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WhenOatsheadbutts my thigh,Iput down my box of tissues and pat his head.I’mnot giving up my emotional support wine for anything, not evenOats.
“Hi,Oatsie.I’malways happy to see you.ButI’mnot interested in seeing your dad.”
“Ineeded to see you.”
Forcinga smile on my face,Istretch out my arms and snap them in the air.Onearm holds my box of tissues and the other has my enormous glass of wine. “HereIam.Yousaw me.Wine, tissues, and all.Happy?”
“Didyou see the show?”
“No.IthinkIhave more than enough trauma from watching you talk toEddieParsonsthe last time.Inever want to see that man’s face ever again.IfIhave to hear him call me #elevatorgirl one more time,I’mgoing to lose it.”
“Youneed to watch it.”
“Idon’t want to watch it.”
“Selena, you need to watch it.”
“No, thank you,Jackson.Idon’t want to.”
“Where’syour laptop?”Jacksonasks, walking into the living room.
Takinga seat on the sofa,Iwave with my wine glass towards the table under the window.
Jacksonputs the lilies down on the table and picks up my laptop.Thenhe sits down next to me on the sofa.Oatslays down next to the coffee table in front of us.Ina second,I’mstaring atJacksonwalk out on stage atTheEddieParsonsShow.Helooks so handsome.Becauseof course he does.Helooks like a movie star.Thestudio lights emphasize every hard line of his face, his dark lashes, the curve of his lips.
Andfrom the first question, they’re talking about our fake relationship.Andit kills me.It’sbad enough to feel the wayIdo, but to seeJacksonsmiling and joking about us on national television is the slap in the face that takes me from unkept mess to homicidal mess.
Whenhe gets down on one knee in a circle of lilies withOatsby his side and pulls out a velvet box,Ilose it.Slammingmy laptop shut,Ican’t take another second of it.
“Whatthe hell did you do,Jackson?Didyou just propose to me?OnTheEddieParsonsShow?!?”
“Well?”
“Youproposed?Tome?Onnational television?”
Jacksonnods.
“Whatthe hell were you thinking?”Ican’t sit still on the sofa next to him.Needingto let out some of this tension beforeIactually do murder him,Ijump up off the sofa, my full wine glass precariously close to spilling.Needingspace,Iwalk as far away from him asIcan in my small living room. “Wecan’t get married for social media likes and your career.Iwon’t.BecauseIwant a real life.Iwant to be with someone who loves me.I…Iwant kids,Jackson.”
“Iwant all of that, too, baby.Iwant it with you.”
“No, you don’t.Idon’t know why you’re saying that.Butyou don’t love me.”
Jacksonputs my laptop on the coffee table and stands up to face me. “Whothe hell saysIdon’t love you?”
“You?Val?Thecontract?”Ican feel my throat closing up and tears sting at the backs of my eyes.
Iwill not cry.
Thelast timeJacksonsees my face in person,Iwill not be even redder and puffier thanIalready am.
“Baby, the damn contract was just how it started.Thecontract ended the minuteIslipped my tongue into your sweet, wet pussy back at the farm.Theentire thing is null and void.Exceptfor the breach clause.Ibreached the contract by fucking you.Youget five million dollars for that.Haveyou checked your bank account lately?Itshould already be in there.”
“Thecontract’s been over for weeks?Youlied to me?Fivemillion dollars?Whatthe hell are you talking about?”
“Technically.Andthe penalty for me breaching the contract was five million dollars.It’syours.Youalways need to read the fine print, baby.”
Mybrain can’t keep up.Nothingmakes sense anymore.
