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Chapter21
Damien
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I ask my mother as I watch her place her last piece of clothing from her suitcase in the closet in my spare room.
“Yes, Damien. I’m fine. I have my books to read, and I’m expecting a call from the attorney today to move forward with the divorce.”
My mother is living in my apartment until further notice, or at least until her divorce from my dad is finalized.
Racing back home to help her out of that situation was one of the most gratifying and terrifying things I’ve ever done as a man. My mother was trapped in an abusive marriage—emotionally and verbally mostly, but physically as of last week—and I’d be damned if she continued to live that way anymore.
After talking to her more in person, she said my father started spiraling when they returned home from Hawaii. His drinking escalated, he grew angrier and unpredictable. My mom urged him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. And then that morning, when she called me, was his breaking point. He hit her for the first time in their marriage—at least that’s what she says. Part of me wonders if he’s been physical with her before, but at this point, I’m just glad she made the decision to leave him.
It didn’t take much coaxing to get her to agree to move out to California temporarily while she decided what to do, but then she shocked the hell out of me on the plane when after a long bout of silence, she turned to me and said, “I want a divorce.”
Honest to God, tears ran from my eyes. Talk about strength—the ability to decide to fight for your life and not let someone else dictate how to live it. My mother’s strength is where I must have gotten mine from, but it took her a lot longer to realize that she had it in her all along.
“You can call me after if you need to talk to me, okay? I’ll just be at my desk today going through some paperwork and the plans for filming next week.”
She spins around and smiles at me, the kind of proud smile only a mother could give. “I still can’t believe that my son is responsible for a commercial about tampons and pads.”
I laugh, mostly out of joy for my mother smiling at me for the first time in days. “You and me both.”
“Have you talked to Charlotte?”
“No.”
“You know, you could be the one to call her if you wanted to. There’s nothing wrong with a man going after the woman he wants…”
“I know, Mom. But I don’t want to chase her. I want to know when she comes to me that it was her decision.”
She nods. “I get that. But I also know that every day that you continue to wait for her is another day that you two could be together,” she says with an arch of her brow as she turns her back to me and I take in her words.
After making sure she’s completely comfortable, I head for work, eager to finalize the details of next week’s commercial shoot. This process has been challenging and a lot more work than I realized, but I don’t think I’ve ever taken so much pride in what Jeffrey and I have worked to create.
By lunchtime, my stomach is growling, and if I don’t eat soon, my hangry alter ego is going to appear.
“What should we order for lunch?” Jeffrey asks me. “And by the way, I’m really glad you’re back. Eating alone in my office was starting to depress me.”
“I take it you missed me then?”
“Fuck yeah, I missed you. You are far prettier to look at than the wall across from my desk. And sitting in my office brainstorming about tampons is not a good place to be alone.”
“Good to know I’m more attractive than some drywall and paint.”
A knock on my door halts our conversation. “Delivery for Damien Shaw,” the person announces as he steps into my office holding a rather large box full of bags.
“What is this?” I walk toward him as he sets it down on one of the tables.
“Please sign here.” I sign my name on the digital handheld device, even though he straight-up ignored my question. “Enjoy.” And then he’s off. Well, have a nice day to you too.
“Oh, that smells good,” Jeffrey says as he walks over and helps me start to unload the box. “Tony’s?”
Shaking my head, I take a mental note of everything in this box—spaghetti and meatballs from Tony’s, Dove Chocolates, heat patches, and a DVD with four Kate Hudson rom-coms on it, plus a box of Remedy tampons. “Jesus Christ.”
“Oh shit. Is this from Charlotte?”
“It has to be.” I search through the box and find a card, rushing to open the envelope as my eyes scan her writing at a furious pace.
Damien,
Congratulations on acing your pitch. I knew you’d win since you always seemed to win when it mattered for as long as I’ve known you—which has been forever, hasn’t it? It’s crazy how you can know someone for so long and yet feel as if you never really knew who they were.
The six weeks of being your fake girlfriend were the best six weeks of my life, and it’s taken me the last two weeks to realize that. And the night you brought me these items, I knew that what I was feeling was no longer fake.
But since I was the inspiration for your campaign (yes Dave told me), and therefore partially responsible for your success, I was hoping you would give me the opportunity to give you my own pitch for a story that I’m working on—the story about a girl who fell for a boy and now just needs the opportunity to tell him. If you want to know how the story ends, meet me at the Griffith Park Carousel at eight tonight.
I hope to see you there so we can both get the ending that I think is worth sharing with the world—although it seems they already know about part of our story. *winky face
Love,
Charlotte
“Damn, she’s good,” Jeffrey mumbles around a bite of spaghetti. I guess while I was reading her note he already dug into my lunch. “And so is this pasta. My lord, what kind of crack is this?”
Ignoring Jeffrey, I continue smiling down at the note in my hands, feeling a breath of relief wash through me.
I knew she’d come around. I knew she just needed time.
And I know that this is now the night in my life that I’m never going to forget.
* * *
