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“Need anything?”
Only Jessie. “Dark. Quiet.” Despite Jax’s best efforts at being the surliest bastard on the planet, he knows a lot of people in the business, including my agent. “Call Denise, tell her I’m not up to meeting with her later?”
“Okay.” The lights flick off and the door closes softly.
I miss Jessie. I’d give anything to rewind the clock three days. Do it all differently because I keep messing up, over and over, every time I have to make a choice. The last time I saw her in the hospital, when her lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and I told her to go home. Out on the driveway, when we’d argued, and I’d lied. Before that, when she overheard me say to Timothy she was only a convenient fuck.
I’m almost asleep when it hits me. If she was bored, like she’d claimed, she’d have told me without feeling the need to sneak back to New York. If what we had was just sex, my saying as much wouldn’t hurt her—she’d simply agree. If all she wanted was friendship, she might have lashed out at me for being a dick, but she was leaving, and she’d only leave like that if it hurt to stay.
I ball up my fist and punch my pillow. She has—had—feelings for me and I blew it.
The realization doesn’t matter. Even if she still wanted me, I’ll never be good enough for her. She deserves more than a burned-out no-talent mess. She deserves someone who knows from the start how lucky he is to get an ounce of her attention. Someone who will take the smallest chance she feels something in return and hand over his heart with no fear of messing it up.
I want to be that man for her. For me too. I want to do something to make me happy, to bring me closer to the people I love. Jessie’s a big part of that, but her feelings toward me aren’t something I can control. The rest of my life, though…
Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I’d gotten up, walked to the guest bedroom, and pulled Jessie’s painting of me out of the closet. I’d brought it back to my room, set it against the wall, and stared at it until my head throbbed.
I shift around until I can stare at it again.
Jessie’s done so well for herself. Even if she didn’t end up where she wanted to, the job she has utilizes her creativity and she seems to love it.
The only thing I love to do is bake. I’m not sure turning my hobby and coping mechanism into a job is the right thing to do—it might suck the fun out of it and I’ll have nothing.
It’s shit like this that causes me to freeze up. If I make a mistake, if I try my hand at this and fail—well, I’m famous so everyone will witness my failure. But doing nothing keeps me in a rut.
My head aches, so I nap for a bit. When I wake up, I feel better. Over reheated enchiladas—Angie’s filled my fridge with food cooked by some chef according to my dietary requirements set by Jax, so in this case, enchiladas are heavy on meat, low on carbs, and all but missing the cheese—I grab a pen and a piece of paper and start a list. Ideas that would put me in a kitchen instead of in movies.
A number of options get crossed off immediately. I’m never going to work in a restaurant or catering—it’s too fast-paced, demanding, and the hours suck.
I’m not sure about hosting a competition or doing a celebrity version.
Being on camera, like Celia…I don’t know. I enjoyed making that demo pitch with her. Maybe with the right show, one where my purpose isn’t to be eye candy…
So what kind of show would I want to be a part of?
I jot down a bunch of ideas, anything that comes to me, then reheat another serving of enchiladas. Sadly, there’s no cheese in my fridge. No sour cream.
Dinner Rescues, I write. Then beneath it,Dinner Fails, when the natural yogurt and hot sauce I slather over my food fails to improve it in any way.
At least I have ideas. They might not be any good, but it doesn’t hurt to pitch them at a place like the Home Cooking Channel or better yet, some streaming services.
Flipping the page, I make a quick to-do list.
Quit job/work out new ideas with Denise.
Sell house/move home.
Jessie.
December Thirtieth
I wake to the smell of bacon.
Seriously, too many people have the access code to my house. I roll onto my stomach—which is now grumbling—and vow to call the security company and have it changed. Who the hell is making bacon?
Something brushes my leg and I yelp, scrambling to sit up.
“Morning, sunshine,” Timothy says casually, kicking me this time. He’s leaning against my headboard, legs under my blankets, phone in hand.
