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Leighton
Three months later
“Don’t forget about the zinnias,” Mom says for the third time during our ten-minute phone conversation.
“Already taken care of. While we were chatting, I added them to the order.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
“All right, Mom. I have to go. Talk later.” I close my laptop and get up from the desk in our home office. “Say hi to Dad for me.”
“I will. You’re still coming to lunch on Friday?”
“Yes. Will Dad be there?” I no longer hold out hope that my father will be where he says he will when it concerns me. Although to his credit, he is working on it, and his average for showing up is getting better.
“Yes. Okay. Bye, honey.” My mother hangs up and I take out my earbuds and pop the case into my pocket.
Not too long after starting work for the Mission, I went public with my imjustme account. There wasn’t any big media splash or anything, but I no longer wanted to hide.
Before any of this happened, I told my parents, and without any context—they hadn’t seen the account or my posts—both were upset. They tried to talk me out of it. But I wasn’t about to budge.
Then, within hours after our face-to-face conversation, my father surprised me with a phone call. He had looked at every single one of my posts and he was impressed. In fact, even complimentary to the content on my page, humbled by how much I shared and how clueless he was to what I was dealing with. Finally, he said he understood my intentions.
It was a monumental step forward in our relationship, and if nothing else, I will tolerate everything else I don’t like about my father because of this. Margot wasn’t as easy to come around. Her hesitancy was more about her struggle with depression and fear that her situation might come out. I won’t expose her, and I continue to assure her of this. But if the day comes that she wants to share, I’ll help her to make it so.
I walk around our home and flick on some lights, anticipating the delivery of dinner. Since my last break from work, which was several hours ago, the sun has long since set and our house is in near darkness.
In some ways, I like it this way. Then I don’t have to look at all the rooms that still need decorating. Tom is fine with the slow approach to settle into our home, whereas I wish things were fully decorated with everything in its place. But unfortunately, with both our jobs, we’re very busy and have limited time to devote to the house.
My mother offered to handle the decorating as did Drew and Paige’s mother, Olivia, but as silly as it sounds, I want to do this with Tom. He couldn’t care less what color the dining room walls are painted or if we hang silk dupioni or Italian linen drapes, but he understands my need to make this ours.
Once in the kitchen, I text him to find out when he’ll be home and set the table for two. I’m not sure if he’ll make dinner, but here’s hoping. Tom has been working crazy hours on a new campaign for ACE, and I just got back from Los Angeles where I spent a wild few days working and getting the gossip from Fallon in my spare time.
When Felix and I parted ways, luckily there was no media fallout. Just a small item on a few entertainment sites. I’m not sure if my father had anything to do with it and I don’t really care, but I’m grateful for whatever the reason.
Since then, Felix has hit a patch of bad luck, or more aptly, he got what he deserved. Several young actresses came forward with not so endearing stories about the no longer well sought-after actor. His career is now on life support.
My phone pings with a response from Tom. He’s on his way home. Just then, I get a notification for my upcoming flight for work. The airline has changed the departure time again.
With my job, I do a fair bit of traveling, especially as I try to garner support to build facilities in New York and LA. At times, all the pressures of the job pale in comparison to the prospect of flying.
I’ll never like to fly. It’s a simple fact that I’ve come to accept, but it’s also no longer a crippling fear. I can now get on a plane without fear of a panic attack. And even if I’m anxious and nauseous—because let’s face it, some days are harder than others—I have the power to quell those fears or, at the very least, turn down the volume.
The front door opens, and like a giddy teenager hooking up with her boyfriend, I rush to the foyer to greet Tom.
“Hey.” I lunge at him without a care of the cold and damp from his snow jacket. “I missed you. I’m glad you’re home in time for dinner.”
I kiss him slow and long, and when I try to break it, Tom holds on tight, only releasing me when he’s good and ready.
“Hi. I’m starving but I think dinner can wait. I want you.” He drops his jacket onto the coat tree and drags me toward the staircase.
“Sorry, mister, that’s going to have to wait. I am starving…for food.”
He groans and intensifies his cold grip on my hand. I pull back and take him with me toward the kitchen. “Just think, we need to eat first because we’ll need the energy for what I have in mind for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tom pushes into my back, our hands still entwined, and I feel every hard inch of how much he wants me pressing into my lower back.
Before I can do anything about it, my phone buzzes, and we both glance to where it sits face up on the counter. Our meal is here.
