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It doesn’t erase the humiliation that follows. I have no words to say despite her apology. Part of me so desperately wants to apologize to her. She risked her reputation and gave me a job. It allows me to support Mama and Flynn. But I can’t say the words. They’re trapped, buried beneath a pile of jealous resentment that creates this undefined layer between us.
“Milana.” Emerson places her hand on my arm, resting it gently. “If Logan finds out, which he will, it will be very difficult for me to work with you.”
“Then I should quit.”
“C’mon, let me talk to him. I don’t want to lose you. Not just because you’re a great assistant but because you’re a friend. This hurts, okay? I feel betrayed.” Her voice wavers, the warmth of her hand removes from my arm.
She has no idea what it feels like.
She feels betrayed? I am humiliated.
Everywhere I turn, I’m doing something wrong. Losing friends because of my actions, losing a perfectly suitable job because I allow my personal life to interfere.
And it all has one thing in common—Wesley Rich.
All I have left is my family.
As soon as the plane touches the tarmac, I switch on my phone. I have nothing from Wesley, a dozen texts from random people in my contacts list asking me about my relationship, and a voicemail from Mama.
“Sweetie, it’s me. I’m sorry I missed your call. I’ve been tired lately. It must be the change in weather. I hope it is nothing too important. I miss you, and your brother. Maybe a trip back home might be in order. I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us. We’ll talk soon. I love you.”
Around me, voices call my name. My vision is blurred, spots of colors that make no images or sense. Everything is echoing. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring it all, and shutting down the noise by covering my ears.
“I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us.”
“Grandpapa? Grandpapa…”
He’s gone.
He’s a memory.
And just like that—my nightmare begins.
Mom’s Alzheimer’s is fast becoming a reality.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What you’ve experienced is called a panic attack.”
The doctor, summoned to our hotel by a worried Emerson, explains how stress is a huge element, and my first, yet short, panic attack was induced by everything going on in my life that overwhelms me and snowballs into one intense moment.
She speaks in great depth about well-being, the measures I need to take to reduce, if not eliminate, this from happening again. She calls them triggers—something, a warning sign, that will prompt me to find a coping mechanism before I reach that point again.
I understand, but so much of what she says seems so far-fetched and unreasonable. So I have some personal problems. I’m not a kid. I can face these problems and move on. I don’t need help from professionals, nor do I need to schedule an appointment with some overly expensive doctor, who will listen to me talk for an hour and charge me a fortune.
Doctor Peterson prescribes some medication and recommends I spend the day resting. That piece of advice I welcome with open arms.
Emerson listens attentively, asking questions on my behalf while I continue to lay here like a vegetable. I’m exhausted. My limbs feel like jelly, my eyelids are barely able to remain open and acknowledge that Doctor Peterson is leaving.
The whole ordeal has been one giant blur. I can’t even remember how I got here. What I do remember is listening to my voicemails, hearing Mama’s voice, and feeling overwhelmed by fear as she mentioned my Grandpapa.
Then, there’s the issue of the media finding out about Wesley’s and my relationship. The paparazzi are relentless, and if my memory serves me correctly, a few were stationed outside this hotel. I don’t recall their faces, nor their questions, but their invasive behavior annoys our security guards. Thankfully, Emerson is a pro at avoiding them, dragging me with her and covering our faces with immensely large sunglasses she has in her purse.
Sitting on the edge of my bed dressed in her sweats, a sad smile shadows Emerson’s normally positive aura. Letting out a deep sigh, she places her hand on top of mine and rubs it gently. “I’m here if you need to talk. I won’t judge, and I’m sorry I judged you earlier. It took me by surprise. I’m sorry.”
She loses herself for a moment, deep in thought. Much like myself, she has dark circles under her eyes from the grueling trip and our big night out. Though, she’s still beautiful—natural and flawless—in her own right.
