You obviously don’t like me, and I can’t figure out what the hell I ever did. It’s going to be seriously difficult spending this much time together if we can’t have basic conversations.’

She inhales hard but then softens her shoulders. ‘It’s nothing personal.’

Bullshit. ‘Obviously it’s personal.’ I cross my arms and lean against the counter. ‘I want to talk about this before it gets any worse.’

Several long, awkward-as-hell moments pass. She anchors her lips between her teeth, then finally releases. ‘Fine,’ she says, setting her shake back on the counter. ‘You gave up your four-year full ride to USC, which you didn’t even need, to go to Hollywood.’

Um … what? What am I missing here? I don’t even know her, and she’s pissed that more than a decade ago I didn’t finish college? ‘You’re really this upset because I quit school for acting?’

Red fans her pale cheeks. ‘Who doesn’t use a full scholarship? What top percentage of society do you have to be in to not use your full ride?’

None of this makes any sense. She told me her first day she didn’t go to school either. We’re in our thirties, well into our careers, not freshman punks bragging about which school is better. ‘Why do you care?’

Her eyes grow wide. ‘But … you left it on the table.’

I lean back against the counter and study her for a moment. ‘How does my not graduating college affect your life, even in the slightest?’

‘I don’t give a shit if you graduated college or not,’ she fumes and lifts from the chair.

Okay, I’m officially lost. Willow used to complain that I was terrible at communication, but this time, I’m confident this isn’t me. ‘But you brought up me dropping out of college—’

‘It’s not about the school!’

‘Then what the hell is it about?’

She chugs back some of the shake and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Fine. You want to know? From what I see, everything has come easy to you. So maybe you’re used to women or new people in your life fawning over you, giving you undeserved attention and you’re struggling with me because I’m not.’

A flare shoots through my chest. Is she kidding? She got this impression after a week? ‘Are you serious? Do you think I have people surrounding me, catering to my every whim?’ She doesn’t respond, but I can see on her face she very much thinks this is the reality.