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“Let me guess—you quit your job only to come home to me gone, which freaked you out, because you don’t like the idea of depending on anyone, much less someone so goddamn unreliable?”
“That’s a pretty good guess.”
“I thought so, too.”
“I just think maybe we should’ve started smaller. Give you a cactus to take care of first.”
I laugh. “Jack would’ve appreciated that. He told me to buy a plant.”
“Jack’s your sponsor, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you meet him in a meeting?”
“No, I met him back in rehab. We had these group sessions, and he’d always call me out on some bullshit and get yelled at for disrupting the environment. I was struggling after I got out, and I looked him up. He reminded me of you.”
She looks surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah, he didn’t hold back with me like everyone else. I still sometimes feel like I’m stuck back in Fulton Edge, surrounded by all these fake smiles, all these perfect people in this perfect fucking world. But Jack doesn’t pretend. You never did, either.”
“I’m liking the sound of this guy. Is he handsome?”
“He’s not your type.”
“How do you know?”
“He looks nothing like me.”
She makes a face. “Who says I like you?”
“I say you do,” I tell her. “Also, your pussy seems to be quite fond of me lately, too.”
Her eyes roll so hard that I laugh.
“Speaking of which, have we ever had phone sex before?”
She’s trying not to smile, but I can see the amusement in her eyes. “I’m gonna go now.”
“Ah, come on. Touch yourself for me.”
The screen goes black.
I toss the phone down on the bed. Barely a minute passes before it rings, and I smile to myself.
Maybe she changed her mind.
Maybe she just didn’t want me to see.
I scoop the phone back up to answer it, but freeze when I spot the name that greets me. Serena.
I almost answered without looking.
Hesitating, I hit the button to decline.
I run my fingers along the edge of my phone, something nagging at me, but I try to push it back. I haven’t heard from Cliff yet. It’s going to be a long night.
Opening my texts, I send one to Kennedy. Tell Madison I love her, and that I said goodnight. I’m not going to make it back before she goes to bed.
A response comes a minute or two later.
She says she loves you, too.
I smile as another text pops up beneath it.
My bad, she says she loves you more than she loves that creepy cardboard version of you in her bedroom. (She made me specify)
And another after that.
She says it’s NOT creepy and wants you to know that I called it creepy, not her. She loves the thing.
And another.
But not as much as she loves you.
Laughing, I reply. Good to know.
So you’re coming back here tonight?
It’ll be late, but I’ll be there.
She replies with a simple smilie-face. :)
I hesitate before I type: I love you, K. I hope you believe that.
Nothing for a few minutes. I stare at our back and forth in silence. Just when I’m about to give up, a response comes through. I do.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Startled, I sit straight up in bed as pounding echoes in my ears, pulling me from sleep. My blurry eyes scan the moonlit room. It takes a moment for me to remember where I am, for me to realize someone’s knocking on my room door.
Shoving to my feet, I stagger that way, nearly knocking over a fucking lamp when I try to turn it on. I give up, navigating through the darkness. The knocking doesn’t stop until I reach the door.
I glance out the peephole.
Cliff.
I pull it open, brow furrowing as I regard him. “How’d you know what room I was in?”
“I asked the front desk.”
“And they told you?”
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter as he strolls in.
“What’s unbelievable is you used your real name to check in,” he says, turning on that lamp I couldn’t quite figure out. “Took me half a dozen tries to figure it out. Tried every alias you’ve ever used, but no, Jonathan Cunningham it was.”
“Yeah, well, didn’t think I’d be sticking around long enough for it to matter.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out that word as he leans against the desk along the side of the room. “You were going home tonight.”
“I am.”
“I would’ve been back sooner, but I got busy dealing with Serena,” Cliff says, pulling out his Blackberry, doing something on it. A moment later, my phone charging across the room chimes. “I sent you a tentative filming schedule. It covers next week.”
Next week. “As in, just a few days from now?”
“That, indeed, would be next week,” he says. “They’re still working on the full schedule, but it’s looking like it’ll be a month of long hours and not much sleep for you, so get some rest while you can. You’ll need it.”
I stare at him as those words sink in. “A month.”
