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I did.
I must have. I chose Kate instead. “Find me a job, George. I’m begging you. ” I turn away before he can see what this last bit has cost me. I don’t beg. I’ve never begged, not for anything … except my mother’s love. And that was a useless waste of time.
I walk quickly through the hallowed white halls, making eye contact with no one, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Outside, the sun is shining so brightly it hurts my eyes. The sweat on my forehead prickles along my scalp.
I will solve this.
I will.
It is a setback, to be sure, but I am a survivor and always have been.
I flag down my driver and get into the back of the Town Car, grateful for the dark, quiet interior. I have a pounding headache.
“Beverly Hills, ma’am?”
Johnny and the kids.
I want to go to them now. I want to spill these troubles to Johnny and have him tell me I will be all right.
But I can’t do it. My shame is overwhelming and pride stops me.
I put on my sunglasses. “LAX. ”
“But—”
“LAX. ”
“Yes, ma’am. ”
I hold myself together one second at a time. I squeeze my eyes shut and say silently: You will be okay. Over and over again.
But for the first time in my life, I can’t make myself believe it. Panic and fear and anger and loss are running headlong inside of me, filling me up, spilling over. Twice on the flight home I burst into tears and have to clamp a hand over my mouth to silence my sobs.
When the flight is over, I walk off the plane like a zombie, my red eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
I have always prided myself on my professionalism, and my work ethic is legendary. This is what I tell myself, pretending I don’t feel as fragile and thin as a strand of hair.
On my show, I used to tell my viewers that you could have it all in life. I told them to ask for help, to take time for yourself, know what you want. Be selfish. Be selfless.
The truth is I have no idea how to have it all. I’ve never had anything except my career. With Kate and the Ryans, it was enough, but now I see the void in my life.
I am shaking as I pull up in front of my building. Control feels far, far away.
I open the door and go into the lobby.
My heart is pounding hard, my breathing is shallow. People are looking at me. They know what a failure I am.
Someone touches me. It startles me so much that I almost fall.
“Ms. Hart?”
It is my doorman. Stanley.
“Are you okay?”
I shake my head slightly to clear it. I need to ask him to park my car, but I feel … buzzed somehow, electrified. My laugh sounds high-pitched and nervous, even to my own ears.
Stanley frowns. “Ms. Hart? Do you need help home?”
